Helvellyn, yeah!

Despite my borderline Royalist rant below, I must have been one of the few sober people in the Commonwealth last Friday, as we drove back – four adults crammed into a Toyota Starlet called Janice – from the Lake District. And it was there that I climbed a mountain.

I use the word ‘mountain’ with some trepidation, because in actual fact, Helvellyn was described to me as the second highest ‘peak’ in England. Whatever the terminology, it was bloody hard work. But then what did I expect from a climb about which a famous poem was written, inspired by a man’s death en route? But as is always the way with these things, once the achy muscles have eased and the memories of burning lungs and near-death slips have faded, I have become somewhat complacent; it wasn’t actually that difficult at all and I overtook loads of unsuitably-clad amateurs along the way. Ha! In fact, I practically ran across Striding Edge (above), as nimble as a mountain goat from my native Switzerland, and when I got to the top I could see all the way to Liverpool*.

Of course I know these ‘memories’ are colourful versions of the truth, but it beats the feeble reality, that the only thing that saved me on the way up was regular Jaffa Cake stops, and that the slow, scraggy descent almost killed me. Hardcore.

*not strictly true, but the views were awesome (as you can see right, waving to my colleague as he sat in a Basingstoke office)

Bank holiday kitsch

Oh, come on - you love it, don’t you? Just a little bit – don’t fight it. Ever since the royal couple announced their engagement in November, I have been vehemently struggling against the tide, insisting that it’s not of interest to me and that companies who jump on the band wagon are just ridiculous. I still hold to that latter point a bit, but last week I finally cracked and embraced the kitsch in an all-out manner. Infact, I seem to have gone the complete opposite way and, let me tell you brothers and sisters, it feels good!

For starters, check out the mug that I bought in the spirit of things. Now every tea break is a reminder, not only of one couple’s fight against all the odds en route to true love (!), but also of the upcoming bank holidays and the general feeling of happiness and goodwill that accompanies this time of year – but is magnified in 2010. Come on, you feel less morose than you did a month ago. Just a bit, admit it.

If you want to know how mad I actually went when I finally cracked, here’s the proof.

Winter soul food

I love the many joys of winter: frosted scenery, toasty fires, mulled wine and the sense of panicked camaraderie when it snows and the country descends into chaos.

Seriously though, what’s not to love? Freezing offices and drying air-conditioning aside, I openly admit that I think this time of year is wonderful and I love the fact that it’s OK to wake up on a Sunday, do a bit of ‘proper’ activity and then go home at 3pm to watch a film and drink some wine. It’s almost like nature is urging you to do it; it would be a slight on Daylight Savings if you didn’t.

Not wanting to ruin this opportunity, this is precisely what I did last Sunday and, although I appreciate that most people in England did a similar thing, I very much doubt that they ate the venison casserole of kings at the end of the day. Oh no.

So, after a highly productive afternoon of chores on Saturday, I felt even more entitled to a day of winter bliss when I woke up to a beautiful crisp English morning on Sunday. After a quick dose of Peep Show on iPlayer we trotted along to Pierreponts for a spot of brunch (check out the warmer on my boiled egg and Marmite soldiers!), and then made our way up to The Bell in Aldworth (if you haven’t been, it’s essential for countryside drinking pleasure) and planned to go for a ‘nice long walk’ along the Ridgeway. Well, we managed 45 minutes which, considering the sub-zero temperature and my appalling lack of navigational skills, was actually pretty good going. This was followed by a pint of ale – you must remember to reward yourself, you see.

Anyway, in the words of Mr. T, I’ll quit this jibber-jabber (I have the same birthday as him, incidentally) and get on with the casserole. Now, I would love to take the credit for this masterpiece, but I have to admit that Adam (smiling like a true, relaxed chef, at the top here) should really take the praise as, apart from scrubbing the carrots and potatoes (which was bloody hard work as the tiny blighters came from allotment at work, although they do taste heavenly, are a bugger to clean individually) I did little else of use other than faff around cleaning up after him and chop and stir.

So, with venison bought from the lovely Fielders Farm Shop in Theale, we set to work making what Adam described as ‘the darkest, glossiest ragu ever’. I don’t think he exaggerated.  It involved a whole bottle of wine (’07 Côtes du Rhône, if you’re interested), plenty of love and a little West Indian chocolate. Beautiful.

Five hours later, when we sat down to eat with a glass of the really wonderful, elegant and exceptionally good value 2008 Camins del Priorat from master wine-maker Alvaro Palacios, something happened to me.  I experienced what can only be likened to a rich, savoury embrace from a familiar lover who has just returned from a time away on tropical shores and has now acquired a new air of charm, appeal and spicy exotic fragrance. Intoxicatingly comforting. Well, I suppose there probably are other ways to describe it, but this is how I felt.

So, there you have it, if you were hoping for a recipe I may have let you down but I’m sure I could cobble something together if you are desperate. It was totally exceptional. Roast belly of pork tonight…

European expeditions of late

Would you Adam and Eve it? I almost forgot about this, but recently I have been rather jet-set and embarked on a touch of European traveling (what, what.) In a treacherous move, I only wrote blogs about two of these visits on my company’s blog (which you really ought to check out, as I edit the thing), but I thought that maybe you’d like to read these official versions. To that end, click the links and you can read about my work trip to sample the wines of Piedmont and my holiday to Jerez, where the sole aim was to drink copious amounts of Sherry and eat top-notch tapas. Finally, for your pleasure only, here is a picture of me, full of delicious food, happy and a bit defeated after my sixth or seventh 4-course meal in a row in Italy. A pasta course as well as a meat course? What do you mean it’s rude to say no?

Ode to a grubby friend

Today I face a dilemma.  It’s no life-changing decision, nor will its outcome affect anyone other than myself, but it is playing on my mind greatly nonetheless. It’s to do with my rucksack: do I wash it or not? A trivial question, you may think – “just wash the damn thing, you dirty tramp”. I can see where these thoughts could come from but, you see, my rucksack is my only true travelling companion and the dirt that is ingrained in his seams is all a part of who he is – who I am – and washing it would mean losing a little part of that forever. It’s not like he smells or anything.

From the moment I picked him from the crowd of stupid pink ‘girl’ rucksacks (who incidentally don’t have key clips inside them – why is this? Is it because the man must always carry clinky objects?  I don’t think so, otherwise men’s wallets would have change compartments – which is also a mystery to me) our adventure together began. Not only have we spent many nights  alone (and in company) together, sleeping in tents, rooms, or even under the stars, he has also joined me each day to the dull, grey skies of Basingstoke and beyond, he’s waited for hours for delayed trains, boats, buses, planes – even battered old utes. Our love is no fair-weather bond; he is a loyal friend. Like wrinkles on a well-worn face, the small streaks and dusty patches on his skin tell tales of his life with me – of dusty Savanna plains, of  spice-breeze shores, African wilderness, mighty storms and probably a healthy dose of wine and food. Heck he was even with me when we were chased by Hippos. Also, a small part of me doesn’t want to delve toooo deep inside his many alluring compartments – occasionally he throws up (excuse the expression) a real gem that brings memories flooding back; a map of a path I trekked, a ticket to a museum or, heaven forbid, a note from a boy, long forgotten and living on another continent.  This bag is a constant, comforting reminder of adventure and I love him just the way he is.

So, tell me – do you really have to wash a rucksack?

Every ashcloud has a goldfish lining

In amongst the chaos, turmoil and general upset that the unpronounceable Icelandic volcano has caused, a miracle has made itself known to me. It concerns Santiago the goldfish, a regular feature of posts throughout this blog’s lifespan.

Read the above link and you will know how Santiago came into my life. Read on and you will learn of the excitement I felt when he returned, and take a glance at this short post to see how I tried to make his life in our pond a more pleasurable one.  Finished reading? Then I will continue the tale.

After  uniting Santiago and Fatima, and after  a few days of synchronised swimming (which I obviously took as a sure-fire sign of love and fairytale endings) she started to chase him. Viciously.  He became elusive (and reclusive) and his golden glean was noticeably fading. She was a menace – maybe she was a boy-fish, after all, I cannot claim to be an expert in these aqua-matters. Well, eventually both disappeared; eaten by cats/herons/each other, so I sadly accepted that two months of no sightings in a small pond could only mean one thing.  And I am afraid that I am not here to tell you otherwise.

However (crikey, I was always told never to start a new paragraph with ‘however’ but, hell, I’m a rebel)…however, on Sunday I received yet another fateful call from my pond-gazing Mother to announce that we had a fish in our pond! A little spring clearance of water weeds and other detritus revealed, not only a frog and a newt (the first of the year), but a small goldfish with similar (but not identical) markings to Fatima…..it can only be their baby!

Praise King Triton, this is indeed a miracle!

Burger me

Granted, I am a fair-weather blogger, but then why write about things if it’s not going to be interesting? Dining out with a friend who’s a food blogger and having a posh Mayfair steakhouse create a special burger especially for the occasion, is (interesting, that is).

So, Chris (fetching photo left) is intent on finding an authentic West Coast burger in the UK, specifically in London, so much so that his quest has become somewhat of a challenge to those with the burger know-how (or not, in many cases).  So, not knowing much about burgers myself – at least not as much as my dining companion – it was with great gusto that I happily grabbed, chomped and slopped my way (see below) through Goodman’s House Burger and the special In-N-Out tribute burger which they’d made especially, sourcing crappy cheese slices from cornershops.  Good news.

Part of this West Coast Burger ideal, which Chris holds so dear, is a portion of Animal Fries. No, dear unworldly friends, this is neither a portion of mammal-shaped bites (a la Cadbury’s Animals in potato format) or some sort of suspect Asian delicacy, this is simply a dish of French fries topped with mounds (and I mean mounds) of the afore-mentioned Kraft cheese, melted and mixed with thousand island sauce, pickles and other various artery-blocking, exceptionally tasty ingredients. I loved it. As the cheese went slightly cooler it formed a most unnatural gooey topping, which can only be 100% terrible for you. But then there are few things that can only be good if you have he cheapest, crappiest available (Frankfurters, for example, or, as I have recently found, Jaffa Cakes. I guess you could argue that Crab Sticks fall under this umbrella, but I will never endorse them. Ever.)

Anyway, I digress, but basically, it was really, really tasty. My burger was nice and Chris’ was Very nice (that’s one step up, but you’ve gotta love cheese). I won’t harp on about the actual review – that’s Chris’ job.

Yum.

Losers.com

This is a genuine message that my housemate has JUST recieved from match.com.  If this doesn’t make you laugh then I don’t know what would:

“hey, how are you? did you have a good christmas and new year? I think you did say you were not interested a while ago, but you have looked at me since, so thought i’d just drop an email
Hope all is well, and hopefully hear back from you!

‘Name withheld’ x”

Danyl Johnson drives me to drink*

So continues my pathetic effort to have at least one day without wine.  Until 8.45 pm I was well on course.  It has been a fairly indulgent weekend of wine, food and Christmas shopping in charming Norfolk villages so it didn’t seem like a hardship to forgo my usual Sunday night glass of wine.  Hell, there was even talk of me not drinking until I go out for dinner on Thursday night, but then something happened, and it happened in the most unusual way…

Now, unlike some people, I am not ashamed to admit that I have been following the X-Factor (though I guess I should be) and my housemate and neighbours are actually ‘fans’, so I have been roped in and forced to watch this godwaful tosh.  Who am I kidding?  I have grown to quite like critiquing Cheryl’s dresses, Danni’s eyebrows and everything about Louis, but tonight was different.  After the afore-mentioned long weekend, I came home an hour before X-Factor kick-off and just wanted a bath and bed.  It was then that I was informed by the fans of Chatham Place (as they will henceforth be known) that we were going to the Penta Hotel opposite to watch the results in the ‘Penta Lounge’ (see what they did there?)  I protested for a few seconds, then merrily hopped in the bath, summoning the energy to go out (with a well-meaning cherry-flavoured herbal tea) and vowing a night of abstinence.  Oh, I tell you, it was going so well.  There was even free coca cola – what more could a want-to-be teetotal require from a night out?!  Well, 45 mins into the show disaster struck.  Danyl Johnson was voted in.  Now, to some of you out there this might be disaster enough (it was to us), but there is more to come.  You see, Danny-boy is a Reading lad and, after an incredibly scary standing ovation (I’m not really sure why we were so surprised), the loving crowd (which mst have included many of his nearest and dearest) decided to show their support of the local chap by cracking open some free bubbly.  Now, I hope you’ll sympathise with me here, free fizz is surely too much for most people to pass on?  Well, I was going to do it, honsetly, but then I remembered my duties and realised that I has to accept a glass (of what turned out to be Prosecco) so I could pose for a photo for you to see.  Here it is, I hope you appreciate what I sacrificed for you:

*for Jedward’s sake please don’t sue me

Aussie rules

It is a day of mixed emotions, as I returned home tonight find that, finally, we have the internet.  Firstly, and primarily, I felt joy.  I could now finally do all those millions of things that I have been meaning to do ever since we moved in in August, but haven’t been able to do through a Blackberry or at work, like…um, check my LoveFilm list and, er, see who’s requested to follow me on Twitter…I even checked BBC weather, just because it doesn’t work so well on mobile devices.  This is when the secondary emotion started to kick in; I have just spent the last two hours in front of my mac doing absolutely bob-shag all.  Sure, I’ve checked ‘my wall’, looked for some new trainers (is red too much?) and had a read of my 28 emails (25 of which were junk newsletters), but despite being glued to the screen (and, as a result, missing a chunk of detail in tonight’s Masterchef final), I haven’t actually done anything worthwhile.  So, I am going to tell you a little story and then turn this damn machine off.  I’ve spent too many hours in front of a computer today already to be addicted to my Mac:

I have been wanting to try an authentic Chinese mooncake for a while now.  I have been warned by colleagues in Hong Kong that they are truly disgusting, but never the less, I wanted to taste one.  The full moon festival was approaching and I thought it would be  my perfect opportunity to finally taste one of these delicacies in a trip to London’s China Town.  Alas, I was away (in Berlin, it was nice – worth a trip, but very cold this time of year), so my chance passed me by.  However, yesterday a colleague at work gave me a pleasant surprise when she told me that, on a recent trip to Hong Kong, she had met with our marketing guy over there who, knowing of my gastronomic desire, had given her a mooncake to take back for me.  Now, this would have been perfect, except for one thing; they were going to Australia before returning to the UK.  The problem with this is that the customs lady took one look at the gift in question, wipped out her knife, cutting the cake apart, and then, seeing the pickled egg at in the centre, confiscated it.  So I was left with a (very pretty) tin and a note from the Aussie customs informing me of the contents’ fate.  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.  But I think the former is probably the best option, so here is my letter from the Aussies (yes, I know the format is a bit messed up, click on the right one and it will be big – I’ve got better things to do with my time than mess about with html at 10.40pm…like watch the BNP on Question Time!):

Ps. the whole thing reminds me of my favourite episode of The Simpsons, where Bart introduces the bullfrog to Australia…No?…”knifey spooney”. .?  Anyone?