nille

Paul Newman with his NOscar and Wife Joanne Woodward with her Oscar

"Spartacus" fans were shocked when its charismatic star Andy Whitfield died of non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma in September 2011 at the unfair age of 39. Now, Australian actor Liam McIntyre is taking the lead, ready to fill Whitfield's awfully big gladiator sandals in the show's second season, "Spartacus: Vengeance."

The road ahead won't be an easy one for McIntyre, who is ten years younger than his predecessor in the role. Both "Spartacus" and Whitfield were wildly popular, breaking ratings records for Starz and drawing in approximately 6 million viewers per episode, according to the channel. When McIntyre steps into the arena for the first time, he'll be fighting as much for fans' acceptance as he will be for the rights of the rebel slaves that Spartacus leads into battle.

HuffPost TV chatted with McIntyre about his breakout role, his admiration for Whitfield and what's ahead for the rebel leader in "Spartacus: Vengeance."

It's been a bit of a whirlwind for you, hasn't it? You're stepping into a character that Andy Whitfield did such a phenomenal job at creating.

Oh, didn't he, though? It's just the strangest, hardest, most exciting experience ever. I went through four months of tests to get the job. During these tests, you're not even thinking of getting the job; but then one day, someone rings up and says that you got it, and then you have to take stock in what you've got. It's a huge responsibility. It's an iconic character that's already been done with such amazing aplomb by Andy. At the time, we all were hoping that he would get a lot better. There was so much hope. There have been a lot of mixed emotions and ups and downs.

Did you talk to Andy about where to go with the character? I know that Andy gave his consent to be recast.

Andy was so supportive. He obviously loved the show. It was apparent in everything we discussed. First of all, to have the best opportunity of your life and then have it taken away in such a tragic way must have been impossibly hard. And then, to have someone else do it, and to really get behind it, is just jaw-dropping. As for actually being like Andy, that's a conversation we never had. In fact, I kind of got the opposite; not to be like him. I had seen the show, but you just know as an actor, you don't copy people because it never works out. [Spartacus is] still the same character; he's written the same way; and he still feels the same. But I took what I knew of that character and made it my own. I didn't try to mimic anyone.

In what ways have you made him your own?

He's going on a different journey now. He's gone through the ludus [i.e. hellish gladiator academy] at the end of Season 1, so now he's in the big bad world, as it were. Increasingly, he's having to take on the role of being the leader of these people, which isn't exactly why he stepped into that position to begin with. Obviously, he wants to do right by Sura [Spartacus' late love interest] and atone for that, but he finds himself in control of this ragtag bunch of rebels. He's got to learn the lesson of what it takes to really be a leader, which is where the Spartacus myth comes into being. It's really the story of a man leading all these desperate people to amazing things. So I think the character is growing, but it will be up to the audience to see how I'm different. We look different and we sound different, but hopefully the soul is still there.

What's it like reading an action sequence? Do you get excited at the thought of playing with all those weapons?

On paper, these action scenes are described so amazingly, and then they hand them over to the stunt team, and they find a way to make them even more amazing. You'll read them and get really excited, and then you'll see what they've done to make them come alive and you're like, "Oh my god, I never thought of that! It's amazing!" This year, the stuff they achieved on screen is like nothing else I've ever seen on television. What's your favorite show on TV? Aside from your own, of course.

Well, that's the weirdest part, actually. I was such a huge fan of "Spartacus," but now I'm going to watch and just criticize myself. It's sad, in a way.

Did you do any research for the role? Yeah. It was cool because the producers had, like, 30 books on it, and I was like, "Yep, thanks!" I might be wrong about this, but I feel like I know the most about this period out of everyone, aside from some of the really, really dedicated behind-the-scenes people. I would challenge Steven DeKnight. I think he would win, but I'll still take him on.

I bet your training was insane as well.

The hardest thing, by a mile, was getting my weight back up. I had just lost about 45 pounds for a film, so I was down to, like, Christian Bale's weight. And then the next day, they were like, "So you're in New Zealand today to test for this role in 'Spartacus.' And then I'm like, 'I've seen that show. I don't look like that guy.'" Four months of training later, I'm on track, at least. I trained every day of the whole season, which I'm quite proud of because they were 14-hour days.

What were you doing to train?

Lifting heavy things, really. They would give me heavy things to lift, and then it was like a rinse-repeat type of thing for the rest of the year. [Laughs]

When you stepped into the prop room for the first time and saw the set, were you just like a kid in a candy store?

That's one of the funniest memories I have from the tests, going down these little back allies of New Zealand and then coming into this little warehouse. I had this idea of what these big studios looked like, where they shot shows like "Spartacus"; but it was this little warehouse, one of the many converted warehouses that the studios use. It had this old fruit shop logo at the top, and then I'm like, "Are you sure this is the place?" Then, they took me in, and suddenly, I was in ancient Rome. The costume room looks like this big clothing store, but then when you actually look at the clothes, they're all ancient Roman vests and thong sandal shoes. We have incredible leather workers on set. Someone told me that those leather workers "love leather like I love my girlfriend."

What about Lucy Lawless? I have to ask, what was it like working with "Xena"?

As far a role model goes for this business, because I'm new at this, she's it. She's done it for so long, with so much success, but she's still a normal, funny person. But on screen, she's wicked this season, a total menace. Man, who wouldn't want to watch the show with her on it? When she makes her appearance on screen, you'll get chills.

"Spartacus: Vengeance" premieres on Fri., Jan. 27 at 10 p.m. EST on Starz.

'When you tell people you're going swimming with tuna, they laugh in your face'

Swimming with dolphins. Everyone yaps on about wanting to do that before they die. But swimming with tuna? For some reason, when you tell people you're going swimming with tuna, they laugh in your face. It sounds inherently absurd, and I'm not entirely sure why. I think it's because we often encounter tuna in tins. Also – and I know this is a stupid thing to think, but it's hard not to think it – there's that smell. You expect tuna to smell like, well, to smell like tuna, even though they're still alive, still in one piece and, most importantly, they're underwater where you can't smell anything.

My lack of knowledge was, in retrospect, stunning. I figured the tuna was a fairly docile fish, probably about the size of a shoe. I was to be disabused of this and several other notions during my visit to Australia. But it wasn't "regular" Australia I was heading for. Most overseas tourists visit Sydney or the Gold Coast. I was bound for South Australia, an area that's often overlooked. Would this be the equivalent of visiting Britain and staying only in Croydon?

Adelaide quickly struck me as a superb place to live. It's clean, it's pretty and despite being the largest city in South Australia, it's easy to walk around. We stayed in a variety of eccentric and inviting heritage homes run by the equally eccentric and inviting Rodney and Regina Twiss. Staying in a house in a residential area would be frustrating in many cities; given the compact nature of the city, it's a great idea in Adelaide. After 24 hours, you feel like a local, even though you absolutely aren't.

Adelaide makes an ideal base for touring the region. For sun worshippers, there are beaches a short tram ride away; for alcoholics, the Barossa Valley lies just to the north-east; and for people who want to swim with tuna – or sharks – a short plane journey will take you to Port Lincoln. Australians seem to catch small planes like we catch buses. It takes less time to fly from Adelaide to Port Lincoln than to take the 159 bus from Streatham Hill to Oxford Circus. Unlike the 159, they serve snacks on the plane and nobody tries to stab you.

There's not much to see in Port Lincoln itself: its appeal lies in the water, in the scenery of Boston Bay and the fishing and diving opportunities there. Our tuna-swimming expedition was going to be part of a two-day "ocean safari" with Adventure Bay Charters, run by the affable Matt Waller. Once on board, we sailed to Matt's tuna farm (he's a fisherman, see) which essentially consists of a huge floating bowl made of netting – picture a giant sieve wafting in the ocean and you're not far off. At this point we had to don wetsuits. There may be photographs of me in a wetsuit accompanying this article. I urge you not to look at them. They will be images of overpowering sexuality.

Anyway, fact file: contrary to earlier statements, a tuna is not about the size of a shoe. It's massive. Bloody massive. It has cold, unknowable eyes and is covered in sharp scales. And it swims very quickly indeed, especially when you hold out a smaller, dead fish for it to eat. It leaps and snatches the damned thing out of your hand so fast, you can't even see it: it's like being mugged. Mugged by a fish. And the giant underwater tuna bowl teems with them. In summary: although "swimming with tuna" sounds inherently comic in theory, in practice it's bizarre, exhilarating and faintly scary.

From the tuna farm, we made our way to a nearby island, where we jumped off the boat to swim with sea lions. Sea lions are so outrageously cute, even I had to concede they were charming, and I usually vomit at the sight of rainbows. They were friendly, too, and swam alongside us, diving, rolling and generally behaving like something from a Disney film: almost like Care Bears of the sea, except, unlike Care Bears, you don't want to kill them with hammers.

Then it was on to a prime spot for great white sharks. The viewing cage went in the water, and I went in after it. I'll admit to being nervous at this point: having been shocked by the size of tuna, I was trying mentally to prepare myself for a moment of life-altering terror. Most tours toss buckets of bait into the water, whereas Matt has a more eco-friendly method of attracting sharks. He lowers speakers into the water and pumps out rock music. He claims great whites are particularly attracted to AC/DC.

Floating in a cage underwater, keeping watch for sharks like Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws, while simultaneously listening to loud, driving rock, is a uniquely surreal experience. It could have been bettered only by the appearance of an actual shark. Sadly, on the day, none was forthcoming. This didn't seem to be down to the music, incidentally: neighbouring boats, hurling berley into the water by the bucketload, were having no luck either. Sharks aren't predictable. If they were, no one would ever get eaten by them.

It's a measure of how much fun the rest of the ocean safari was that the nonappearance of the most fearsome creature on the planet wasn't much of a downer. The following day we visited another island to peer at a larger sea lion colony, caught fish, stuffed our faces and ate fresh oysters (once I managed to overcome my inherent fear of eating anything with a 1% chance of making me puke). Then it was back to Port Lincoln, the airport and Adelaide.

The next day, we caught another shuttle flight, this time to Kangaroo Island. Kangaroo Island sounds like a sarcastic nickname for Australia itself: fitting, in a sense, because it's almost like a compressed version of how Australia looks in your head as a child. It's known as Australia's Galapagos because of its abundance of wildlife. There are creatures everywhere. Kangaroos hop along the roadside, koalas laze in trees, echidnas shuffle through the undergrowth: it's like a huge safari park with no fencing.

We stayed at the Southern Ocean Lodge, a place so confidently swish and friendly, I instantly felt like a burglar. It's easily the most upmarket place I've ever stayed: I was almost ashamed to go to the toilet. The architecture is straight out of Grand Designs: all floor-to-ceiling windows and understated modernity, not to mention stunning views across the ocean – the lodge is perched atop a cliff, overlooking a beach, situated in between two national parks. If it housed a death ray (which I'm fairly sure it doesn't), this would be precisely the sort of place a taste-conscious Bond villain might construct.

Not that you're there to laze around indoors. A tour of Kangaroo Island is essential, particularly if your time is tight, as ours was. We were shown round the island by Rob Ellson, a former local newspaper editor turned tour guide. The nature here truly is bizarre and fascinating: not only the kangaroos, which, if you're quiet, you can sneak hilariously close to, but the plant life, and I say that as someone who yawns himself half to death at the mere mention of a stamen. Kangaroo Island has a species of tree that thrives following a fire: the Xanthorrhoea (or "Grass Tree", for those who prefer words you can actually pronounce) flowers and sheds seeds when burnt. It even flowers when exposed to smoke. Just as well: in 2007, a series of bushfires destroyed 95,000 hectares of woodland. Today, the casual visitor would be hard-pressed to tell where the flames had been.

It's hard to describe how relaxing a place Kangaroo Island is. There are so few people, so few cables and billboards and cars and buildings and things, that your mind soon starts to stretch out and lie down. It was almost like being deprogrammed. Accommodation isn't cheap, and it's easy to see why. Leaving the place was a wrench, like knowing you have to get out of bed on a cold morning and turning back beneath the duvet in a bid to get a few more moments of comfort.

Having never visited the other bits of Australia, I had nothing to directly compare South Australia with, but if the rest of the country gets any better than this, it's quite frankly taking the piss as a nation.

• Black Tomato can arrange an exclusive 12-night, three-centre trip to South Australia, taking in Port Lincoln, Kangaroo Island and Adelaide, from £4,199pp (based on two sharing). For more information on South Australia, go to southaustralia.com. For more information on Adventure Bay Charters, go to adventurebaycharters.com.au. For more information on Southern Ocean Lodge, go to southernoceanlodge.com.au. For more information on the North Adelaide Heritage Group, go to adelaideheritage.com.

• WIN: Surfing lessons in France. For full details of the holiday on offer, plus how to enter the competition and full terms and conditions, go to weekend-travel-competition

TGIF everyday

Kim Kardashian breaks down about her failed marriage on Sunday night's finale of "Kourtney and Kim Take New York," Us Weekly reports.

After discussing plans to leave New York with Kourtney, the reality star gets emotional as she tries to grapple with her lack of connection to her then-husband Kris Humphries, a man who she says is "everything on paper [she] wants."

But the waterworks get worse when Kim looks back on her estimated $10 million dollar wedding, fearing she'd let down her her 440 guests.

"I invited all these people to this huge wedding and flew everyone out, wasted everyone's time and everyone's money -- everyone's everything -- and I feel bad!" she says. "At 30 years old, I thought I'd be married with kids and I'm not. I failed at this. People change their minds, people make mistakes."

Kardashian filed for divorce from Humphries in October 2011, just 72 days after their Aug. 20 wedding, which was broadcast in a 2-day, 4-hour special on E!.

The couple's martial troubles have played out all season on "Kourtney and Kim Take New York," which was filmed prior to the split.

Send in your best travel photographs for the chance to win an overall prize of a fantastic $30,000 trip to Antarctica, plus monthly prizes

The Been there photo competition has always been a fantastic way to showcase great amateur travel photography from our readers. For 2012 we have teamed up with Quark Expeditions to offer a fantastic trip of a lifetime to the Antarctic Peninsula worth over $30,000USD to the overall winner.

The winner from each month will receive a £200 photo voucher for Point 101, the canvas photos service, and be entered into the overall competition for the trip. The themes for each month cover every aspect of travel from 'street life' to 'adventure' and you can view them all on the official competition page.

The 20-night journey with Quark Expeditions explores the Falkland Islands, South Georgia and the Antarctic Peninsula by boat, Zodiac and on foot, offering unparalleled opportunities for wildlife viewing and photography. You'll have onboard lectures from Polar specialists and wildlife experts and get to follow in the footsteps of Shackleton.

You'll also have the chance to see your photography in print as Guardian travel will publish a trip report and image gallery from you on your return. To get more information on the competition, the themes, prizes and how to enter pop over to ivebeenthere.co.uk and for some inspiration take a browse over last year's winners' gallery (guardian.co.uk/travel/series/been-there-photo-competition). Can you do better?

Six hours of intensive workouts – followed by a sumptuous meal and wine. This is a fitness boot camp, Italian-style

I've never been so relieved as when Dan, one of the muscle-bound personal trainers on the Fitscape week-long holiday in northern Italy, said I could bunk off on the first day.

Arriving catatonically knackered, barely able to utter a syllable, I was in terror at the sight of the programme: dawn runs, at least five hours' cardio a day, an alarming amount of "burpees" (squat thrusts). So when Dan said I should "listen to my body", I did just that and slept for 17 hours.

After that, though, on Fitscape there's no escape. Fitscape is sister company to the better-known In:spa (inspa-retreats.com) – but here the focus is on fitness, cardio and strength rather than detoxing and yoga. It is sort of like a boot camp, but without the deprivation – I was going to say without the unpleasantness, but that's not exactly right. You stay in gorgeous hotels. I was at the Rosa Alpina, in the Dolomites, with large rooms, plump cushions, thick duvets, good toiletries, nice view. The food is delicious – big breakfast buffet, vast lunch, afternoon snacks (fruit, nuts and seeds) and tasty, gigantic, three-course dinners. That's three courses including dessert. With bread, if you want it. And wine, if you'll pay for it.

So there are no former soldiers screaming at you to work harder, and no starvation rations, and no chores. You can even choose not to take part in sessions.

But the schedule is intense, and you're encouraged to join in: a run first thing, boxing classes, circuits every day, lessons on running technique, core stability workouts, endless mountain hikes (admittedly through mountains and forests; the area is used for skiing in the winter, when Fitscape also runs skiing-training holidays). From day three to day five I was so stiff I found walking downstairs almost physically impossible, despite the stretching sessions at the end of each day.

It was, though, a lot of fun; especially the dance classes, which were a special request of the group since one of the trainers had spent time being a dancer in the West End show Stomp. His routines, from hip‑hop to 70s disco, were a highlight, if not the hardest workout of the week. In fact all three experienced trainers were excellent, and gave lots of attention to each guest; they worked hard with us on our programme and our motivation. The well-heeled, mostly female guests got on well, and there was much encouraging of each other alongside the racing each other. The last-night celebration was a delight, and all that exercise lent a sort of pheromone-heady euphoria to the whole experience. I loved it.

Some of my fellow guests felt, in fact, that it was too much fun – there is a conflict between all those puddings and all that working out, and the people who enjoyed it most were those who came to exercise, and to get out of their heads, rather than with specific ideas about losing weight. (No one is going to force you to do the classes, and no one is going to tell you not to eat.) Over such an intense week you get a real sense of your fitness improving quite dramatically, and Fitscape is excellent if you want to get your fitness regime back on track: when you've been doing five or six hours' hardcore exercise each day, then squeezing the odd hour in when you get home really doesn't feel like much at all. Do it!

• Fitscape fitness retreats (020-8968 0501, fitscape.co.uk) cost £1,695 per week, including accommodation, all meals, fitness sessions, personal fitness consultation and airport transfers. Locations for 2012 include the Italian Dolomites, Andalucía and Provence. As a special offer, anyone who books before 31 January will receive a free flight to any Fitscape destination

On a Cambodian trip that paired self-reflection with full-on sightseeing, the lesson turned out to be one of going with the flow

I was on the top of Phnom Kulen, the most sacred mountain in Cambodia, in my cozzy in the pouring rain. I was teetering at the edge of the River of a Thousand Lingas, next to a wide waterfall, being splashed by a group of women pilgrims who were sitting in the holy water in their saris, laughing. That was when Soriya, our fully dressed guide, grabbed my hand and, pulling me along behind, waded in, picking his way along the boulders until we were up against the heavy rush of the waterfall. "One, two, three …" said Soriya and into the pounding downflow we went. We stood a moment in the small gap on the other side against the rock catching our breath before emerging to applause, clicking cameras and laughter from the pilgrims.

There were so many aspects to that scenario I would never have expected, an example of the Buddhist belief in letting go of expectations and living in the moment. I had gone to Cambodia – where 85% of the population is Buddhist – to join a group of western pilgrims on an "exploration path" amid the temples and jungles. It was a group holiday involving life therapy, led by humanist psychologist and leadership coach Michael Eales and author Crysse Morrison, a trip that, for me, turned out to provide several opportunities for letting go of expectations.

Cambodia, one of the poorest countries in south-east Asia after decades of war, is so undeveloped that the great temples built during the Angkorian era (from the ninth to the 15th centuries) are surrounded by jungle. A spot of inner exploration amid this magical setting was, I felt sure, on its way, from alternative holiday champions Skyros – for whom "life-changing" and "transforming" are common testimonials.

"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveller is unaware," said Michael, quoting the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, and stoking my excitement for what lay ahead. A bus, for six long and bumpy hours the next morning, turned out to be the prosaic answer. And when we arrived in Battambang, a dip in the lovely rooftop pool of the Stung Sangke hotel (stungsangkehotel.com).

Our days began with the Skyros practice of demos (democracy), during which one of us would provide a thought for the day, and everyone was invited to express appreciation to someone or for something and to make suggestions for improvements. It kept the focus on what we were enjoying while providing a constructive way of dealing with niggles, and demonstrating that we – at least in our minds – create our own experiences.

Our experiences were many. The first excursion was to Phnom Sampeau, a hill with a dozen temples and much Khmer Rouge-induced bloodshed, 12km outside Battambang. Around 300 Cambodians died by being pushed off various parts of this steep outcrop, sometimes after having their throats slit first. A posse of children gathered around us as we climbed and then sat peering at our notebooks when we stopped to do a writing exercise, led by Crysse, who left her job as a lecturer and became a writer after a Skyros holiday 20 years ago. Afterwards we descended steps, the children sliding down the banister alongside us, into the Killing Cave, where a golden Buddha reclines alongside a glass memorial of skulls.

An energetic and uplifting Cirque du Soleil circus performance of skill and daring in Battambang that evening provided an entirely different kind of experience. The activities came thick and fast so I was glad when, after climbing 357 steps to Banon Temple, Michael introduced active listening, an exercise we performed in groups of four with each person talking uninterrupted about their thoughts and feelings while the other three listened. I sipped the juice from a coconut through a straw as we sat around a rickety table at a stall and each revealed a bit of ourselves.

The following day we were back in the bus and on to Siem Reap, via an archeological sight (which was closed), a sculptor (who was asleep) and a silk farm. The palatial 5-star Sokha Angkor (sokhahotels.com/siemreap), with a pool fed by pagoda-style waterfalls, was our luxurious home for the next four nights. Such magnificent quarters contrasted jarringly with the wooden shacks that most Cambodians call home, but the hotels we stayed in were at least locally owned, bringing desperately needed dollars into the economy.

Meals were mostly an array of shared stir-fried dishes, washed down with Angkor beer or French wine. Cheese and pastries are another legacy of France's colonial rule, but the food has a greater kinship with Thailand and Vietnam with servings of mixed vegetables – including the delicious morning glory (water spinach) – beef, or amok, the name a restaurant gives its own fish speciality.

Our first excursion from Siem Reap was the one everybody had been waiting for, to the magnificent Angkor Wat, the largest religious building in the world and a mind-blowing feat of engineering and devotion. To savour the moment that its spectacular western horizontal spread came into view, I had raced ahead of the group.

Unfortunately this meant I missed the explanation that we were, in fact, approaching from the opposite side and was confused and disappointed by my first sighting. Inside, humming with tourists, the trail took us around 800m of stunning bas-reliefs and past amazingly intact apsaras, or heavenly goddesses, carved into the stone. When I wasn't dodging the crowds, the sheer scale of the symmetry and the framed views of the jungle were breathtaking. There had been talk of lingering and writing but the bus was waiting to take us to lunch so I left Angkor Wat battling dissatisfaction with the fact that, like any other tourist, we had simply walked around it. We departed by the western approach so I waited until we were far enough away until I turned and there, in the centre of my vision … was green flapping tarpaulin! The secret destination of my Angkor Wat experience was, it seems, another lesson in expectation.

That evening, the haunting Ta Prohm, one of the temples just outside Siem Reap, where bizarre, monster-like spung trees and their roots have grown up, around and over the ruins, was blissfully tourist free.

Another moment of inner transportation came at Banteay Srei, the intricately carved women's temple, 30km from Siem Reap. As the day's light faded, we sat under a banyan tree in the grounds, where Michael began chanting with a powerful and haunting sound that the rest of us, sitting straight-backed and with our eyes closed, joined in. It lasted a few, perhaps five, minutes, and afterwards, as we walked away, I felt deeply peaceful and the jungle appeared suddenly vivid.

There was a visit to a well project, an apsara dance performance, and a rushed visit to Tuol Sleng, the prison where 17,000 were detained and tortured by the Khmer Rouge. It was a busy itinerary, involving many hours on the bus, which took in three of Cambodia's four main cities, temples galore and a good many sights beside. The journey, which began and ended in Phnom Penh, circumnavigated Tonlé Sap lake, the largest freshwater source in south-east Asia. It was a fascinating tour but lacked the stillness and reflection for the parallel internal journey that I had hoped for. Michael fed us thought-provoking quotes but the meditation, writing exercises and active listening came in snatched moments, providing an aside rather than underpinning an experience towards spiritual awakening.

"The mundane details of our life eat us up," said Michael, quoting Buddhist nun Ani Pema Chödrön. "Therefore it is important to keep asking ourselves again and again: what is the most important thing?" As it transpired, the most important thing was the outward journey, around a country of fascinating contrasts amid the remnants of one of the greatest empires the world has ever known. And as Cambodia emerges from centuries of invasion and poverty into the modern world, it was, perhaps, the perfect moment to visit. For that I feel grateful, which, as Buddhism teaches, is a very important step.

• Skyros (01983 865566, skyros.com) also runs writing and self-development courses on Skyros, the Isle of Wight, Thailand and Cuba. The next Temples and Jungles Cambodia Adventure is 4-13 February and costs £1,195 half-board, excluding flights. Netflights (netflights.com) has flights from Heathrow to Phnom Penh with Cathay Pacific from £557. British nationals need a 30-day visa to visit Cambodia, which costs £15 – see cambodianembassy.org.uk

A wild camping trip in the Lake District is designed to take you out of your comfort zone – and with unpredictable weather and testing terrain, it certainly delivers

I'm bursting. Crossing my legs. Trying not to picture rivers or waterfalls. I'll do anything to avoid leaving my tent for a pee. It's not just the biblical rain lashing against the canvas; it's the chilling reports of a ghostly horse roaming the local Cumbrian fells with a rotting human corpse strapped to its saddle.

Camping is rarely so remote, weekend adventures rarely so removed from daily life. And that's exactly what Mark Reid wants. The mountain guide's new Out of Your Comfort Zone excursion pushes wild camping to its geographical limits, packaging it with glorious guided hikes, navigation instruction and survival tips for nervous rookies.

Reid, who's aiming the breaks at walkers keen to "skill up", families looking for a bonding trip and unconventional stag parties, welcomes inexperienced campers. But this weekend – with his first recruits – he's in for a shock.

Our group includes Rebecca, who recently lived in Mayfair and regards anywhere outside London as out of her comfort zone, and Jane – a begrudging companion for a hiking-obsessed partner – who believes tents are the work of Satan. She hires motorhomes to sleep at festivals, plans to tackle Cumbria's highest fells in green fashion trainers – "boots make my feet look like horses' hooves" – and has spent the previous week Googling "extra-springy camp beds".

At least she'll enjoy the first night. Elterwater's Britannia Inn – a white-walled cocoon in the shadow of the Langdales – answers her call of the mild. Hell it's lovely, a converted 500-year-old beamed farmhouse and forge that offers open fires, cosy rooms and fresh seasonal grub.

As we tuck into honey-glazed lamb marinated in mint, the air's heavy with camping horror stories: inch-long earwigs, sheep dung accidentally kicked into cooking pots, mattresses deflating in storm-soaked tents. Jane's partner has clearly been economical with the truth. She knows there'll be an element of camping – hopefully with hot showers and a nearby cafe – but has been lured north by the promise of boutique pubs and a gentle scenic stroll. This could get ugly.

It will certainly get wild. Driving to the hike's departure point tests the car's clutch on the gaspingly steep switchbacks of the Wrynose and Hardknott passes. The western lakes are vast, uncluttered, less commercialised – and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Our target is The Woolpack, an old drovers' pub where we're to receive a pre-trip briefing. Reid, who teaches navigation skills and leads team-building hikes, treats our night of wild camping as a mini-expedition. After outlining the route – up to Eskdale Moor and Great How to camp on Scafell's southern flanks before scaling its peak the following morning – he turns to legal issues. Wild camping, permitted in Scotland and on Dartmoor, is a tolerated tradition in the privately-owned Lake District, providing we camp above walled farmland and leave behind nothing but footprints.

Slipping into full-on survival mode, Reid explains he'll lead us from our comfort zones into our stretch zones, where we'll hopefully acquire new wilderness skills. After a quick lesson in packing tents, stoves and sleeping gear – we're each carrying 15kg – the briefing finishes with us outlining our individual goals for the trip. "Survival," snaps Jane, reluctantly lacing her boots. "And Weight Watchers points. It's worth at least five glasses of wine. It's the only salvation." For the first time the guide looks puzzled – and slightly alarmed.

It's an idyllic start. Eskdale Valley, prostrate beneath the magnificent bowl of Crinkle Crags, Bowfell and Scafell Pike, is licked by sun. We are serenaded by the babbling River Esk and occasional toots from La'al Ratty, as the narrow-gauge Ravenglass & Eskdale Railway is known.

Walking couldn't be flatter. Or easier. Jane, who added last-minute weight to her rucksack by including a makeup bag, mirror and hairbrush – "just because I'm hiking, I don't have to look like a dog" – seems impressed. There's even memorable architecture. The 12th-century St Catherine's Church is swaddled by a beautifully manicured graveyard containing the extraordinary granite hunk of Thomas Dobson's headstone. The huntsman's eerie sculpted face peers at you with an enigmatic half-smile – a Cumbrian Mona Lisa flanked by fox and hound.

We pass a handsome Lakeland house that inspires townie dreams of rural escape, sip a lunchtime pint at Boot's Brook House Inn and rise easily up the north side of Eskdale. Reid takes advantage of the sunny mood to evangelise about the confidence-boosting value of leaving our comfort zones, quoting Edmund Hillary after he'd climbed Everest. "It's not the mountain we conquer, it's ourselves."

Rebecca and Jane nod eagerly. This can't last. The clouds start to mass 20 minutes later. As we reach the end of a 250m climb, the first fat raindrops thwack against our Gore-Tex. By the time we reach the stone circles and prehistoric mounds of Brat's Moss, it's pouring. A divine panorama over a silvery Solway Firth to distant Scottish hills vanishes in mist before our eyes.

We break for a restorative cuppa at a bleak lodge known as the Blair Witch House, gazing across Burnmoor Tarn to the peaks of Kirk Fell, Black Sail and Great Gable. Apparently we're now reconnecting with the way our ancestors survived for the last 60,000 years before urbanisation, email and iPhones. No one cares. The downpour's intensifying, driven into our faces by a gusting westerly.

And the walking's getting tougher. Far tougher. Our boots squelch through heavy mud in boggy, knobbly moorland. I turn round and do a double take. Jane is now carrying an open umbrella. We're in one of England's lairiest, most isolated spots but she appears to be strolling down the Kings Road.

She's also leaking. Damp is rising up her back and down her legs. "I feel like I've peed myself. It reminds me of Duke of Edinburgh when I was cold, wet and shattered. It's exactly what I dreaded."

Rebecca joins in: "I'm craving a hot bath."

Reid vainly attempts to raise morale. "I'm not sure this line of thinking helps." He points to our final climb up the steep slope of Broad Tongue. "It's only a 260m rise – about the height of 26 semi-detached houses. Not too bad."

We grind up, stopping for a breather after 27 bungalows. By the top we've been walking for six hours. Dense curtains of rain open and shut theatrically. Our camping area on Great How is only 500m away but visibility, daylight and energy are fading fast.

Reid studies his map, swears several times and decides to head back to the safety of Eskdale Moor – an experienced guide ensuring we stay well outside our panic zones. It means the last hour's grim climb has been in vain. Jane slumps to the ground and sits, brolly raised, staring silently into thin air – a surreal René Magritte figure in the wilderness. She has entered her twilight zone.

But the retreat is a good call. We find a textbook location for wild camping. Sheltered in the lee of Illgill Head, it's flat, free of sharp stones that can tear a tent, and close to fast-running water. There's space to go to the loo, well away from steep drops – the bete noire of incontinent, myopic ramblers.

I'd happily reveal our spot, but then I'd have to kill you. Wild camping etiquette is to keep locations secret to avoid over-use. The only downside is the horror movie setting. We're bunking down slap-bang on the Corpse Road – the route once used to transport the dead to St Catherine's. One horse still haunts the moor with its decaying human cargo.

Oh Lord. It's already an unsettling time to remain in the mountains. Known as homecoming, this is the hour when people traditionally descended to the safety of lower ground. To stay is to contradict hard-wired human knowledge.

But there's little time to be spooked. As the rain eases we erect tents, helped by the ever-patient Reid, pull on dry clothes, collect water and boil chilli con carne in the bag. Jane scoffs her's immediately and vanishes into her tent. "Sod campsite camaraderie, I'm done. Night."

She misses the best moment of the trip. Under a vast moon that daubs scudding clouds with ochre light, we sit in a prehistoric stone circle, sip whisky and munch chocolate. It's utterly magical. Sadly it's only a brief interlude from the flood. Within hours, we're again buffeted by relentless weather fronts. Someone appears to be throwing bucket after bucket of water over the tent. Sleep is near impossible.

"Bloody hell, this is unbelievable," says Rebecca early next morning, applying her Kiehl's anti-wrinkle defence cream with survival molecules and corallina extract. "Why in God's name are we out here?"

Reid, who claims "it's the worst weather I've ever camped in", remains magnificently stoic. He helps pack sodden gear and braves the downpour to fire up an early morning brew. His golden hour – "the sun's up, you're alone in the mountains with a coffee" – has literally been washed away.

But wild camping's nothing if not flexible. Plan A's early-morning ascent of Scafell was abandoned last night. Now Plan B – climbing Illgill Head with its 2,000ft wall of vertiginous scree above Wast Water – is also scrapped.

Time for Plan C: the pub. As we descend past Eel Tarn into lush Eskdale, the guide continues to point out plants and supply navigation tips. It's almost possible to forget the night's grim weather. Almost. But Cumberland Ale and pizzas from the Woolpack's woodfired oven come as blessed relief.

Hours later and, oh irony, there's a cloudless sky and soft pink dusk. Perhaps it's the warmth, or alcohol, but our storm-tossed adventure now garners surprisingly positive reviews. Jane admits it was a trial, but was mesmerised by the scenery, surprised at her fitness and feels more confident for enduring high-altitude discomfort.

"I feel an incredible sense of achievement for spending a night in the wild," she tells me over a Chilean red wine. "I'd love to experience that early golden hour with warm sun and hot coffee. In fact I'd go again if the trip was a little more luxurious, perhaps with a wild massage."

Mr Reid, please take note.

• Team Walking (01423 871750, teamwalking.co.uk) has bespoke or group two-day Out of Your Comfort Zone trips for £109pp including guiding, camp meals and equipment. Half-day and one-day trips are also available. The Britannia Inn (015394 37210, britinn.net) has doubles from £80 B&B. The Woolpack Inn (019467 23230, woolpack.co.uk) has doubles from £60 B&B

At newly hip Rockaway Beach, an hour by train from Manhattan, the Boatel, a floating hotel of old cruisers, is drawing crowds

Across a narrow stretch of water from New York's JFK airport, underneath the international flight path, I am reclining on the deck of a rather rustic boat, and sipping cabernet sauvignon from a plastic beaker. Every few minutes, the deafening growl of a jumbo jet cuts through the evening air, and a pair of landing lights pierce the dusk. Admittedly, it's not the stuff glossy travel magazines are made of, but the Boatel, a floating hotel comprised of a collection of old cruisers, has become one of the recent success stories of New York City. It began boarding in early July last year, and, thanks to its quirky appeal, sold out almost immediately, right through to its mid-September closing.

Even so, when I step off the A-train at Beach 60th Street, Far Rockaway, in Queens, I wonder if I've made a mistake. I pass under a grim concrete flyover and along a pot-holed road, past imposing and unlovely brown-brick project (council) housing, with prison-like slits where windows should be. Hidden behind a petrol station, I finally spot the entrance to Marina 59, a decidedly working-class dock in Jamaica Bay, and ask two salty sea-dogs for further directions. With their assistance, I spy the blue neon Boatel sign, and find Connie Hockaday, its captain.

Originally from the tiny bit of Texas with a coast, Hockaday, now in her late twenties, is an artist with a long-standing love affair with the water. At 19, she joined the Floating Neutrinos, a band of wanderers who sail around the world in a junk boat, and helped them construct a 50-foot catamaran. She later moved to Portland, Oregon, to study for her master's degree in fine art, and began building another boat by hand. There, in the Pacific North-west, she also came across the legend of Nancy Boggs, a 19th-century siren who ran brothels aboard boats in order to evade the law.

"I wanted to build a business that evades the law too, but I didn't really want to run a brothel," Hockaday says wryly. "I don't actually care that much about the rental of the boats. I just want people to come and stay and have an experience." To that end, she runs lectures, screenings and events most summer evenings on the floating platform stage at the centre of the Boatel, featuring friends and interested parties.

Hockaday shows me to my ship, the New York New York, but isn't exactly sure what species of boat it is, other than "an early 1980s leisure craft". She is compact and cosy inside, with a sleeping nook big enough for two in her pointy end, a table with banquette seating, a sideboard and sink (though not connected), a small breakfast bar and deck space enough for essential evening drinks, plus the original steering wheel and radio.

The other four boats are slightly bigger: Americano, the most Miami Vice of the vessels, has a long sloping bow, tinted windows and sleeps three to four; Crumb is a quaint, comfortable four-berth with one careful, elderly, previous owner; Queen Zenobia is a 30-foot classic yacht for three to four people, and Ms Nancy Boggs is a remodelled 1970s houseboat with space for five and several sundecks.

Hockaday found all the boats abandoned in the marina, and with the help of a team of volunteers, spruced them up in under a month in early summer.

I check in on the penultimate Sunday, when Hockaday, who harbours no ambitions to become a hotelier, is ready for a rest. The Boatel isn't even an official business – the overnight fee ($50-$100 per boat, $100 for Ms Nancy Boggs) is actually a donation. And P Diddy's superyacht these vessels are not. It's a bit like camping – the boats have no running water or electricity, but there are facilities: a washroom with showers at the end of the jetty and a covered outdoor dining area with gas barbecues. Guests bring and cook their own food and drink, which encourages inter-vessel interaction. There is (brace yourself) no internet and no bar, and creature comforts stretch to a torch, candles and a mosquito coil.

But no one can say they weren't warned. When guests book a boat, they receive a welcome letter which unapologetically states: "Let's first get one thing straight. We are not a real hotel. This is an adventure at best and an art project at worst."

I head over to the floating platform stage for tonight's talk – by Adrienne Skye Roberts, an artist from San Francisco, who delivers a deft multimedia presentation about her grandfather, a communist Jew who was jailed in Pennsylvania in the early 1950s when the political paranoia in the US was at fever pitch. Some guests watch from the decks of their craft, dangling feet into the water, while the rest of us curl up on blankets around the edge of the platform.

After Adrienne is subjected to a Q&A, I chat to fellow overnighting audience members including Eric, a softly spoken west coast musician who is in town on tour tonight, and Marie, a lecturer at Yale University and a fellow boating enthusiast. This is what Hockaday is after, not, as she fears, "for it to turn into a frat-boy destination where wealthy people just come to hang out on boats".

For now, she and the boats are safe from the frat-boys, but for how long, who knows? Only an hour (and just $2.25) on the A-train subway from Manhattan, the long, wide beaches of Rockaway, reminiscent of the French Atlantic coast, have been having a moment. This summer, the working-class Queens neighbourhood has become a red-hot hipster hangout, the weekend alternative for the cool kids who can't afford (or can't stomach) the excess and exorbitant prices of the Hamptons, and New York's growing band of surfing enthusiasts. The newly refurbished wooden boardwalk has been awash with wetsuits, skinny jeans, vintage bikes and directional haircuts rarely sighted outside of Williamsburg, Brooklyn's most fashionable ghetto. And where the hipsters lead, the frat-boys almost inevitably follow.

A new hub of slick food and drink concessions at Beach 98th St opened this summer too, with a coffee shop staffed by model sorts, a classy Thai food outlet, the now-renowned Rockaway Tacos, and a bar selling beers and margaritas. There are still many elements of the old, rough-round-the-edges Rockaway to be enjoyed though – a few minutes from the trendy taco shop is Connolly's, a lairy local Irish boozer, where the summer tipple of choice is the lethal frozen piña colada, with optional (unwise) extra rum "floaters" on top. The return A-train journey can become tricky after three.

On Monday morning, I wake in my surprisingly comfortable watery crib to bright blue September skies, and only the sound of seagulls on the dock. I pull on my bikini, and stroll the five minutes to the beach, past the projects, the yellow school buses loading up local children, and the queue for the social security office, which stretches around the block. The sand is empty save for a couple of fishermen, and by rights I should not be swimming. The beaches officially closed on Labour Day, the previous weekend, but I'm not wasting the chance to begin my week by diving (albeit briefly) into Atlantic breakers before I have to head home. The Boatel may not be boutique luxury, but it's the perfect place to press pause on hectic land-lubber city life. Just don't tell the frat-boys.

• The Boatel (+1 718 945 4500, marina59.com) is booking now for its next season, running from 17 May-16 September. Boats cost $50-$100 a night

Inspired by Japan's capsule hotels, Snowpods are bargain ski apartments that offer a quirky haven in a snow storm

I was talking to the gendarmes when the second tree fell, landing on the roof of a small car not 10ft behind me. The night was thick with snow, headlights from stranded cars picking out great fists of snowflakes as the wind hurled wthem through the air. Those vehicles without snow chains lay blinking in ditches or squealing out of control as they skidded back down the icy mountain road. I glanced up at the snow-laden trees creaking ominously in the wind, then back at the two hitchhikers I'd picked up earlier in Sainte-Foy who were smoking nervously by the side of my as yet unscathed car. We were three kilometres from Tignes, but with two fir trees now blocking our path we weren't going anywhere fast. Breathe.

"Can I send a taxi?" chirped Yvonne Russill when I called to tell her I would be a tad delayed for our rendezvous in Tignes Val Claret. "Or arrange for you to stay the night in Bourg-Saint-Maurice? Tomorrow is going to be an amazing powder day, so whatever it takes we'll get you here." I wanted to hug her. If the sign of a great host is someone who can think clearly and remain optimistic in a crisis, Snowpod already had a gold star from me, and I hadn't even arrived. When I did finally make it – three hours later, complete with a large dent in the left wing from a sliding BMW – Yvonne guided me into my apartment and inserted a glass of rose into my frozen hands.

Made up of five villages, with Val Claret sitting at 2,300m, Tignes resembles an abandoned trading outpost from science fiction, great apartment blocks giving it a rather industrial air and no trees to break up great swathes of white powder fields.

In this environment Snowpod, with its futuristic take on ski accommodation, seems totally at home, the two design-led apartments residing in a vast apartment block which wouldn't look out of place in George Orwell's 1984.

"Traditionally, French ski apartments have been tiny," says Yvonne. "Six snowboarders crammed into a one-bed space. My idea was to veer more towards the Japanese capsule hotel style. I wanted something a little bit cheeky, a little bit quirky." Spend a penny in the toilet painted to look like a vintage red phone booth and it's fair to say she's succeeded.

An interior designer by trade, Yvonne spent time in the Alps as a ski instructor and chalet host before using Snowpod as an opportunity to marry up design with her life in the mountains. The apartments, of which there are two with a third opening next year, sleep four in a spacious dorm room, walls covered with photographs of Alpine landscapes, circular brushed steel rails operating as wardrobes, big fluffy bright blue rugs thrown on the floor. So yes, the living quarters are close, but it doesn't feel like a one‑bedroom flat, more like a gathering at a funky friend's house.

I flopped on to the colourful sofa clutching the rest of the bottle of rose. It took a while for me to realise the fireplace was actually a pile of bright orange logs, lit with a glowing light. Above it hung a huge flatscreen TV, but I eschewed the DVDs and Xbox games to first try and work out how some books were being suspended on the opposite wall (the shelves, created by Cardiff product designers Mode, act like Stickle Bricks, grabbing the pages), and then to work up enthusiasm for the next day's skiing by thumbing through magazine after magazine on the fairy-lit shelving unit. I knocked over a Darth Vader model. "It's theatre," said Yvonne when I asked how she would describe her style. "It's all smoke and mirrors. My style is for design to unravel. The longer you stay, the more you discover."

The apartments have a fully equipped kitchen and can be booked on a B&B basis or with dinner delivered to your door five days a week – you simply ring and arrange a convenient time. Two menus are provided – Asian fusion or traditional comfort food. I supped on Thai green curry followed by banana, raisin and coconut soup, no less delicious for sitting in a warm oven after its prompt arrival and my delayed one.

The booming of avalanche cannons woke me the next morning. I walked bleary eyed around the flat and realised it had pretty much 360-degree views of the entire ski area, the sky pale pink, the mountains thick with snow. Tea in hand, I sat at the dining table and mused how cool I would be if this was my home. Half an hour later I was heading out into the powder with Yvonne.

All the lifts were shut. "This calls for Grizzly's,' she declared and in so far as knee deep powder would allow, waded off into the centre of town. Pretty much everything in Grizzly's Bar is carved out of wood, the entire place a physical demonstration of its owner's embracement of Native American culture. Sitting on a tree stump stool sipping coffee is not a great substitute for fresh tracks, but if it has to be done there's not many places more atmospheric than Grizzly's.

Back in the pod, I discovered a fruit bowl made like a silicone crate and graffiti on the ceiling. My weekend in the Alps may have been unravelling from the start, but at least with Snowpod I was discovering style along with dents in my left wing.

• Snowpod (07881 725062, snow-pod.com) has seven nights B&B from £199pp and seven nights half-board from £299. Fly or take the train to Geneva

Now in its eighth and final season, "Desperate Housewives" is preparing to say goodbye to Wisteria Lane forever. But how does the cast want things to end for their characters? And, more importantly, what are they going to take from the set when the show wraps?

I caught up with "Desperate Housewives" stars Felicity Huffman, Eva Longoria, Marcia Cross, Vanessa Williams, Doug Savant and Ricardo Antonio Chavira to find out just that. Plus, with all this talk of someone biting the dust before it's all over, find out what the actors think about the show possibly ending in tragedy.

"I think a couple 'Housewives' should die," Huffman said. "I think it would be good."

"God, that would be great," Savant agreed. "Could you imagine the line in Vegas? Like you could take odds on your character dying -- I like that!"

Watch the video below to see what else they'd like to see for their characters, and who is already plotting to steal Eva Longoria's character Gabrielle's gorgeous Aston Martin.

Mamie Gummer is returning to "The Good Wife." The recurring guest star will appear in an upcoming episode of the hit legal drama, Robert and Michelle King, "Good Wife" co-creators and executive producers, confirmed.

"We're thrilled to be facing off against Mamie Gummer's Nancy Crozier again," the Kings said in a statement. "This time she's representing the family of a suicide victim against Lockhart/Gardner when Alicia thinks to out-blonde her by bringing Caitlin (Anna Camp) onto the team."

Gummer has appeared on "The Good Wife" three other times as the cunning Nancy Crozier. The last time she popped up was in the Season 2 episode titled "Getting Off."
Her other TV credits include ABC's "Off The Map" and she recently guest starred on CBS's "A Gifted Man."