London Calling

Great things to do in London
As I mentioned yesterday, I adore London. There is so much to do and no matter how many times you visit there is still something new to see. I realise Londoners themselves may not feel the same but actually my dream-job would see me with enough money to rent an apartment in Southwalk with a view of the Thames – just for a couple of years, not forever – I think two years would sate my appetite for the lifestyle and then I could retire somewhere quieter. Feel free to email me if you think you have the job for me!
​For those of you who haven’t been for a while I’m including here two of my favourite venues – one free, one paid-for. The best way to do London is via train, look for the cheap first-class tickets that are sold on the weekend, then stay a night in one of the cheaper hotels or simply return on the late train. If you are driving then you can get great deals at even the better hotels (Holiday Inn Express for instance) just around the outskirts – choose the most appropriate stop for you. I chose Watford Junction which has great access from the North of England (via the M1), London is then just a 20 minute train journey away. A day travel card will cost you around £15 and covers you for train, tube and bus. There are plenty of good eateries nearby (we went to a fabulous Indian) or you can eat in London and catch a later train back. If you are eating in London then the pubs around Leicester Square do great deals on pie and bottles of wine and London has got to have some of the best pubs in the world (in terms of olde-worlde architecture and atmosphere).
​We started Sunday morning at Leighton House, via the underground stop at Notting Hill Gate. It’s a long detour, down Portobello Road but well worth the walk if you haven’t visited the area before. Portobello Rd itself is full of great shops at knockdown prices – I bought a lovely dress there – just beware of the prices in cafes. We stopped in a lovely deli and had the best espressos since returning from France and shared a pastry. The bill for this meagre treat was £12.50! Should you wish to take the shorter route to Leighton House then get off at Kensington High Street. The house was the former home and studio of the leading Victorian artist, Frederic, Lord Leighton (1830-1896) and ticks all the boxes when it comes to interior decoration and artwork. I much prefer to see art in-situ rather than in art galleries where I feel bombarded by the information. Yes the Louvre and the National Gallery have their place but in houses like this you can while away an hour or so and get a feel for the life and times rather than just admire the artwork. The downstairs is amazing, The Arab Hall is (exactly as the website describes) the centerpiece of the house and we lingered by the fountain for an age – it would certainly be a great place to visit in the heat of summer, naturally cool and stunningly beautiful. It’s £5 per adult but well worth the small expenditure
​Our afternoon was spent at The Wallace Collection; housed in Hertford House on Manchester Square. It’s open 10-5pm and is absolutely free. The square is just behind Oxford Street, if you nip up the side of Debenhams and stick to Maryleborne Road then you can’t go wrong. Everything is stunning in there, we have now visited twice and will definitely go again – you cannot possibly take in everything in one go. If we lived in London I’ve no doubt we’d go every fortnight. The rooms are opulent, the furniture and clocks are a delight and the vast array of ceramics, paintings, miniatures are impossible to view in even 5 visits. The Armoury includes two and a half thousand items – the most exquisite collection of guns, swords, shields you can imagine. I am not the kind of person who spends ages in such rooms, I’ve whipped through the armoury at The Tower of London and I believe there’s a small one in Lancaster Museum which I’ve also found uninspiring but this collection is quite something else. Each piece of weaponry is outstandingly beautiful, you could visit for an hour and never leave these rooms. If you only have one day in London, you absolutely must add The Wallace Collection to your itinerary. It’s free, easy to find, close to the shops and extremely absorbing.
​I am writing today’s blog on the move. I will add links, photographs and a recipe tomorrow.

The Mint Paramedic

I love London, it is definitely in my top three of favourite cities. Bangkok is also there and I’m leaving room for the third as I haven’t quite travelled the whole world yet. Like Bangkok, if I can find an excuse to go to London I will. This time it was for the France Show at Earl’s Court. The show itself was possibly a slight disappointment, the catering was most un-French – lots of queuing, no seats and plastic cups. Ok, the coffee, when we’d finally got to the front of the queue was good – but drinking it standing up (as most were) or guiltily sitting on a seat, unable to talk to your fellow show-goers as you battle courageously in a vain attempt to avoid eye-contact with the thousands of seat-less coffee drinkers (as approx. 57 people were) rather marred the experience.

We met one very engaging man – and if you’re at all interested in French properties in the South West then I’d recommend his website and, other than that, spent an hour squashing around the French market, gazing with some small amount of interest at the overpriced ceramics and marvelling at the interesting array of dresses and shawls that make-up the total of French fashion. Parisians may dress well – the rest of France tends not to. Rob then queued for twenty minutes to get us an overpriced bowl of boeuf bourguignon and a large glass of wine each, and I took in the delights of the rather fractious British public; all of whom were too hot, too tired and just a little bit miffed at the dire catering. This show had been billed as a ‘Slice of France in England’ and it wasn’t.

At 2pm we had our wine tasting. It was informative and passable but, after six of some of Bordeaux’s finest I can still say quite safely that I’m a Burgundy fan. Apart from the Sauternes at the end which was delightful – and frustrating. Around 80% of the audience left their Sauternes but it just didn’t feel right to dash round the lecture theatre quaffing the dregs from others’ glasses.

Whilst the day started disappointingly the rest of Saturday was fabulous. We watched a very entertaining string quartet in the middle of Covent Garden market, and then drank very delicious coffee to the beautiful songs of a pretty skilled busker. His rendition of Mad World was inspiring and had me jotting ideas in my notebook for future writing. The café had outdoor heaters, so we sat outside in order to benefit from the atmosphere – and regretted it, no heater in the world is match for the fierce North wind which was ripping relentlessly through London on Saturday.

We made our way to Leicester square safe in the knowledge that you can always get a decent pie and a bottle of wine in one of the local pubs for under £30 for two. But it was Saturday and the theatre doors hadn’t opened so there were no free tables – then we spotted the posters outside St-Martin-in-the-Fields advertising a Vivaldi by candlelight – something I’ve long dreamed of.

The recital was lovely, only tainted by the fact that our seats were unreserved so we had to arrive at 7pm for a 7:30 start and then they didn’t start till 7:40 but the atmosphere and acoustics promised to make up for the long hours sitting on a fairly uncomfortable church pew. For the first 5 minutes. Then things started to blur, I spent a while squirming in my seat – half in the hope that that would make me feel better and half from the stress of knowing how embarrassing it was going to be if I had to leave mid-concert. I was sitting at the front and there was a door just to my left but this seemed to be for musicians only so my only exit was the huge doors right at the back of the church. Eventually I had to leave – you know something is wrong when you put your fingers to your face and it feels like you’ve plunged them into a sink, you also know something is wrong when other members of the audience lean backwards at your approach in a desperate attempt to keep as far from you as possible. My exit from the church was faltering, rather hazy and every bit as embarrassing as I’d imagined. The doors at the back-right of said church swing shut with a resounding thump preceded by a sharp intake of breath from the freezing outside – just as if the doors are sighing in disgust.

Fast-forward fifteen minutes (I’m sure you don’t want to know the details of my demise) and, after sitting for several minutes in the church entrance revelling in the cool breeze from outside, there was a lull in the music and I silently inched back in. Not feeling 100% but fairly confident that I was no longer facing my imminent death.

Both Rob and the lady next to me were sympathetic and very concerned. And then the lady offered me first-aid Little Britain style. And for all you that watched the mint paramedics and scoffed, let me tell you it really works. So I’m not sure who I should thank especially – the kind lady from Northampton with the mints (she insisted I had two based on her diagnosis) or David Walliams himself (clearly the founder of said technique) but either way it worked.

I’ll be back tomorrow with details of two wonderful places to visit whilst in London and a delicious recipe.

Ergo, I can drink more units of alcohol per week…

I am a health freak. I have to be. I fully intend to live until 115 with all my faculties; partly in the hope that travel to the moon will become regular and affordable in my lifetime and partly so that I can annoy the hell out of people (think Jenny Joseph’s ‘Warning’ multiplied by ten). In Tuesday’s Guardian, Dr Luisa Dillner published a thought provoking piece on ensuring your new-found health-regime (assuming you added such a thing to your New Year’s Resolution List) lasts beyond the end of January.

            In November my own GP suggested I try having two to three alcohol free days a week. I embraced this eagerly – both with gusto and mathematics. My normal waking day (I’m not including any insomnia here) is approx. 16 hours long, giving me a waking week of 112 hours. I only generally drink between the hours of 6pm and 8:30pm and this is slow, refined drinking of good quality wine of course – no greedily quaffing pints of beer or the like. So, I only drink for 17.5 hours a week. As most people don’t drink in the mornings, the number of possible reasonable drinking hours is 35. As you can see, I am only drinking for half this time and therefore I’m already exceeding my doctor’s well-meant recommendations. Aren’t I?

            Perhaps not. All joking aside, since December I have been sticking to 2 alcohol free days a week – mostly – sometimes it’s 1 and a half (I mean I really, really only have one tiny glass of red on that half day).

            Dr Dillner also recommends the two alcohol free days a week mode of living – it’s getting a lot of press lately, so it must be true. She also says that watching TV shortens your life. Apparently, every hour of television watched over the age of 25 reduces your life by 22 minutes. According to a report in The Guardian in 2010, the average Briton will watch 4 hours of television a day. As I haven’t had a television since 1992 I clearly have gained a lot of extra life. According to my excel spreadsheet (email me if you’d like to see my calculations) I have gained a total of 1.069 years life since the age of 25. Now surely this means I can have an extra glass of wine or two?

I thought I’d leave you with a recipe, a healthy one, to make you feel good about your health-regime. It’s also very, very quick – easier to grab the ingredients at your local supermarket then head home and cook it, than it is to queue up in the local take-away.

Recipe: White Fish with Tomato & Chorizo Sauce

Inspired By: Good Food Healthy Eating App

Ingredients:

Thick fillets of white fish (one per person)

1 x small chorizo (cut into chunks)

1 x packet of chopped tomatoes (serves up to 4 people)

Chilli flakes (one pinch)

Garlic (one clove)

Olive oil

Greens & Barley Risotto to serve (for an easy meal buy the ready mixed risotto and follow pack instructions)

Here’s What I Do:

Prepare the barley risotto as per pack instructions (this will take around 20 minutes). Fry the chorizo in a splash of oil until it starts to release its own oils. Chop the garlic and add this to the pan (with maybe a tad more oil) until it is just becoming fragrant. Add the chilli flakes and stir for a few more seconds before tipping in the tomatoes, let this simmer until you’re ready to serve. About 5 minutes before the risotto is ready rub your fish with oil and season to taste. Grill until cooked and flaking (some meatier fish will take longer than 5 minutes) and don’t forget to cook your choice of greens.

            Enjoy, with wine – unless it’s one of your alcohol free days.

Something Staggering and the Most Beautiful Post-Christmas Sight Ever

My only race of the year

Even though I say it myself, I am staggering – and I say this with 100% conviction. I proved it on 27^th December when I decided to start the New Year with the New Me. Okay – so it wasn’t actually New Year but I couldn’t really wait until the auspicious date itself and, given that apparently most people abandon any New Year Resolutions by the end of January, avoiding said date didn’t seem much of a problem. Needless to say, the decision to start my new-life followed a very low day on the 26^th.

            I gave away my bathroom scales some months ago when I recognised that, having reached the state of weighing myself twice daily in a desperate attempt to understand any fluctuations and/or see if I had lost weight that day by abstaining from my mid-morning toast, I was indeed desperate. Or deranged. I’d read that you should weigh yourself no more than weekly – perhaps even less than that – but I understood myself enough to realise that I would never avoid the lure of the scales were they to continue to reside in my house, so I gave them to my sister. I can now weigh myself weekly (though admittedly no longer naked and first thing in the morning when I’m certain I weigh my least) and my sister is beginning to revel in the delights of my former addiction (though I don’t think she’s reached the twice daily stage – yet). So it was that, scaleless – and having avoided the lure of my sister’s scales for several weeks – I came to dress on the 26^th and found that, despite an extensive wardrobe, nothing would fit. Seemingly, my now sedentary life as a professional (though currently unpaid) writer and my eschewing of most forms of exercise (barring the occasional mile-swim or yoga lesson) over the December period had finally led to a weight gain of preposterous levels. Given the unpaid nature of my work, buying new clothes was out of the question. The only answer was to recognise that my new profession inherently means less calories consumed in day-to-day work and, having fully recovered from my November ill-health, I should really be exercising much, much more.

            It was December 27^th then, that I realised just how staggering I am. Or certainly was that morning when I staggered round the 6km run which is one of my local favourites, all the while berating myself – shouting at my rather larger than usual shadow and lamenting the pitiful slowness with which I tackled the hills. This is the woman who scaled Tower 42 in February 2010, conquered London Marathon for the second time in April 2010, completed three triathlons in summer 2010 and did the Great North Bike Ride in September of the same year. To be fair I tackled only one race in the whole of 2011 and found myself driving to work with my bike in the back of the car most of that year – going out on feeble 15 milers after work (if the weather permitted) – if I’m honest the only staggering thing (apart from my ludicrous, stumbling gate as I forced myself round my ex-rave run) was that I hadn’t gathered what was happening earlier.

            However, even the most troublesome run can transform itself into the most beautiful. My favourite lane – the part after the killer hill – is always tranquil and that morning it was full of winter beauty. And the best bit – my weakened state meant I became more aware of my surroundings, had more time to take in the noise of the birds singing in the trees – and therefore tuned into the sound of a chicken being unceremoniously strangled on a beautiful Tuesday morning. Hmmm? Unusual, I thought.

Given that any excuse to stop was highly welcomed, I stopped and peered – cautiously – through the gap in the hedge. Sure enough, I was faced with a field of chickens – though none of them appeared in anyway distressed by the intense and rather peculiar gobbling sound that I could hear. And then I saw it – the most blessed post-Christmas sight of my life – a turkey, beautiful, resplendent, regal – proudly strutting, in fact commandeering the field of chickens – head held high. I could go on (but I shan’t) and indeed I took a long time enjoying the welcome break from running and this wonderful sight. The post-Christmas turkey. The one that got away.

            I’ll be back tomorrow with some of my latest recipes – all healthy but extremely tasty.

Which reminds me of the time we refuelled on The Tonle Sap

My sister was putting some fuel in her car Saturday afternoon – the dashboard had been bleeping at her for days and the ‘miles-left-until-your-engine-dies’ were getting lower and lower. Whilst we probably could have squeezed the last twenty-one point five miles out – it wasn’t worth the stress of wondering. As she filled I busied myself with people-watching (just in case there was a story there). No burglaries took place, no-one was having a full-scale row with their partner over the bill, no children were screaming. It was all pretty boring apart from the man in the passenger seat of the car next to ours. He was adjacent to the pump (said car having a passenger-side tank) and he was smoking, with the window down. Now I tend not to be a health-and-safety freak (despite having been elected Health and Safety Officer in previous lives); I am happy to play conkers, watch as children run full-pelt down slippery slopes and I have been known to forget my nieces hats, coats and gloves on cold days. All that aside, I did think his choice of smoking venue was unusual.

            I watched and listened intently. There were plenty of signs about prohibiting smoking and the use of mobile telephones. I also know that the pumps are fitted with speaker systems whereby the attendants can prompt you to tell the pump where you are paying, enter your pin-code and (witnessed on occasion) tell you to switch off your mobile so I knew it was only a matter of seconds before this crazy passenger would get the admonishment he was due. It never transpired and I was left with palpitations and sweaty palms as I studied the glowing stick – trying all the while to work out how many seconds smoking he had left and hoping fervently that he wouldn’t drop the stub out the window. We left before he finished his smoke but, given that I’ve not heard of any forecourt explosions, I guess he took his cigarette safely home.

            All of which reminded me of our time in Cambodia. Having just spent a wondrous three days at Siem Reap, marvelling at Angkor Wat, The Bayon and all the other architectural and tree-coated delights in the vicinity we were making our way, by boat to Phnom Phen. It’s a lovely journey along the Tonlé Sap – which is more a huge lake than a river. The ferries are rather large but nobody sits down below – well at least back-packers don’t – they sit on the roof of the boat. This is at once self-preservation (more chance of survival in an accident) and self-destruction (the breeze, spray and relentless UV-rays managing to play havoc with even the best protected skin. About two-thirds of the way along we had to change to a smaller boat, an interesting exercise given that we were already over-crowded and no-one was staying behind and the whole exercise takes place mid-river. Once we’d all managed our ungainly exodus we had to hang around whilst our new boat was refuelled, from a third boat, again mid-river. Sitting on top we had good views of the exercise – all carried out straight-forwardly enough, one Cambodian chatting and shouting the occasional instruction from the fuel-boat whilst two Cambodians from our boat stood astride the tank inlet, fuel pile trailing through their feet. And smoking.

Muck for Luck

Diwali at the Shiv Niwas

The beginning of Advent always reminds me of our time in India. We were in Udaipur through Diwali (the Hindu festival of light) and it was a magical time. In the days preceding, people decorated the outsides of their houses with Rangoli patterns of coloured powders and filled every windowsill, nook and cranny with earthenware pots burning oils and candles. The streets were filled with fairy lights and garlands and the newspapers were full of stories about the dangers of illegal fireworks – not only were they made without regard to Health and Safety and liable to explode in your face but they were generally made by hand by children paid pitiful wages (or no wages at all) and then sold on the streets to anyone who had a spare rupee.

            Most evenings we ate at small cafes or at street stalls and always had wonderful food but the posters for the Shiv Niwas Hotel’s Gala dinner caught our eye and we decided to treat ourselves and booked a table. I bought a new Salwar Kameez for the occasion and we took a leisurely evening stroll through the crowded streets to work up an appetite for our meal.

            Now cows are sacred in India so it is not unusual to walk the streets and have to make way for a rust coloured bovine barging its way along the pavement and this was just the case on Diwali night as well only that night many of the cows had garlands around their horns where revellers had shared their decorations with the beasts – a mark of respect I think. The early evening had brought everyone out to enjoy the festivities, take in the twinkling lights and cower from the illegal fireworks. We both had huge grins – from the infectious excitement, the beautiful lights and the prospect of a very posh meal and we walked along in the melee, holding hands and lingering round gift and trinket stalls. Taking our time till we went to the Gala.

Diwali celebrations in Udaipur!

            And then I felt a new sensation – a warm, wet sensation that crept between the toes of my right foot, oozing under the straps of my dainty sandal. I think I must have made some kind of audible expression of surprise or distaste as the crowd parted, duly revealing my foot. Or rather a couple of toes sticking out from the thick, greeny-brown swathes of cow muck – and judging from the warmth, this was fresh cow muck!

            At once I was the centre of attention – a kindly stall holder found me some newspaper, another brought a bowl of water and one way or another we got my foot reasonably clean – all the while being assured that this was in fact lucky. Auspicious. Something I could be pleased about. Indeed, many passers-by commented that I would undoubtedly come into money (now that’s something you like to hear when you’re on a year’s backpacking).

            We made it to the gala dinner with only a faint hind of aroma and a pale tinge of green. And, as the dinner was taking place in the pool garden, lit by candles and fairy lights, there was little chance of anyone spotting the offending foot anyway. The meal was great, we splashed out on gin and tonic before our beer (we could not bring ourselves to pay for the wine) and enjoyed the festivities whilst listening to the conversations of rich Indian families. Finally, we came to the prize draw. It turned out every person there had had their name placed in a hat and there was a table with three beautiful Diwali hampers, packed with sweet treats, ornaments and other goodies. There was great anticipation in the crowd as the waiters and maître d’ managed to make the event as exciting as an X-Factor final. And who should be drawn out first?

            Me – of course – so the muck really was for luck. Second place went to a lovely lady on the opposite side of the pool and then, third place was drawn and it was Rob! Now I hadn’t thought there was so much slurry but there you go. Being kind-hearted souls and also backpackers (would you want to carry two hampers round the world?) we asked them to draw again for third place. But we took my winning hamper back to our room, picked a couple of souvenirs to take with us on our travels and left the rest for the hotel maid.

            A perfect Diwali.

Now for some food, this is a lovely quick recipe that’s full of Omega 3s, very flavoursome and also very cheap (especially if you grow your own free-range eggs).

Recipe: Sardines with home-made Alioli

Inspired by: loads of chefs – but I like Gary Rhodes’ measurements for mayo

Ingredients:

Sardines          (I bought fillets this time as they were on offer but I wouldn’t again – they were badly filleted and full of bones – if you cook the fish whole it’s easy to remove the bones afterwards).

2 x egg yolks

2 or 3 garlic cloves, peeled, chopped and crushed with a pinch of coarse salt

150ml extra virgin olive oil

150ml sunflower oil

Vinegar or lemon juice (I judge this based on what I’m serving it with)

Dijon mustard (optional in Alioli)

Salad ingredients to serve

Here’s What I Do: Put the egg yolks in a bowl and add the mustard, garlic, vinegar or lemon juice, blending to a paste (for these quantities I start with a tablespoon of vinegar or a whole lemon and a teaspoon of Dijon). Start to add the oils (you can mix these in a jug) a little at a time and beat with a balloon whisk (I used to use my food processor but it doesn’t take long to make by hand and is very therapeutic). When you’re about 2/3 of the liquid through, start to taste the alioli and adjust the flavourings as you like. You may not use all the oil (choose the consistency as you prefer), equally you may want more garlic or more acid (lemon/vinegar). When you have a lovely mix, put it in the fridge till you’re ready (if you have a sterile jar available it should keep a week (two weeks without the garlic). Next prepare your salad and carbohydrates (I served this with new potatoes but it’s also nice with beerbread). Lastly grill your sardines (if you’re using whole ones you may like to stuff the cavities with some herbs and slices of lemon.

The feel-good film of the decade

Although we don’t have a television, we do try and watch a film once a week. This weekend we watched two but it was Rob’s choice for Sunday that has sparked my imagination. Rob chose Slumdog Millionaire which, as it says on the box, was The Feel-Good Film of the Decade back in 2009. Watching it always gives me a warm glow, despite the fact that I worry what happened to the child-actors and wonder whether being plucked from the slums to stardom has helped them. Putting that to one side, I can’t help but smile knowingly at some of the scenes. If you can’t go to India then surely watching this film is the next best thing – right down to the finale with the obligatory Bollywood song and dance routine – a genuine Indian film could not get away without one.

            Just in case you haven’t watched the film (or have forgotten its wonders) I’ve attached the clip where the boys ride the trains in search of food, comfort and Rupees. The trains are a major part of Indian life and for a while we travelled them, taking seats in the ordinary carriages.

            I will never forget our journey from Mumbai to Daman (Gujurat is a dry state and Daman offered the benefits of both beach and alcohol). We arrived at Mumbai’s Victoria station in plenty of time and managed to arm ourselves with India’s Trains at a Glance – a ridiculously large red book but nevertheless a must for travel across the country as it details every single train route and timetable – and had got our tickets for the 09:15 train – a simple four hour journey to Vapi. As we were in bags of time we had a very tasty breakfast on the station (a spicy omelette with milky tea) and then made our way, leisurely, to the platform. Although there was still half an hour to go, our train was in and boarding so we got on. The train was already full and all we could manage was to squeeze in at the end of a carriage.

Sunday 1^st October 2000

The journey was awful, as [the train] set off people jumped on and there were about 16 of us crammed in at the end of the carriage. As this was a sleeper train, the end space was very claustrophobic and of course the toilets stank. I looked at my watch after what I thought was at least half an hour but it was only 10 minutes. At the first stop some got off but more people got on, despite the other passengers telling them there was no room. At the next stop not only did more people get on but also a ticket checker which found incredible. Vapi was the next stop and the man next to Rob (who had shared his suitcase as a seat, told Rob to get off and he would pass our bags. The man next to me was also getting off, it wasn’t going to be easy as there were already 23 men and me crammed into that small area. The train stopped but even before it stopped people were pushing to get on. The man next to me was telling them to let us off but they wouldn’t – I was getting squashed tighter and tighter, my glasses got pushed and squashed to the top of my head. The man with Rob signalled for us to get off track-side but I was still getting squashed – in the end I just stood on my pack and then climbed on people, finally escaping to the track – Rob caught me as I jumped down, it’s quite a long way.

            The saddest thing about the whole episode was knowing that for all these commuters this is regular train travel. The man who helped us made this journey twice daily and, as he walked us to the platform, I noticed that he had a shoe missing – lost in the crush. I pointed to it as I thanked him for his help – he simply smiled and said it was nothing, this was his country, their culture.