Rural Iran has startlingly beautiful landscapes that are largely unexplored by outsiders

I was tired. Exhausted. Ready to flop. I'd arrived in Zarabad, a sweet secluded village north of Tehran, with sleep rather than sightseeing on my mind. But in Iran, a land of soft light, poetic description and elegaic landscapes, the offer of a dusk stroll is hard to resist.

"Zarabad means 'built by the Gods,'" said Cyrus, our guide's uncle, as we meandered through winding streets into countryside flecked with walnut trees, streams, cherry orchards and rice fields; its bucolic serenity juxtaposed with a reminder of more brutal times, a cemetery filled with the graves of young men killed in the eight-year Iran-Iraq war.

It wasn't the day's first taste of bloody history. We'd earlier driven through the Alamut valley, former home of the Hashshashin, who in the Middle Ages ritually plotted the deaths of their enemies ? the origin of the word assassin and the genesis of the dark art. We'd broken our journey to hike in searing heat into the hills that protectively swaddled the ruins of the sect's castle.

Small wonder that by that evening, I wasn't just tired, I was hungry. Food came first, dished up in our Zarabad guesthouse by Afsar Hayati, a motherly widow. It was my first meal in rural Iran and it was magnificent: ghormeh sabzi, a green herb stew, mixing sorrel, parsley, spinach and rice, with barberries, grilled chicken and kidney beans, flatbread and sheep's butter, all washed down with tea. It left me satiated, drowsy and sleeping like the dead.

I was travelling with Wild Frontiers, one of the few tour operators to regularly venture into rural Iran as well as its cities. Our group would travel south from Tehran ? bar this detour north ? in a rough circle covering some 3,000km.

It's a trip where memorable sights emerge early and exit late. So next morning I crept out to watch the sun rise over the Alborz mountains. Our hostess was already awake. Yesterday, she'd doused us all with esfand, herbal incense said to purify and ward off bad spirits, now she offered spoonfuls of homemade sour cherry jam. It was the aperitif for a breakfast of flatbread, boiled eggs, tea and preserves ? the perfect re-fuel after we'd trooped down to the public bath, past the onion-domed mosque to freshen up for our continuing journey.

Now travelling south, we skirted the harsh, inhospitable Dasht-e Kavir desert that covers much of central and southeast Iran. It's no Sahara ? more grey wasteland with occasional licks of white salt ? but like the vast north African sands, it swirls with magical myths and is said to be rife with demons. My favourite is the evil-sounding ghul, a monster with a penchant for ambushing unsuspecting travellers and feeding on their flesh. Today he appeared to be full. We sped through unscathed to Kashan, an oasis town on the desert's edge.

There we took a stroll in the Fin gardens, built in the 16th century as a summer retreat for the charismatic despot, Shah Abbas. They teemed with cypress and fruit trees, pools and pretty fountains ? and teenage girls on a school outing. A sea of black, figure-hugging tunics, headscarves, flashing eyes and high spirits, they danced around us. "Where are you from?" they asked. " Do you like our country? Welcome to Iran". We all hugged, posed for photographs, and parted, enchanted and faintly euphoric at the encounter ? international diplomatic tension belonged to another world.

It's such moments ? the rule, rather than the exception ? that make travel to the Islamic republic such a delight.

Well, that and the snacks. On the bus, we drank tea from a gigantic flask, a ritual that's also an excuse to graze on Iranian confectionary: sohan, a brittle caramel, gaz, a chewy nougat, faludeh, transparent spaghetti made from starch and rose water, and pashmak, cotton candy resembling horsehair.

Three hundred kilometres and several hundred calories south of Kashan, in Yazd, we restocked at the famous Haj Khalifeh shop ? an Iranian Selfridges for sweets and biscuits ? where our order was packaged in a dainty, ribbon-tied box by a solemn assistant.

This ancient desert town, a maze of sun-baked buildings and ancient wind towers, is home to Iran's largest community of Zoroastrians ? followers of a faith dating back to the sixth century. On a dusty trek up to the Towers of Silence we learnt how, traditionally a priest would lay out the bodies of the dead on the open-air towers, to be picked clean by vultures ? a ritual similar to that of the Tibetan sky burial. "The practice stopped 50 years ago," said Mehrdad. "The vultures kept dropping bones in populated areas." Now the remains are buried in cement-lined graves to prevent what they see as contamination of the earth.

Later, outside the Friday mosque with its high tiled entrance and twin minarets, we stumbled upon a film crew recording a religious drama for Iranian television. I told the young director, Arash, that back in London I'd watched Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi's animated film about growing up under the revolution. "We can't watch it," he said flatly, "it's banned here." Then his face lit up as he reeled off his favourite films: Godfather, Scarface, Once Upon a Time in America. "They're all banned, too, but we get them through the black market."

A couple of restorative nights in Yazd's plush Laleh hotel and we returned to the countryside. Next stop: Bazm, a hamlet in the foothills of the Zagros mountains. Another night, another culture: our hosts Abbas and Afar were Qashqai, a nomadic tribe that migrates between summer pastures in the Zagros and winters in lowlands near the Persian Gulf.

The couple, who aren't fans of the nomadic lifestyle, offered us the run of their guesthouse. Glossy magazines might call its style eclectic. Rooms are lined with ruby red woollen rugs weaved by the Qashqai, its two bathrooms have western loos and showers, while goats and chickens live in a garden pen surrounded by a tangle of grapevines, apple and cherry trees.

Beyond the compound, life rolled along unhurriedly: old women led donkeys down dirt roads, a shepherd herded his flock, and some of our gang headed off for hikes in the hills. I chose to play hide-and-seek with our hosts' daughters, Nilufer, nine, and Zahra, six, and then joined them to collect wildflowers in a nearby meadow.

That evening we drank malty, non-alcholic beer ? bizarrely it left us feeling quite giddy ? and feasted on Afsar's home cooking: rice with barberries, lamb, noodle soup, fesenjan, a mix of walnuts and pomegranates, along with chicken, carrot salad and fresh, moist flatbread. We reluctantly said our goodbyes the next morning, and scrambled onto the bus with a mission. To track down some Qashqai nomads.

Like most of life's best pleasures, it wasn't instant gratification. We eventually spotted two tents in a stunning valley framed by mountain peaks. An extended family of Qashqai lived in the camp, the women distinctive in their colourful headscarves, shirts and skirts over black leggings. Shyly, they welcomed us into their goatskin tent for sweetened tea and almonds. We gave them a box of sweets and sprawled on the woven rugs and cushions around a central fire pit.

The Qashqai traditionally spend their days tending to livestock. "It's we women who do the herding, milking of goats, and baking of bread," said Shamsie, a mother of 11 children. "When I was a child there were 100 families in this valley, now there are just two."

Many Qashqi have resettled in Shiraz, a buoyant, relaxed city about four hours' drive to the southwest, the birthplace of Hafez, the revered Persian poet. Born in the 14th century, he wrote about love, wine, women and spirituality, giving rise to a form of fortune-telling that is still hugely popular: you ask a question, open a page of his verse at random, and receive guidance through his words.

I visited Hafez's tomb in the Musalla gardens at sunset, when all of Shiraz appeared to be milling about among the cypress trees and roses. In the open-air pavilion housing his tomb, I joined the young women who sit clutching books of his poetry. One, seeing me peer over her shoulder, kindly handed me her volume.

As custom dictates I took a moment to formulate a silent wish ? a rather sheepish one revolving around the latest love object ? shut my eyes and chose a page. My new friend recited its poem to me in Farsi, softly and with great feeling. "What does it mean?" I asked, eagerly. "It's love, it's good," she replied sweetly, with a feminine empathy that ? more than any pronouncement Hafez made on my affaire de coeur ? stayed with me for days.

While my future love life sounded promising, you can't take anything for granted. So next afternoon, in Soormeh, a tiny beauty salon, I got a makeover courtesy of Farah, Mazia, Marzijah, Foruzan, Gooli, Sanaz, and Mina ? a big team even by the standards of 10 Years Younger. To my surprise, all were bareheaded in skinny jeans, T-shirts and revealing tank tops ? except for 22-year-old make-up artist Mina, who sported a bizarre white veil and so much slap she resembled a geisha. "In private, we're free to dress and express ourselves as we like," she said with a shrug, smothering me in foundation and blusher. "There are no restrictions."

Persians love picnics as much as they do poetry, and for a final dose of nature before Esfahan ? that elegant, much chronicled city on the banks of the Zayandeh river ? we spent a soporific, sun-filled day at the Margun waterfall, Iran's largest that topples over a fantastic canyon, deep in the forest. At the falls, the locals picnicked in style, unfurling Persian rugs and laying out great pots of homemade stew.

Beneath us, four men on a ledge knelt and prayed before tucking in. We ate our own lunch of cucumber, tomatoes, dates, boiled eggs, goat's cheese and watermelon perched on boulders, as shafts of sunlight pierced the forest. "The trees, they are like music," said our guide suddenly. I gazed upward at the groves swaying gently in the wind, and nodded: the simile seemed entirely fitting, and typical of this country, far from short on lyricism.

Getting there

Roger Protz, editor of the latest Camra Good Beer Guide, recommends town centre pubs with a country feel

Forty pubs a week are closing in Britain, victims of the recession, the smoking ban, a 19% increase in beer duty in the past 18 months and cheap beer in supermarkets.

But against this gloomy background, there's a remarkable resurgence of real ale. More than 70 new small craft breweries have bucked the economic downturn and opened in the past year. The new edition of the Good Beer Guide proves that pubs that concentrate on real ale and offer a good selection of beer can still pull in drinkers and thrive. Here's a few of my favourites.

Derby

The Royal Standard
This is a rescued pub, closed in 2006 when the council wanted to knock it down to make way for offices and housing. But the locals protested and Trevor Harris of the local Derby Brewing Co bought the site and renovated it. It's open plan with sandblasted walls, large windows, seats outside in a covered courtyard and steps up to a balcony with ample seating and almost sylvan views over the River Derwent. Trevor's son Paul runs the pub and offers a good range of food and beers from his father: Triple Hop, Business as Usual, Dashingly Dark and Double Mash, plus a good range of imported beers, mainly from Belgium and Germany.

? 1 Derwent Street. +44 (0)1332 366283. derbybrewing.co.uk/brewery_tap.htm

Durham

The Dun Cow
This ancient ale house dates from the 16th century and draws its inspiration from the folk tale concerning monks from Lindisfarne who in 995AD were searching for a resting place for the body of St Cuthbert. They encountered a milkmaid looking for her lost cow and she directed them to the hamlet of Dun Holm, now Durham. The inn is named after the animal and the story is told on the wall of a corridor that links the small snug bar at the front and large lounge at the rear. In spite of the encroaching castle and cathedral, the Dun Cow retains a rural and intimate atmosphere: drinking here is like stepping back in time. The beers on offer include Black Sheep Best Bitter, Cameron's Castle Eden Ale and Jennings Cumberland Ale, good northern brews.

? 37 Old Elvet. + 44 (0)191 386 9219

St Albans

The Farmer's Boy
Delightful cottage pub once surrounded by hedges before London Road had pavements. The small area by the bar opens out to a side room with ample seating. There's more seating on a paved outdoor area. At the rear of the pub is the Alehouse Brewery, which brews for the Farmer's Boy and another local pub, the Mermaid in Hatfield Road. The food is cooked on the premises and the chips get rave reviews. Beers include Alehouse Clipper IPA and Farmers Joy plus Fuller's London Pride and Taylor's Landlord. An excellent refreshment point before visiting St Albans Abbey and Roman Verulamium.

? 134 London Road, St Albans. +44 (0)1727 860535. farmersboy.net

Lancaster

The Sun

A town centre pub with a country feel, with exposed brick work, wood panels, beams, a 300-year-old oak door, open fireplaces and a well ? the latter suggests brewing may have taken place here centuries ago. Food and accommodation are recommended while the beer range is superb. The Sun is the main outlet for the local Lancaster Brewery and offers the full range of Amber, Blonde, Black and Red along with Thwaite's Wainwright from Blackburn and four regular guest beers. There's also a good selection of Belgian beers and malt whiskies. There's an outside heated area for nicotineys.

? 63 Church Street, Lancaster. + 44 (0)1524 66006. thesunhotelandbar.co.uk

York

The Maltings

Shaun and Maxine Collinge are legends of the York pub trade and many visitors to the city call in at their riverside pub and never move on. The design is best described as quirky with ancient cigarette advertisements mingling with remedies for chest infections and a plethora of old railway signs ? the station is three minutes away. Food from the Dragon's Pantry at lunchtime is homemade and good value: the chilli is described as "incendiary". There are fine beers to accompany the food, including the local York Brewery's Guzzler along with Black Sheep Best and regular guest beers and ciders: porters and stouts are often available. Beers from mainland Europe are sold on draught and in bottle.

? Tanners Moat, foot of Lendal Bridge. + 44 (0)1904 655387. maltings.co.uk

Edinburgh

The Starbank Inn

There are breathtaking views over the Firth of Forth to Fife ? try saying that after a few pints ? from this charming waterside pub with U-shaped interior, bare-boarded floors, old brewery mirrors and a conservatory for diners. Given the location, it's not surprising that fish features strongly on the menu, available lunchtime and evening, along with a daily vegetarian dish and such pub staples as ploughman's and steak and ale pie. There's occasional live jazz on Sundays, wi-fi access and a tremendous range of beers, mainly from Scottish breweries: you may find Caledonian Deuchars IPA and Harviestoun, and watch out for the classic 80 Shilling Ale from Belhaven of Dunbar.

? 64 Laverockbank Road, off A901. + 44 (0)131 552 4141. starbankinn.co.uk

Cardiff

Y Mochyn Du
The name means black pig and comes from a Welsh folk song. The pub is a converted Victorian gatehouse on the edge of Sophia Gardens and enjoys a delightful rural location on the edge of the city. It's also just a few minutes' walk to Glamorgan cricket ground, which now enjoys Test status. The pub is surrounded by trees, bushes and flower beds, there's ample outside seating and a new conservatory offers both fine views and a good menu. The main wood-panelled bar has many sporting photos, including a surprising one of Ryan Giggs in a Wales rugby shirt: is he planning a late career change? A splendid range of beers comes from Welsh independent breweries, including a number of small micros. The house beer is supplied by the Vale of Glamorgan Brewery.

? Sophia Close. + 44 (0)29 203 71599

Cambridge

The Cambridge Blue
The Blue is a delightful backstreet pub that dates from the 1860s. It was first known as the Dewdrop Inn, a dreadful Victorian pun widely used at the time. The pub was built to serve railway workers who lived in the small terrace houses in the area but now draws a wider clientele. The current name reflects the university boat race ? there was once a wreck of a Cambridge boat in the bar. The Blue has a spacious back garden with a rural feel. There's a large conservatory as well as simple bars with bare boards and masses of breweriana on the walls. It's a haven for beer lovers with 12 ever-changing cask beers plus a vast range of Belgian and American bottled beers. Landlords Terri and Jethro stage regular beer festivals.

? 85 Gwydir Street, off Mill Road. + 44 (0)1223 471680. the-cambridgeblue.co.uk

Chester

The Mill

The Mill stands alongside the Shropshire Union Canal and you can watch boats passing from the bar ? the hotel can arrange canal trips and "real ale cruises". Excellent accommodation is available, but there's none of the "will you be eating with us?" pressure: visitors and locals are welcome to use the spacious bar as a pub. And what a pub! There are 15 cask beers on offer, including mild ale and two house beers, Mill Premium and Cornmill, brewed by Coach House and Phoenix breweries. The Mill was originally a corn mill and has been in the hands of the Vickers family for 21 years. It's a splendid base for touring the historic delights of Chester.

? Milton Street. + 44 (0)1244 350035. millhotel.com

Penzance

The Pirate Inn
This really is a rural pub in the town, a granite inn converted from a 17th-century farmhouse in the 1950s. There's a large beer garden and shade is provided by many trees and shrubs while buses stop outside the entrance. The lounge has an impressive stone fireplace and raised dining area: the food is recommended. Real West Country cider is drawn from casks in the cellar while the cask beers include two from Cornwall: Sharp's Doom Bar and Skinner's Betty Stogs.

? Alverton Road. + 44 (0)1736 366094. thepirateinnpenzance.co.uk

? The Good Beer Guide 2010 is published by Camra on September 10 at £14.99. Roger Protz's website is beer-pages.com