Our 9.24am train trip to York from Edinburgh was taken in the company of a host of Newcastle United fans lagering up for the big home match with Leicester later that day. Fortunately they were in the next but one carriage, and closer to the buffet than us, should their store run dry. Six ample ladies ensconced nearby were Eating for Britain ~ Well, it had been two hours since they last had tasted breakfast tatties and pudding.
The silver-liveried Eastcoast train terminating at Kings Cross flew by fields and stone walls at 90mph leaving M1 traffic in its' wake. Sorry about the mixed transport terminology. White sheep, black sheep, white sheep with black faces, brown sheep with white faces, you get the idea..., grazed on rolling and tumbling Herriot hills reminiscent of every BBC rural series you have seen. As we slowed to navigate a rural Yorkshire siding a faded green sign suggested Hadrian's Wall was nearby.
The five nice English ladies in the adjacent seats, having exhausted their conversation, picked up their reading material. "Well!, Who would have thought that?. According to Best magazine, "Dawn French has a new lover!. Pass the crisps will you Jane?." Outside a crop of peas pumped nitrogen back into the soil, and fly fishermen in green waders cast their lines upon swiftly running shallows beneath a miniature harbour bridge.
Approaching Newcastle, fields gave way to business parks, hire centres and wasteland pile with refuse. "Aye, thar's brass in muck!" Vacant pigeon coops and Geordie graffiti assumed prominence as we rolled into Newcastle's outer burbs. A host of bridges jammed with traffic crossed the Tyne just before the station.
"Controversial, Compelling, Confronting!" threatened the sign promoting football legend Roy Keanes's biography. The same could be said for the departing soccer hooligans who yahoo-ed and kicked a Tennent's can along the platform, narrowing missing a porter pushing a trolley laden with fresh supplies of Corkers Crisps and Yorkie Bars.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Monday, October 20, 2014
Edinburgh
Edinburgh
Mission accomplished!. We have returned the hire car despite the GPS giving up the task just around the corner from the depot. Meeting a hire car deadline in an unfamiliar city is one of life's more uncomfortable crisis. Thankfully our hotel had advised us to look for the multi-storey carpark just past Waverley Station.
Our trip from Pitlochry was memorable following our determination to take any road but the A9. The minor road leading us over the high passes of Perthshire took us by breathtaking scenery and past a laird's pheasant shoot at Grandtully complete with beaters. Penny asked for a photo to be taken of her at the Crieff town sign because she knows Crieff is significant to her family. She just doesn't know why. As is traditional, we stopped for more coffee and cake at the Waterford Crystal shop where we feared the car would be swallowed by deep, still potholes.
We visited Stirling Castle on one of the few inclement days we have experienced. It was cold, windy and magnificent up on the summit overlooking Stirling and the battlegrounds that determined Scotland's history. After a slight detour, that included another potholed suburban wasteland, we exited the city for Edinburgh. Our side trip to Dunfermline was disappointing as we were unable to locate the street in which Penny's grandparents had lived prior to emigrating to Australia.
The hire car behind us, we bypassed Edinburgh's thousand steps to The Royal Mile and ducked into the second pub, The Malt Shovel on Cockburn Street, for a refresher or two. A street blackboard promoting another Edinburgh pub crawl had the following request: "Dear Americans, While in Edinburgh, please refrain from saying Sp**k or Fanny and try not to pronounce Cockburn Street." Our barmaid Elspeth has informed me that citizens of Edinburgh are called Edinburgers. She also said she used to work at Mooseheads!.
No trip to Scotland is complete without plenty of haggis, neeps and tatties (haggis, mashed turnips and potatoes). After all, you need a solid foundation if you are intent on sampling every single malt known to man. Above our table a sign read "There are 2 things a Highlander likes naked, and one is malt whiskey!." I have found however, that the odd whiskey may require dilution eg Oban, with it's hint of the sea requires a rock or two. Dalwhinney, on the other hand is "roon" if it should come into contact with H2O.
It might appear to be a cliche but no one with Scots roots can fail to be moved by the skirl of bagpipes. Yes, it's the equivalent of street magicians, and they're there to make money from passersby, but the sight and sound of a piper in full clan kit complete with dirk got my burn water running. Young Angus in a blue McEwan kilt stood in a prominent spot on Edinburgh's Royal Mile and blew up a storm. His only competition for the tourist penny was from the most blatant beggar we have encountered who sat directly next to the Bank of Scotland ATM!
As arranged, Kim and Penny were sitting outside Briddie Maloney's at a corner on Grassmarket enjoying a refresher and a performance from a talented busker. Despite amplification, his voice was soon inaudible due to the Irish girls who had come to Edinburgh for a raucous hen's night. The bride, who wore a blow up horse, ran round and round the bar accompanied by her girlfriends who sported blinking jockey caps. Their escapades were encouraged by the boys in the bar and ignored by the bouncer who had seen far worse. Time would tell.
Mission accomplished!. We have returned the hire car despite the GPS giving up the task just around the corner from the depot. Meeting a hire car deadline in an unfamiliar city is one of life's more uncomfortable crisis. Thankfully our hotel had advised us to look for the multi-storey carpark just past Waverley Station.
Our trip from Pitlochry was memorable following our determination to take any road but the A9. The minor road leading us over the high passes of Perthshire took us by breathtaking scenery and past a laird's pheasant shoot at Grandtully complete with beaters. Penny asked for a photo to be taken of her at the Crieff town sign because she knows Crieff is significant to her family. She just doesn't know why. As is traditional, we stopped for more coffee and cake at the Waterford Crystal shop where we feared the car would be swallowed by deep, still potholes.
We visited Stirling Castle on one of the few inclement days we have experienced. It was cold, windy and magnificent up on the summit overlooking Stirling and the battlegrounds that determined Scotland's history. After a slight detour, that included another potholed suburban wasteland, we exited the city for Edinburgh. Our side trip to Dunfermline was disappointing as we were unable to locate the street in which Penny's grandparents had lived prior to emigrating to Australia.
The hire car behind us, we bypassed Edinburgh's thousand steps to The Royal Mile and ducked into the second pub, The Malt Shovel on Cockburn Street, for a refresher or two. A street blackboard promoting another Edinburgh pub crawl had the following request: "Dear Americans, While in Edinburgh, please refrain from saying Sp**k or Fanny and try not to pronounce Cockburn Street." Our barmaid Elspeth has informed me that citizens of Edinburgh are called Edinburgers. She also said she used to work at Mooseheads!.
No trip to Scotland is complete without plenty of haggis, neeps and tatties (haggis, mashed turnips and potatoes). After all, you need a solid foundation if you are intent on sampling every single malt known to man. Above our table a sign read "There are 2 things a Highlander likes naked, and one is malt whiskey!." I have found however, that the odd whiskey may require dilution eg Oban, with it's hint of the sea requires a rock or two. Dalwhinney, on the other hand is "roon" if it should come into contact with H2O.
It might appear to be a cliche but no one with Scots roots can fail to be moved by the skirl of bagpipes. Yes, it's the equivalent of street magicians, and they're there to make money from passersby, but the sight and sound of a piper in full clan kit complete with dirk got my burn water running. Young Angus in a blue McEwan kilt stood in a prominent spot on Edinburgh's Royal Mile and blew up a storm. His only competition for the tourist penny was from the most blatant beggar we have encountered who sat directly next to the Bank of Scotland ATM!
As arranged, Kim and Penny were sitting outside Briddie Maloney's at a corner on Grassmarket enjoying a refresher and a performance from a talented busker. Despite amplification, his voice was soon inaudible due to the Irish girls who had come to Edinburgh for a raucous hen's night. The bride, who wore a blow up horse, ran round and round the bar accompanied by her girlfriends who sported blinking jockey caps. Their escapades were encouraged by the boys in the bar and ignored by the bouncer who had seen far worse. Time would tell.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Highland Perthshire
It is said that "A man's home is his castle." In Scotland a man's home sometimes is a castle, and for those without a hereditary pile or title, the next best thing is to build a home resembling a castle. Castles lined the road out of Pitlochry as we passed by the Linn of Tummel Trail at the bridge over the River Garry.
Having heard big wraps about The Queen's View, we stopped en-route to wherever we were headed, and parked at the spot where Queen Victoria once took tea in 1866. Being The Queen, Victoria assumed the scenic spot was named for her. Pity help the poor underling who may have had the temerity to suggest the title was named after a previous queen, Isabella the first wife of Robert the Bruce. The walls of the tea room were inscribed with other historical facts and numerous musings, with one being a silhouette of QV entering the WC facilities and labelled "One might want to go." Outside another silhouette pictured QV posting a letter under the protection of an umbrella held by good and faithful servant John Brown.
Massive lichen covered trees, that rarely felt the sun's rays, grew up out of the steep slopes next to our road to Tummel Bridge which presented another of those interminable Highland photo opportunities. We drove along the roller coaster B847 past fat sheep and more faux stone castles complete with twiddly bits on gables, until passing under a massive stone bridge and autumnal canopy of larch and oak at Struan. We now know where many of the names of Australian towns originated.
We bypassed The House of Bruan with its' high priced fashion statements and tour buses and lunched nearby at The Atholl Arms at Blair Atholl. Seated near the raging fire, I enjoyed a lentil and vegetable soup that now ranks in my top ten potages. Hearty, and full of flavour and flatulance. We have only once broken the unbroken rule ~ "Never drink at the first pub you see" ~ once! To our detriment, the pub lunch yesterday at McKenzies Hotel was not up to the Scottish standard we have come to expect. Still it was cheap and the walls around the faded pool table featured album covers by Scots hit makers.
As you travel rounds Scotland , the difference between the Shires is striking. The denuded mountain tops and cliff-lined lochs of the West Highlands, the stark bare mountains of the Isles and The Cairngormes, and the autumnal splendour of Perthshire. Another continuing feature of Northern Perthshire are the dead pheasants littering the roads. Bloody pheasants! Still, if we can't find a pub we could survive on road kill.
Having heard big wraps about The Queen's View, we stopped en-route to wherever we were headed, and parked at the spot where Queen Victoria once took tea in 1866. Being The Queen, Victoria assumed the scenic spot was named for her. Pity help the poor underling who may have had the temerity to suggest the title was named after a previous queen, Isabella the first wife of Robert the Bruce. The walls of the tea room were inscribed with other historical facts and numerous musings, with one being a silhouette of QV entering the WC facilities and labelled "One might want to go." Outside another silhouette pictured QV posting a letter under the protection of an umbrella held by good and faithful servant John Brown.
Massive lichen covered trees, that rarely felt the sun's rays, grew up out of the steep slopes next to our road to Tummel Bridge which presented another of those interminable Highland photo opportunities. We drove along the roller coaster B847 past fat sheep and more faux stone castles complete with twiddly bits on gables, until passing under a massive stone bridge and autumnal canopy of larch and oak at Struan. We now know where many of the names of Australian towns originated.
We bypassed The House of Bruan with its' high priced fashion statements and tour buses and lunched nearby at The Atholl Arms at Blair Atholl. Seated near the raging fire, I enjoyed a lentil and vegetable soup that now ranks in my top ten potages. Hearty, and full of flavour and flatulance. We have only once broken the unbroken rule ~ "Never drink at the first pub you see" ~ once! To our detriment, the pub lunch yesterday at McKenzies Hotel was not up to the Scottish standard we have come to expect. Still it was cheap and the walls around the faded pool table featured album covers by Scots hit makers.
As you travel rounds Scotland , the difference between the Shires is striking. The denuded mountain tops and cliff-lined lochs of the West Highlands, the stark bare mountains of the Isles and The Cairngormes, and the autumnal splendour of Perthshire. Another continuing feature of Northern Perthshire are the dead pheasants littering the roads. Bloody pheasants! Still, if we can't find a pub we could survive on road kill.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
The Jacobite Train to Mallaig and Back
"My ticket says Carriage G, Seats 11 and 12 B and F." B and F? Backwards and Forwards of course!. Despite a small problem of double booking, the Jacobite Train departed on schedule at 10.15am from Fort William.
At Banavie we passed over Neptune's Staircase where a boat was perched in a lock high above the rail line awaiting passage to Loch Locky. "Here comes the refreshment trolley." "Where's the Witches' hat, butter beer and Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans?." We have to make do with Snickers and coffee delivered by Neil in a t-shirt labelled "Roll n Stock Buffet." By carriage G, the catering thermos had almost emptied, and as Neil lifted the container and dribbled the remaining tea, he told a story. Two linguistic professors, one Spanish and one Gaelic, were having a discussion. "Is there a Gaelic word equivalent to Mañana?." "Och nae! We don't have a word to discuss such haste."
Passing grand views of coastal scenes, we arrived at Mallaig for our 90 minute stopover. Exiting the station we noticed a number of passengers were wearing Hogwarts' costumes and accessories, in some cases whole families had assumed the characters of Griffindor pupils and staff, complete with wands!. There's not a lot to be said for Mallaig, and they must be dreading the end of the train season. The sea ferry to The Isle of Skye doesn't draw tourists like The Jacobite service. Once we had lunched and visited the wharf we headed back to occupy our seats. A trip to the second hand book revealed whole shelves of JK Rowling's ouvre on sale.
Our worst fears have been confirmed. The horrible English woman and her pliant husband "Tony?, Tony?!, Tony!!!", have been placed nearer to us than on the outward journey. If we had Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans we could put them in our ears. Perhaps that's how they developed the earwax flavour?. Carriage G has been promoted and we are now coupled to the steaming black engine "The Lancashire Fusiliar". "Chuff, Chuff!." Being this close to the funnel means our carriage doesn't fill with smoke unlike the outward journey. Train spotting tragics with zoom lenses continue to take snapshots from roadways and rocky outcrops.
Oops, we spoke too soon ~ as we entered a low tunnel coal dust and smoke filled our carriage. The Japanese tourist in the adjacent seat fixed his camera setting to smog and pulled up his face mask. "Tony, this clue in Friday's Telegraph is wrong." "There aren't enough spaces for my answer!."
Ben Nevis loomed up ahead as we approached Fort Wiliam. As we disembarked, the engine driver and stoker waved and grinned through grimy faces as they steamed past.
At Banavie we passed over Neptune's Staircase where a boat was perched in a lock high above the rail line awaiting passage to Loch Locky. "Here comes the refreshment trolley." "Where's the Witches' hat, butter beer and Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans?." We have to make do with Snickers and coffee delivered by Neil in a t-shirt labelled "Roll n Stock Buffet." By carriage G, the catering thermos had almost emptied, and as Neil lifted the container and dribbled the remaining tea, he told a story. Two linguistic professors, one Spanish and one Gaelic, were having a discussion. "Is there a Gaelic word equivalent to Mañana?." "Och nae! We don't have a word to discuss such haste."
Passing grand views of coastal scenes, we arrived at Mallaig for our 90 minute stopover. Exiting the station we noticed a number of passengers were wearing Hogwarts' costumes and accessories, in some cases whole families had assumed the characters of Griffindor pupils and staff, complete with wands!. There's not a lot to be said for Mallaig, and they must be dreading the end of the train season. The sea ferry to The Isle of Skye doesn't draw tourists like The Jacobite service. Once we had lunched and visited the wharf we headed back to occupy our seats. A trip to the second hand book revealed whole shelves of JK Rowling's ouvre on sale.
Our worst fears have been confirmed. The horrible English woman and her pliant husband "Tony?, Tony?!, Tony!!!", have been placed nearer to us than on the outward journey. If we had Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans we could put them in our ears. Perhaps that's how they developed the earwax flavour?. Carriage G has been promoted and we are now coupled to the steaming black engine "The Lancashire Fusiliar". "Chuff, Chuff!." Being this close to the funnel means our carriage doesn't fill with smoke unlike the outward journey. Train spotting tragics with zoom lenses continue to take snapshots from roadways and rocky outcrops.
Oops, we spoke too soon ~ as we entered a low tunnel coal dust and smoke filled our carriage. The Japanese tourist in the adjacent seat fixed his camera setting to smog and pulled up his face mask. "Tony, this clue in Friday's Telegraph is wrong." "There aren't enough spaces for my answer!."
Ben Nevis loomed up ahead as we approached Fort Wiliam. As we disembarked, the engine driver and stoker waved and grinned through grimy faces as they steamed past.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Portobello Road and Piccadilly
It's official, autumn in Europe has been postponed. I'm thinking of writing a letter to the French and British governments to complain that I am lugging around unworn winter woollies. I am also tempted to follow the path of many other compatriots and wear our national dress of shorts and thongs. Whilst awaiting service on Eurostar standing next to a young bloke in boardies and Ripcurl t-shirt, the bar attendant picked our nationality before we opened our mouths. Aussies are everywhere!
We made arrangements to meet Chris and Paulette in Notting Hill for lunch in Portobello Road, and having negotiated the combative antique dealers and boutiques, popped into The Castle pub. Having previously suffered only minor damage to our wallets en route, we commenced to expend some serious money on food and drink. A round of 2 large white wines, a double G&T and 2 pints of ale left only change from £30. Fish and chips with mushy peas was a further £11.99 per serve. London ain't cheap!
You made a good decision coming here on Friday said the shopgirl in Ben Sherman, Tomorrow will be manic here!. That's true, everyday street traffic in London is heavy and as the weekend approaches even heavier, as evident by the Regent Street crowd as we emerged from Oxford Circus tube station. Let's go to Liberty, said Paulette, worrying her bank manager even more. If you are intent on some classy retail therapy, Liberty is the place to go. Tricked up to resemble a Victorian era establishment, customers can spend thousands of pounds, or only £2.50 on toast tongs as we did!. Every home should have a pair.
Chris' London travel app indicated we were only minutes from Carnaby Street, one of my bucket list entries. Friday night drinkers spilt out of crowded pubs onto the roadway, as we passed under the sign announcing our arrival in Swinging London. To be frank, it was a bit of a disappointment, with half the street occupied by fast food shops. Shopping bags proclaimed Pret a Manger and EE rather than I Was Lord Kitchener's Valet.
Developing a thirst, we pressed on through the crowds milling around Leicester Square and London's theatre heart near Covent Garden. By-passing Chinatown and various casinos, we headed along Charing Cross Road, intently searching for number 44, and into Jambon Jambon, a tapas bar. I was quite impressed, having been in Spain in the past month as the Patatas bravas, chillies and tortilla match those I had previously enjoyed.
Replete, we farewell Chris and Paulette hopping aboard the 87 Routemaster, and selected Leicester Square underground for the trip home via Chalk Farm.
We made arrangements to meet Chris and Paulette in Notting Hill for lunch in Portobello Road, and having negotiated the combative antique dealers and boutiques, popped into The Castle pub. Having previously suffered only minor damage to our wallets en route, we commenced to expend some serious money on food and drink. A round of 2 large white wines, a double G&T and 2 pints of ale left only change from £30. Fish and chips with mushy peas was a further £11.99 per serve. London ain't cheap!
You made a good decision coming here on Friday said the shopgirl in Ben Sherman, Tomorrow will be manic here!. That's true, everyday street traffic in London is heavy and as the weekend approaches even heavier, as evident by the Regent Street crowd as we emerged from Oxford Circus tube station. Let's go to Liberty, said Paulette, worrying her bank manager even more. If you are intent on some classy retail therapy, Liberty is the place to go. Tricked up to resemble a Victorian era establishment, customers can spend thousands of pounds, or only £2.50 on toast tongs as we did!. Every home should have a pair.
Chris' London travel app indicated we were only minutes from Carnaby Street, one of my bucket list entries. Friday night drinkers spilt out of crowded pubs onto the roadway, as we passed under the sign announcing our arrival in Swinging London. To be frank, it was a bit of a disappointment, with half the street occupied by fast food shops. Shopping bags proclaimed Pret a Manger and EE rather than I Was Lord Kitchener's Valet.
Developing a thirst, we pressed on through the crowds milling around Leicester Square and London's theatre heart near Covent Garden. By-passing Chinatown and various casinos, we headed along Charing Cross Road, intently searching for number 44, and into Jambon Jambon, a tapas bar. I was quite impressed, having been in Spain in the past month as the Patatas bravas, chillies and tortilla match those I had previously enjoyed.
Replete, we farewell Chris and Paulette hopping aboard the 87 Routemaster, and selected Leicester Square underground for the trip home via Chalk Farm.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Le Marais in the Morning
As today is our last jour complet, here are some observances about every day life in Le Marais prior to après-midi. Prior to departing, I opened the double glazing and let Paris in. Opposite at No. 9, residents have tied Monoprix and Carrefour bags to their ornate Juliet balconies to discourage pigeons. Below, the hoarding hiding the shop renovations continues to be updated with the daily poster billing. Yesterday's Taylor Swift is today's Karl Largerfeld. Below at Cafe Carrefour, bamboo chair legs scrape on bitumen and tips clink on table tops.
In response to my cheery bonjour!, Kim merely turns and pulls the blanket up over her shoulder. Our day at Versailles and our contretemps with the rail schedules seems to have taken its toll. One visit to Versailles is worth a thousand lectures on the origin of the French Revolution. We take lunch at Cafe Angeline dining in an anti chamber previously occupied by Marie Antoinette's chambermaids. Yes, we ate cake!
Exiting our apartment, I jump clear as cleansing water pours from two holes above the gutter and sweeps yesterday's debris away. Amidst the torrent a brewery truck advises we should drink in moderation as it delivers kegs of Kronenberg to our local bar Le Bouquet Des Archives where Happy Hour prices apply from 17.00 to 20.00. Nearby is the Open corner bar that appears to restrict clientele to males.
Opposite, parents are escorting their children to Ville De Paris Ecole Maternelle, our local infants school. A crèche is around the corner according to the lollipop lady in fluro, who brings the traffic to a stop three times a day. Pity she doesn't work during Happy Hour when pedestrians and bicyclists constantly cheat death.
I drink an early morning espresso at Le Chinon corner bar on Rue Des Francs Bourgois. To my left a business man and his female colleague chat over Americains (long blacks) accompanied by glasses of water to dilute the coffee. To my right, a woman dips pieces of her Pain du Raisin into her cafe creme and brushes crumbs off her briefcase. Beer taps set into the zinc top bar are partnered by a water fountain used to rinse glasses. Outside, two African women in colourful dresses step onto the pedestrian crossing after looking both ways.
Venturing deeper into the back streets, I pass darkened boutiques named Berenice and April, May that tempt passersby with subtle lighting of next seasons' fashions. Tall elegant women with straight backs and high heels glance hauntingly as they peddle by with phones clamped to their ears.
At Bar Perle, an old woman tears the wrapping off a fresh packet of cigarettes as the waiter delivers her coffee.
In response to my cheery bonjour!, Kim merely turns and pulls the blanket up over her shoulder. Our day at Versailles and our contretemps with the rail schedules seems to have taken its toll. One visit to Versailles is worth a thousand lectures on the origin of the French Revolution. We take lunch at Cafe Angeline dining in an anti chamber previously occupied by Marie Antoinette's chambermaids. Yes, we ate cake!
Exiting our apartment, I jump clear as cleansing water pours from two holes above the gutter and sweeps yesterday's debris away. Amidst the torrent a brewery truck advises we should drink in moderation as it delivers kegs of Kronenberg to our local bar Le Bouquet Des Archives where Happy Hour prices apply from 17.00 to 20.00. Nearby is the Open corner bar that appears to restrict clientele to males.
Opposite, parents are escorting their children to Ville De Paris Ecole Maternelle, our local infants school. A crèche is around the corner according to the lollipop lady in fluro, who brings the traffic to a stop three times a day. Pity she doesn't work during Happy Hour when pedestrians and bicyclists constantly cheat death.
I drink an early morning espresso at Le Chinon corner bar on Rue Des Francs Bourgois. To my left a business man and his female colleague chat over Americains (long blacks) accompanied by glasses of water to dilute the coffee. To my right, a woman dips pieces of her Pain du Raisin into her cafe creme and brushes crumbs off her briefcase. Beer taps set into the zinc top bar are partnered by a water fountain used to rinse glasses. Outside, two African women in colourful dresses step onto the pedestrian crossing after looking both ways.
Venturing deeper into the back streets, I pass darkened boutiques named Berenice and April, May that tempt passersby with subtle lighting of next seasons' fashions. Tall elegant women with straight backs and high heels glance hauntingly as they peddle by with phones clamped to their ears.
At Bar Perle, an old woman tears the wrapping off a fresh packet of cigarettes as the waiter delivers her coffee.
Monday, September 29, 2014
A Day of Rest
It's 6.55pm on Sunday in Le Marais. A silver Mercedes Benz taxi pulls up on a pedestrian crossing at the intersection below, puts on his hazard lights, and ..... Stops!. Pedestrians just walk around. Many weren't using the intersection anyway. Cigarette smoke drifts up from Cafe Carrefour as a bicyclist meanders by in the wrong direction. Down Rue De la Verrerie prospective customers continue to line up behind barriers awaiting entry to the sale at Bazar Hotel De Ville ~ 40% Off - 6 Jours!
Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest and conviviality with family and friends, or so we thought. Why then did we complete one of the higher levels of step exercise on a warm Parisian autumn day. I blame it on the closure of pink Metro Line 7 concluding at Villejulf - Louis Aragon. Normally it is a short hop with minimal changes to Place Monge and Rue Mouffetard, one of Paris' oldest streets and a gourmet paradise, however we took the long way round via Bastille and Cardinal Lemoine where we encountered steep slopes and minimal shade. A cooling drink at the bistro opposite the markets at Place Monge was most welcome.
A jazz combo of three progressed our walk along Quai De La Tournelle as we headed home via Isle De France and the Notre Dame where pitiful gypsies held out paper cups and mewled at indifferent pilgrims. A trio of acrobats entertained people in the place next to the Hotel De Ville and encouraged Sunday participation.
Ensconced once again in our apartment, I opened our second floor window to observe the Bon Soirée.
A tattooed pair of rockabillies consult their map and return the way they have come. An Orthodox Jew in black studiously ignores the entwined bald gay couple as he heads towards Rue Des Rosiers
for his post-Sabbatical falafel fix. From my vantage point high above the rampant rues, only The Go-Betweens Streets Of Your Town and the clink of pastis came be heard.
Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest and conviviality with family and friends, or so we thought. Why then did we complete one of the higher levels of step exercise on a warm Parisian autumn day. I blame it on the closure of pink Metro Line 7 concluding at Villejulf - Louis Aragon. Normally it is a short hop with minimal changes to Place Monge and Rue Mouffetard, one of Paris' oldest streets and a gourmet paradise, however we took the long way round via Bastille and Cardinal Lemoine where we encountered steep slopes and minimal shade. A cooling drink at the bistro opposite the markets at Place Monge was most welcome.
A jazz combo of three progressed our walk along Quai De La Tournelle as we headed home via Isle De France and the Notre Dame where pitiful gypsies held out paper cups and mewled at indifferent pilgrims. A trio of acrobats entertained people in the place next to the Hotel De Ville and encouraged Sunday participation.
Ensconced once again in our apartment, I opened our second floor window to observe the Bon Soirée.
A tattooed pair of rockabillies consult their map and return the way they have come. An Orthodox Jew in black studiously ignores the entwined bald gay couple as he heads towards Rue Des Rosiers
for his post-Sabbatical falafel fix. From my vantage point high above the rampant rues, only The Go-Betweens Streets Of Your Town and the clink of pastis came be heard.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Paris Pavements
Amazing!. Le Marais is fresh with washed pavements early on Sunday morning. It is hard to believe only hours ago, Rue Des Archives was a raucous hub-bub knee deep in cigarettes and gay bars. The Boulangerie and fruit shops are opening and fresh ice is being packed into the display cases at the poissonairie on Rue Rambiteau. A little chien on a leash is perched over a napkin as he does his doo doo for his mistress. The French adore their dogs and any under 45cm are permitted on public transport.
En route to the Boulangerie, I came across a gentleman of undistinguished age transporting homewares down the now empty street. A bric-a-brac market in Place Bxxxxxx is being established with dealer's domains marked out in whitewash. Crash! A precariously placed chandelier replete with green candles falls to the pavement. Merde! Nearby a perturbed woman was looking up at the street signs, before consulting a map extracted from le sac labelled Emotional Baggage.
Our arrival in Paris was memorable with our taxi from Orly depositing us outside our accommodation right in the middle of this city's hotspot. We occupied a table at our local bar located adjacent to No.8, Rue Des Archives and awaited our contact. Upon inspection, we made clear our displeasure at the apartment's state of un-preparedness, and left for Gare De Nord to pick up Penny. Taxis arrived on a regular basis and we were directed to the nearest with the driver indicating we three should occupy the narrow rear seat. Unable to decipher the printed address, and thinking he had us at his mercy, he said 30 Euro. Whoops, bad move!. Kim savaged him stating a trip from Gare Du Nord to Le Maraise was not worth that and we would get out of his taxi tout suite!. He suddenly became very inventive and began negotiating busy Saturday traffic resulting in a fare of 22€ including baggage handling.
En route to the Boulangerie, I came across a gentleman of undistinguished age transporting homewares down the now empty street. A bric-a-brac market in Place Bxxxxxx is being established with dealer's domains marked out in whitewash. Crash! A precariously placed chandelier replete with green candles falls to the pavement. Merde! Nearby a perturbed woman was looking up at the street signs, before consulting a map extracted from le sac labelled Emotional Baggage.
Our arrival in Paris was memorable with our taxi from Orly depositing us outside our accommodation right in the middle of this city's hotspot. We occupied a table at our local bar located adjacent to No.8, Rue Des Archives and awaited our contact. Upon inspection, we made clear our displeasure at the apartment's state of un-preparedness, and left for Gare De Nord to pick up Penny. Taxis arrived on a regular basis and we were directed to the nearest with the driver indicating we three should occupy the narrow rear seat. Unable to decipher the printed address, and thinking he had us at his mercy, he said 30 Euro. Whoops, bad move!. Kim savaged him stating a trip from Gare Du Nord to Le Maraise was not worth that and we would get out of his taxi tout suite!. He suddenly became very inventive and began negotiating busy Saturday traffic resulting in a fare of 22€ including baggage handling.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Bearn Pays Basque
In Autumn, the Pyrenean sun rises about 8, just as the Lapadu household stirs. Our resident brown eagle takes flight from the corn crop as the first rays appear. Post first cuppa, I farewell Genevieve et Jim who are off to Bordeaux for the day, in contrast to other inhabitants who have only recently hit le sac.
Chris makes an early run into Salies-De-Berne to drop off last night's empties, and to pick up fresh baguettes from the Boulangerie. The amount of bread you eat in France is staggering. Slathered with butter, covered in rillettes pur canard and saumon, or simply mopping up sauces, pain is essential! Alicia has promised to make another post-dejeuner run on bicycle to obtain fresh loaves.
A temporary blackout occurred last night just as Paulette was about to take the roast lamb out of the too-small kitchen oven ~ fortunately someone had the smartphone torch app available. Considering the amount of juice required to power the phones, tablets, iPods and laptops present, a power failure is hardly surprising. Surf, rap, rock and everything in between fill the parlours, dining rooms, lounges and kitchens. Once normal service had resumed we carried bottles, condiments and fragrant platters of food into the dining room converted from a barn.
Our appetites were considerable after a day's jaunt to the pleasure palaces of Biarritz and Saint-Jean-De-Luz. The distance rapidly diminishes with the Citroen Picasso pushed up to the tollway limit of 130km. If that's the limit, why are we being overtaken by all manner of vehicles? Fortunately semis are restricted to the slower right-hand lane. I park our silver SUV in the car park under the Casino
and we emerge from the smelly stairwell just opposite the main beach. The gardens separating the roadway from Le Plage abound with bounteous hydrangeas and lead down to the paving where
garçons jejune are attempting to kill themselves on skateboards. Colourful caravans offering Glaces bound each end of the promenade.
Espadrilles rule if today is any indication, with nautical apparel favoured by young and ancient. Biarritz sand is gritty near the seawall becoming finer as the surf is approached. Coogee
comes to mind with waves breaking on Cupcake Island. Barzura is replaced by Le Casino where patrons lounge self consciously paying double for views of the ocean.
The traffic trawl to St Jean De Luz is taken via a B road over topography akin to Barrenjoey Road. The peculiar architecture style based on the Swiss farmhouse assures you however that you're
not on Sydney's northern peninsula. St Jean De Luz however is charming with narrow medieval streets leading up to the retaining sea wall and wide sandy beach. Following shopping for dessert cakes and more jambon, we plonk ourselves down at a table at Bar de la Marine and order drinks. Alicia enquiries as to whether we could purchase some snacks despite it not being diner. Now you
could say it was our plaintive looks, or Romauld (our waiter) and his kind heart, but it was probably Alicia's Wiley charms that result in a platter of sliced ham and forbidden cheese appearing soon after. Some girls, really!
Quotation of the day from Paulette: Thankfully Rose is cheaper than diesel!
One of the pleasures of being on holiday is appreciation of the everyday and mundane. Abroad, even a normally onerous task like washing up is pleasurable when surrounded by foreign fixtures and flora. As stated on the label of the Lipton's tea package Enjoy the moment!.
Chris makes an early run into Salies-De-Berne to drop off last night's empties, and to pick up fresh baguettes from the Boulangerie. The amount of bread you eat in France is staggering. Slathered with butter, covered in rillettes pur canard and saumon, or simply mopping up sauces, pain is essential! Alicia has promised to make another post-dejeuner run on bicycle to obtain fresh loaves.
A temporary blackout occurred last night just as Paulette was about to take the roast lamb out of the too-small kitchen oven ~ fortunately someone had the smartphone torch app available. Considering the amount of juice required to power the phones, tablets, iPods and laptops present, a power failure is hardly surprising. Surf, rap, rock and everything in between fill the parlours, dining rooms, lounges and kitchens. Once normal service had resumed we carried bottles, condiments and fragrant platters of food into the dining room converted from a barn.
Our appetites were considerable after a day's jaunt to the pleasure palaces of Biarritz and Saint-Jean-De-Luz. The distance rapidly diminishes with the Citroen Picasso pushed up to the tollway limit of 130km. If that's the limit, why are we being overtaken by all manner of vehicles? Fortunately semis are restricted to the slower right-hand lane. I park our silver SUV in the car park under the Casino
and we emerge from the smelly stairwell just opposite the main beach. The gardens separating the roadway from Le Plage abound with bounteous hydrangeas and lead down to the paving where
garçons jejune are attempting to kill themselves on skateboards. Colourful caravans offering Glaces bound each end of the promenade.
Espadrilles rule if today is any indication, with nautical apparel favoured by young and ancient. Biarritz sand is gritty near the seawall becoming finer as the surf is approached. Coogee
comes to mind with waves breaking on Cupcake Island. Barzura is replaced by Le Casino where patrons lounge self consciously paying double for views of the ocean.
The traffic trawl to St Jean De Luz is taken via a B road over topography akin to Barrenjoey Road. The peculiar architecture style based on the Swiss farmhouse assures you however that you're
not on Sydney's northern peninsula. St Jean De Luz however is charming with narrow medieval streets leading up to the retaining sea wall and wide sandy beach. Following shopping for dessert cakes and more jambon, we plonk ourselves down at a table at Bar de la Marine and order drinks. Alicia enquiries as to whether we could purchase some snacks despite it not being diner. Now you
could say it was our plaintive looks, or Romauld (our waiter) and his kind heart, but it was probably Alicia's Wiley charms that result in a platter of sliced ham and forbidden cheese appearing soon after. Some girls, really!
Quotation of the day from Paulette: Thankfully Rose is cheaper than diesel!
One of the pleasures of being on holiday is appreciation of the everyday and mundane. Abroad, even a normally onerous task like washing up is pleasurable when surrounded by foreign fixtures and flora. As stated on the label of the Lipton's tea package Enjoy the moment!.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
A Day At The Seaside
What a pleasant surprise!
Drawing on my limited knowledge of Brighton gleaned from cheeky postcards, Graham Green's "Brighton Rock" and The Who's "Quadrophenia", I expected the traditional view of a British seaside town. Stony beaches, soggy tea and cakes, and Brits wearing sandles with socks and hankies on their heads. There's no escaping it ~ Bondi Beach it's not!. Any Miss Marple murder set on the Brighton seafront will provide you with an accurate depiction, however this is not just a seaside town.
Disembarking at Brighton station and its soaring blue steel canopy, you encounter a pianist sitting at a bright community piano belting out jolly tunes. Holiday-makers mill about checking the time of their return ride before emerging at the top of the street and descending into a maze of alleys. Packed Brighton and Hove buses named after comedians dislodge customers too pooped to walk. Surprisingly, Brighton is quite large and built on hills packed with colourful terrace houses. Taking a lead from Andy, We wandered off gawking like greenhorns. All we needed was Erin holding a flag labelled "Muller Tours"!.
Tea shops, mod emporiums, arty agents and confectionary stores crowd the lanes and alleys that hide behind the hotel lined seafront. Lunchtime had arrived however, and sustenance more ribald that that available at Chockwockydoodah was required. Indicating the refreshment on offer just inside a number of the pubs and bars, Erin said that a quick tipple was possible, but that Andy's holiday attractions app indicated something more satisfying approached. "Follow me", He said as we headed off through the lush gardens that enclosed Brighton's Pavilion.
Andy had done his research. Away from the maddening crowd, we entered the Basketmaker's Arms on the corner at Cheltenham Place. Fabulous! Wow, I love this. An atmosphere redolent of the track resonated with members tickets adorning celebratory pint glasses. The Basketmaker's offered an extensive range of beverages including many cask conditioned ales from the George Gale Co. Brewery. I kicked off with a Horndean Special Brew on the recommendation of mine hostess Fiona. With such a range on offer, I enquired of the expert as to what we should sample in the second round. Having consulted, Fiona placed two pint glasses under separate spigots and ambidextrously tapped those kegs simultaneously. Now that's a good trick!
As for the food, Fabulous!. Fish, chips and mushy peas with a homemade tartare that kept you coming back for more. A generous fillet of locally sourced pollock coated in a HSB beer batter ensured the flesh remained piping hot. Erin's delayed order of arancini balls came with a half pint to compensate. Andy and I sampled another pint ach as we weren't driving ~ We'll leave that to the train driver!
Brighton Rocks!
Drawing on my limited knowledge of Brighton gleaned from cheeky postcards, Graham Green's "Brighton Rock" and The Who's "Quadrophenia", I expected the traditional view of a British seaside town. Stony beaches, soggy tea and cakes, and Brits wearing sandles with socks and hankies on their heads. There's no escaping it ~ Bondi Beach it's not!. Any Miss Marple murder set on the Brighton seafront will provide you with an accurate depiction, however this is not just a seaside town.
Disembarking at Brighton station and its soaring blue steel canopy, you encounter a pianist sitting at a bright community piano belting out jolly tunes. Holiday-makers mill about checking the time of their return ride before emerging at the top of the street and descending into a maze of alleys. Packed Brighton and Hove buses named after comedians dislodge customers too pooped to walk. Surprisingly, Brighton is quite large and built on hills packed with colourful terrace houses. Taking a lead from Andy, We wandered off gawking like greenhorns. All we needed was Erin holding a flag labelled "Muller Tours"!.
Tea shops, mod emporiums, arty agents and confectionary stores crowd the lanes and alleys that hide behind the hotel lined seafront. Lunchtime had arrived however, and sustenance more ribald that that available at Chockwockydoodah was required. Indicating the refreshment on offer just inside a number of the pubs and bars, Erin said that a quick tipple was possible, but that Andy's holiday attractions app indicated something more satisfying approached. "Follow me", He said as we headed off through the lush gardens that enclosed Brighton's Pavilion.
Andy had done his research. Away from the maddening crowd, we entered the Basketmaker's Arms on the corner at Cheltenham Place. Fabulous! Wow, I love this. An atmosphere redolent of the track resonated with members tickets adorning celebratory pint glasses. The Basketmaker's offered an extensive range of beverages including many cask conditioned ales from the George Gale Co. Brewery. I kicked off with a Horndean Special Brew on the recommendation of mine hostess Fiona. With such a range on offer, I enquired of the expert as to what we should sample in the second round. Having consulted, Fiona placed two pint glasses under separate spigots and ambidextrously tapped those kegs simultaneously. Now that's a good trick!
As for the food, Fabulous!. Fish, chips and mushy peas with a homemade tartare that kept you coming back for more. A generous fillet of locally sourced pollock coated in a HSB beer batter ensured the flesh remained piping hot. Erin's delayed order of arancini balls came with a half pint to compensate. Andy and I sampled another pint ach as we weren't driving ~ We'll leave that to the train driver!
Brighton Rocks!
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Sunday at Old Spitalfields Markets
The line approaching The Breakfast Club was overwhelmingly Gen X or Y. Whatever, we were in the minority. Dark clouds started to drizzle as we made the sheltering doorway leading into one of London's culinary hotspots. Erin had hinted this was a great place to have brunch, and she was spot on!
Pulled pork burgers and major glasses of Bloody Mary's were favoured, and with good reason ~ they were worth the wait. A small squadron of obliging waitresses buzz about delivering dishes to chattering crowded tables. We hadn't spotted any celebrities as yet, but as we were new to London, they may have been present. A dead ringer for Harold sat adjacent at a multicultural table and licked his knife in appreciation ~ I imagine Kumar was searching for a White Castle outlet.*
Public displays of lascivious behaviour were on display nearby at Old Spitalfields Market, where engaging couples tangoed sensuously. Beguiled, I hurried to catch up with the others who had moved on for some retail therapy. "Not so fast, I want to look in here!". A smart display of bespoke clothing lured me into a shop where a young man commented favourably on my shirt ~ "That's a nice piece of tailoring, Sir". They're crafty, these London merchants, they lure unsuspecting people into their establishments with compliments and try to sell you something. "Thanks", I replied, " I had it made in Hong Kong". We engaged in some sartorial banter for a while, before Kim came back and dragged me away. "I'll be back" ~ "I'll look forward to that Sir".
Erin and Penny had hidden themselves amongst the racks of clothing and accessories crowding the Market floor, and we discovered them examining jewellery at a stall adjacent to another selling
headwear. I tried on a genuine Sherlock Holmes deerstalker in a fetching rural hue, and was just about to tie the earmuffs down when Kim threatened me with divorce if I proceeded. She's such a party-pooper!. Agreeing on a time and place, we split up and headed off to pursue our whims.
Despite some serious culling of our holiday wardrobe, we are closing on our baggage limit and careful thought must be given to any additional purchases. I kept this in mind as I resisted appealing hand-printed pop art t-shirts, vintage doorknobs and books at bargain prices. What willpower I possess. The second hand ticked slowly on a collectable Kinks single converted into a wall clock. "But that's on the Pye label!" I protested. "I wish I had a pound for every time someone said that", replied the surly young stall holder. I believe he needs re-training, ..... and a good horse whipping.
Exiting the tube at Embankment, Erin directed us across the Golden Jubilee Bridge towards the concluding Festival of Love, just as the Tour of Britain peloton flashed by. A cockney photographer barked instructions at a generously proportioned wedding couple who parted the milling crowd as they walked the bridge. At the base of the bridge's supporting piers an elephant's graveyard of discarded skateboard decks and plimsolls contrasted markedly with the bride's flouncy organza.
A tattooed and pierced spruiker earnestly encouraged passers-by to a freak show ~ "Only six quid, Ladies and Gentlemen!." Who would want to pay for a spectacle when every corner held a surprise?. Londoners, fearful of the impending Monday, cheerfully headed for another bevy at the revolving carousel located next to the Spiegeltent in the London Wonder Ground. They were joined by others giddy from riding the adjacent Star Flyer. Pakistani carneys cried that no one's weekend would be complete without taking home a cuddly toy. Come and enjoy this panoply of oddities, curiosities and delights!
* Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle
Pulled pork burgers and major glasses of Bloody Mary's were favoured, and with good reason ~ they were worth the wait. A small squadron of obliging waitresses buzz about delivering dishes to chattering crowded tables. We hadn't spotted any celebrities as yet, but as we were new to London, they may have been present. A dead ringer for Harold sat adjacent at a multicultural table and licked his knife in appreciation ~ I imagine Kumar was searching for a White Castle outlet.*
Public displays of lascivious behaviour were on display nearby at Old Spitalfields Market, where engaging couples tangoed sensuously. Beguiled, I hurried to catch up with the others who had moved on for some retail therapy. "Not so fast, I want to look in here!". A smart display of bespoke clothing lured me into a shop where a young man commented favourably on my shirt ~ "That's a nice piece of tailoring, Sir". They're crafty, these London merchants, they lure unsuspecting people into their establishments with compliments and try to sell you something. "Thanks", I replied, " I had it made in Hong Kong". We engaged in some sartorial banter for a while, before Kim came back and dragged me away. "I'll be back" ~ "I'll look forward to that Sir".
Erin and Penny had hidden themselves amongst the racks of clothing and accessories crowding the Market floor, and we discovered them examining jewellery at a stall adjacent to another selling
headwear. I tried on a genuine Sherlock Holmes deerstalker in a fetching rural hue, and was just about to tie the earmuffs down when Kim threatened me with divorce if I proceeded. She's such a party-pooper!. Agreeing on a time and place, we split up and headed off to pursue our whims.
Despite some serious culling of our holiday wardrobe, we are closing on our baggage limit and careful thought must be given to any additional purchases. I kept this in mind as I resisted appealing hand-printed pop art t-shirts, vintage doorknobs and books at bargain prices. What willpower I possess. The second hand ticked slowly on a collectable Kinks single converted into a wall clock. "But that's on the Pye label!" I protested. "I wish I had a pound for every time someone said that", replied the surly young stall holder. I believe he needs re-training, ..... and a good horse whipping.
Exiting the tube at Embankment, Erin directed us across the Golden Jubilee Bridge towards the concluding Festival of Love, just as the Tour of Britain peloton flashed by. A cockney photographer barked instructions at a generously proportioned wedding couple who parted the milling crowd as they walked the bridge. At the base of the bridge's supporting piers an elephant's graveyard of discarded skateboard decks and plimsolls contrasted markedly with the bride's flouncy organza.
A tattooed and pierced spruiker earnestly encouraged passers-by to a freak show ~ "Only six quid, Ladies and Gentlemen!." Who would want to pay for a spectacle when every corner held a surprise?. Londoners, fearful of the impending Monday, cheerfully headed for another bevy at the revolving carousel located next to the Spiegeltent in the London Wonder Ground. They were joined by others giddy from riding the adjacent Star Flyer. Pakistani carneys cried that no one's weekend would be complete without taking home a cuddly toy. Come and enjoy this panoply of oddities, curiosities and delights!
* Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle
Fashionistas or Hipsters?
Should I book or take pot luck and wait until we reach London? Would we have recovered from the flight and will we both go? In the end I went alone. The subject of my musings was the solitary live performance of British electro pop trio Saint Etienne. Months out from our holiday I discovered one of my fave bands would be performing during our stay in London, and I didn't want to miss it.
Sarah, Bob and Pete, supported by seven musicians, would be performing a short set at the Barbican Centre, followed by the London premiere of director Paul Kelly's film "How We Used to Live". A live performance of the soundtrack would simultaneously be performed by Mark XVII of Saint Etienne. "How We Used to Live" is comprised of postwar archive footage unearthed at the British Film Institute and ends with the dawn of the Thatcher era and the land grab of London's former docklands.
Combining my limited experiences of London and the location of the brutalistic Barbican Centre, an interesting night was assured. Despite catching the wrong service from our local tube station, Swiss cottage, and an unexpected trip to Wembley station, I managed to obtain one of the last available balcony tickets. Great value at only £15. The Barbican Centre was packed with patrons, being the last night of the Digital Revolution Festival. The Festival was described as an immersive exhibition of art, design, film, music and video games, and was guaranteed to attract an interesting audience. Saturday Night 's program even included an avant-guard audio-visual performance by Velvet Underground legend John Cale.
As anticipated, my buttons were pushed and a memorable performance was enjoyed. A copy of the limited edition soundtrack in vinyl will hopefully grace my Santa sack.
Bad news Hipsters! In London your clothing stylings are rapidly becoming passé. Op shops will
again be stacked with unwanted racks of flannel shirts and socks will be worn. It would appear a strange hybrid involving lycra leisure wear and Flashdance era disco stylings is about. In my humble opinion, the most stylishly dressed Londoners are the Africans and Moslems with their flowing colourful and blinding white outfits. The Victoria & Albert Museum is presenting a retrospective of photographer Horst P. Horst who succinctly nailed it: "Fashion is an expression of the times. Elegance is something else again."
Sarah, Bob and Pete, supported by seven musicians, would be performing a short set at the Barbican Centre, followed by the London premiere of director Paul Kelly's film "How We Used to Live". A live performance of the soundtrack would simultaneously be performed by Mark XVII of Saint Etienne. "How We Used to Live" is comprised of postwar archive footage unearthed at the British Film Institute and ends with the dawn of the Thatcher era and the land grab of London's former docklands.
Combining my limited experiences of London and the location of the brutalistic Barbican Centre, an interesting night was assured. Despite catching the wrong service from our local tube station, Swiss cottage, and an unexpected trip to Wembley station, I managed to obtain one of the last available balcony tickets. Great value at only £15. The Barbican Centre was packed with patrons, being the last night of the Digital Revolution Festival. The Festival was described as an immersive exhibition of art, design, film, music and video games, and was guaranteed to attract an interesting audience. Saturday Night 's program even included an avant-guard audio-visual performance by Velvet Underground legend John Cale.
As anticipated, my buttons were pushed and a memorable performance was enjoyed. A copy of the limited edition soundtrack in vinyl will hopefully grace my Santa sack.
Bad news Hipsters! In London your clothing stylings are rapidly becoming passé. Op shops will
again be stacked with unwanted racks of flannel shirts and socks will be worn. It would appear a strange hybrid involving lycra leisure wear and Flashdance era disco stylings is about. In my humble opinion, the most stylishly dressed Londoners are the Africans and Moslems with their flowing colourful and blinding white outfits. The Victoria & Albert Museum is presenting a retrospective of photographer Horst P. Horst who succinctly nailed it: "Fashion is an expression of the times. Elegance is something else again."
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Chilli Crabs and London Cabs
Singapore is hot, steamy and neat, almost too neat ~ which makes Changi Village a refreshing, slightly decaying change. Our international hotel with multi-cylindrical elevators sit side by side with the expat-filled BamBooze Bar. Everyone has a job even if as menial as assistant palm frond trimmer, and happiness is a national disease. How can you smile while refusing the smallest tip? Penny, Kim and I sat down to dine at a table at the crowded 89.7 Supper Club surrounded by Singaporean Chinese, Hindus and Muslims tucking into steaming dishes washed down with tall icy fruit concoctions. Maybe this should have alerted me to the inability to order a refreshing beer. "Sorry Sir, we don't serve alcohol".
This was possibly the best chilli crab available anywhere. I'm sure a beer would have elevated it to the status of ambrosia.
Riding the Heathrow Express to Paddington (£21 for a 15 minute ride), we were soon ensconced at Basil Fawlty's London establishment, the unfortunately named Cromwell Crown Hotel. In addition to various electrical catastrophes it appears staff have difficulty distinguishing between bath mats, hand towels and bath towels. No matter, all sop up our energetic overflow. On BBC 4 a history of British heavy metal was being broadcast. Faded hairy musos in denim and leather told stories of building fan bases via screaming vocalists and overloaded Transit vans. All this while interviewing diamond geezers named Arthur, Edgar and, uh, Geezer.
Despite the hour approaching 11 pm, we make our way to the intersection of Cromwell and Gloucester Roads where a friendly pint and much frivolity can be enjoyed at the Stanhope Arms. As midnight approached, the Kiwi barman hopefully rattled a container of cutlery. No-one took the slightest notice, this being a warm Friday night in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. We exited through clouds of cigarette smoke, diminishing perfume and loud lager lads and lasses.
Nothing tops a boozy Friday night out like finishing with some fast food, however we couldn't find a kebab and had to settle for a Burger King Royale. This gave us an opportunity to view some late night street dancing and romancing. It's the same the world over, this could have been Kingston or Bondi (except for the red buses). Wending our way home past flourishing window boxes, we encountered inebriated patrons hailing the 49 bus headed for Clapham. Should you miss the last service you were really Up the Junction.
This was possibly the best chilli crab available anywhere. I'm sure a beer would have elevated it to the status of ambrosia.
Riding the Heathrow Express to Paddington (£21 for a 15 minute ride), we were soon ensconced at Basil Fawlty's London establishment, the unfortunately named Cromwell Crown Hotel. In addition to various electrical catastrophes it appears staff have difficulty distinguishing between bath mats, hand towels and bath towels. No matter, all sop up our energetic overflow. On BBC 4 a history of British heavy metal was being broadcast. Faded hairy musos in denim and leather told stories of building fan bases via screaming vocalists and overloaded Transit vans. All this while interviewing diamond geezers named Arthur, Edgar and, uh, Geezer.
Despite the hour approaching 11 pm, we make our way to the intersection of Cromwell and Gloucester Roads where a friendly pint and much frivolity can be enjoyed at the Stanhope Arms. As midnight approached, the Kiwi barman hopefully rattled a container of cutlery. No-one took the slightest notice, this being a warm Friday night in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. We exited through clouds of cigarette smoke, diminishing perfume and loud lager lads and lasses.
Nothing tops a boozy Friday night out like finishing with some fast food, however we couldn't find a kebab and had to settle for a Burger King Royale. This gave us an opportunity to view some late night street dancing and romancing. It's the same the world over, this could have been Kingston or Bondi (except for the red buses). Wending our way home past flourishing window boxes, we encountered inebriated patrons hailing the 49 bus headed for Clapham. Should you miss the last service you were really Up the Junction.
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