I’ve neglected my blog, which is really to say I’ve neglected writing for the sake of writing. I miss it. I used to be good at it – though really I’m talking before blogging existed, when the only way to communicate with the world was to write long missives by email and cc- in a bunch of folks you knew… Folks who, then, were actually quite likely to take the time to read it. (Can you imagine?) At that time the closest thing to social media was MySpace, the new frontier, where one’s typed thoughts could reach a wider public via personalised home page, accompanied by a theme song.
To say they were simpler times is to sound like I’m 102… Though I am forty, which, given the speed the digital age moves, might as well be the same thing.
These days the only personal communications out in the world are via Instagram: pictures + little captions. Which means there’s a lot I do not say and many writing muscles that lie dormant. I miss feeling them stretch.
Well… This is where I’m supposed to announce that I’m setting new goals and holding myself accountable to keeping this blog updated on the regular. Yeah… I’m not doing that. I can try but I cannot commit to myself. So I promise nothing. But I woke up this morning feeling frustrated that I’ve lost the thing I used to have, the agility for putting down words because the words were there just beneath my skin, and not because it’s my job. (Which is valuable and joyous but a different kind of expression, telling stories for someone else; writing to keep the wolf from the door, to cover the expenses of being alive.)
And I figured if I didn’t overthink this, and simply posted the words that fell out of my fingers over the first coffee of the morning, I can bust through the cobwebs of my expressive conscious and maybe… maybe… come back to my writing self again? This rambling missive is as awkward and earnest as a Myspace post circa 2005, but in a way, that’s the point. I’m writing it for me. I’m stretching some neglected muscles. If progress comes from this, I’ll be delighted. Whatever comes of it, a stretch is always a good place to begin.
Canada, eh? I could tell you I moved here for the raccoons and bears and the advocacy of lumberjack chic, but these are mere perks. (Although have not seen enough raccoons. Or any bears. And still trying to figure out where the lumberjacks hang out.) I moved here because I wanted – needed – greater proximity to the wild outdoors. Big Nature.
To be totally honest with you, when I first made the decision to relocate I’d imagined I’d be taking plenty of trips around British Columbia, camping in Banff and Jaspar, pulling on the oars of a canoe down some winding river, or heading up into the great northern wilds of the Yukon. I not only underestimated just how far everything is from one another, but how expensive it is to get about.
And more than that, I couldn’t have anticipated the string of events of the past year, which effectively left me new to Vancouver with just one year on my visa, injuries to manage, a book to write, and living on a part-time retail salary while I wrote it. That has been a whole other extraordinary adventure in itself, one I’m thoroughly grateful for. And the reason I picked this city, where I knew nothing and no one – over say, Toronto, where I have friends and familiarity – was because in Vancouver the great outdoors is directly and obligingly on your doorstep. That was my singular motivation.
And it’s paid off. Because even though my year here has flown in a capsule blur of working, sleeping, and writing, I’ve still got some wonderful hikes in.
Below are most of hiking trails I’ve tried, all just a short distance from downtown Vancouver. (And I live much further east, so many of these were even closer!) Any others I shouldn’t miss while I’m here?
Cypress Falls
2.6 miles – loop route – easy. West Vancouver: 20 minute drive from downtown.
This was my very first hike after moving to Vancouver; supposedly it would be an easy trail which would lead to a waterfall. Despite the trail’s open season beginning in February, this was the first week of March, and I didn’t get very far before being thwarted by thick ice. (And me without my crampons.) I did meet another hiker though, both of us stuck at the same impass, so he, his dog and I had a nice chat as we made our way back to the car park. I asked a lot of questions about Vancouver life, having just been there a couple of days. He was curious about my up and moving here on what sounded like a whim. “And you hadn’t been to Vancouver before you moved here?” he’d asked. “No,” I’d replied, “I just felt a pull, and I followed it.” He gave me a high five and his dog barked in agreement before hurling itself excitedly into the river. The hike didn’t pan out, but it was a nice introduction to my new home.
Quarry Rock
3.7 km – out and back trail – moderate. Deep Cove: 30 minute drive from downtown.
Spring gave a promising wink, and with the first glimpse of warm weather I up and went out to Deep Cove, a ridiculously scenic residential pocket in the eastern corner of North Van. Much of the trail was ascending wooden staircases and gently climbing up through forest, but the views at the top are pretty hard to beat. Note, it gets crowded even mid-week, and people effectively line up to get a photo at the best spot on the rock (but quite entertaining to watch the many different IG-worthy poses being directed). Would definitely like to do this again.
Jug Island Beach Trail
5.1 km – out and back trail – moderate. Belcarra: 45 minute drive from downtown.
Belcarra Regional Park, up in the north-east of Vancouver, is really rather stunning. As was the weather the day I went. A pretty stroll through lush, peaceful forest, the trail rising and falling for a little under an hour, eventually leading to a crescent of pebble beach and clear, blue-green waters. I sat on a log and ate my sandwich, pleased with my hike but couldn’t help feel a pang of envy watching a pair of kayakers glide serenely around the little island.
Crystal Falls
6.1km – out and back trail – easy. Coquitlam: 40 minute drive from downtown.
Summer in Vancouver works hard, so everyone plays hard. I needed to get out – it had been a while – and this route seemed to offer a comfortable distance. Also, since I’d never made it to Cypress Falls on that first hike, this would be my chance to see waterfalls. There were ample walkers out on the trail, although many veered off to the riverbanks to set up beach chairs and coolers. I wish I’d thought of that. Carrying on, the waterfall marked the finish line and I spent a while sitting with my boots and socks off, cooling my feet in the icy rushing water below the falls. That, right there, was my very own beach chair and cooler equivalent and I couldn’t have been happier.
Lighthouse Park
xx ? – out and back – moderate. West Vancouver: 35 minute drive from downtown.
I’ll admit, I wasn’t planning to go for a proper hike. I had merely planned to see the lighthouse. I was wearing sandals for pete’s sake. From the carpark I’d followed signs to lighthouse views, and found myself winding through the forest, all in all a good 45-minute undulating hike around the coastal edge. There are some steady descents to get down to the beach, and more than one route to take, but if you do it my way, you’ll make it up as you go along. All roads lead to lighthouse views, in any case.
What better way to spend my birthday than on a proper meal of a hike? And for once I wasn’t hiking alone; my friend from work Melissa and her husband Jesse were leading the charge on this one. (Best gift ever.) Conditions were perfect – warm but cloudy, and being a Monday we barely crossed paths with anyone else. There’s an elevation of almost 300m but it’s so gradual that you barely notice you’ve climbed until you look out over the lake. At North Beach, about halfway, it was incredibly tempting to jump off the small jetty for a swim. A paddle was as far as we got, although part of me might always regret not seizing the moment and going for a dunk. Beers on a patio at Rocky Point afterwards soon made up for it.
There are strange goings on in the desert. And hell, that’s what I like about the place. But one of the strangest I’ve encountered was in Landers, a 20-mile drive north of Joshua Tree down very long, very straight, very dusty roads. I was, if all went to plan, going to a ‘sound bath’ on the site of a geo-magnetic vortex in the Mojave desert.
A little context first. A WWII Flight Test Engineer by the name of George Van Tassel moved himself and his family to the desert in 1947, in the land beside Giant Rock, an enormous boulder in Joshua Tree. As others escaped the city life and were drawn to the otherworldly vibes of Giant Rock, Van Tassel held group meditations there, during which he believed he was contacted by extra-terrestrial beings. These beings gave him the designs for a machine that would channel the energies of the desert to rejuvenate human cells and extend life spans. Why? Their reasoning was that humans only reached wisdom and clarity in old age, so another 50 years will allow us to utilise those tools and improve the state of humanity. It was a message that resonated, at least with the thousands that attended Van Tassel’s annual UFO Conventions, and thanks to their donations he was able to fund building this 16-sided wooden dome – an energy transmitter and cell charger – just as the extra-terrestrials instructed.
Welcome to the Integratron.
It was still early when I pulled into the dusty car park, but the day was already hot. I stepped into the shade of the Integratron’s check-in office. “How’d you get through the gate?” came a man’s voice. “I let myself in,” I said. “We keep the gate closed to keep people out,” said the man, counting a stack of receipts. I apologised and made to come back, but his tone was jovial rather than gruff and he insisted I stay in the reception, where it was cool. I noted his long grey goatee and recognised him as the bartender at Landers Bar, where friends had taken me at the weekend. I reminded him we’d met. “Since I couldn’t get a reservation for the sound bath you mentioned I should come down one morning and see if there’s a free space, as sometimes people don’t show up. So, here I am.” Boo, as he introduced himself, works at a few iconic Joshua Tree sites, but told me how he’s started covering shifts at Landers for the usual guy (“the one with the cowboy hat”) who was in Texas with his band. We got on to the subject of music, and the local music festival happening this weekend. “Any blues bands?” I enquired. “Unfortunately not,” said Boo. “Blues is my favourite.” I nodded: “Mine too.” “So,” he said, turning to the day’s reservations list. “How many in your party?” “Just me.” He did some math, then scribbled my name at the bottom. “You’re in.”
Outside the office is the hammock garden, a place to hang out while waiting for your session in the Integratron. Hammocks hung this way and that in the sheltered courtyard. I climbed into one, cradled entirely by the faded striped canvas, and rocked gently back and forth, the desert winds blowing over the top of me, while listening to the rhythmic soprano squeak of hammocks creaking in the breeze. I thought about energy fields and channelling other life forces – while I don’t believe in UFOs I think we do all transmit and receive different energy. Regardless, I was open to whatever was going on here.
It was cool and dark inside the Integratron and, shoes removed, each person clambered up a ladder to the floor above. There, below the high wooden dome, cushioned mats were splayed out in a circle, and everyone selected a cotton blanket in their favourite colour. Our guide for the sound bath, a retired deep-tissue massage therapist, sat cross-legged amid a circle of pale quartz bowls of various sizes. I lay down on my mat, pulled the blanket over me, placed my hands on my belly and stared up at the hole in the top of the dome, watching dust particles hover in the circular beam of sunlight it threw down. The guide told us the story of George Van Tassel, how the Integratron worked, and what was about to take place. (Some of us might fall asleep, he said, and any snorers should be politely shaken.)
While the Integratron itself channels energy from the geo-magnetic vortex below, the sound bath would, so we were told, move that energy through us five times more quickly. He was going to play different notes on the bowls and each one would tap into a different part of our bodies – from A in our heads to G in the solar plexus. We should try to express love to ourselves and be open to our higher consciousness.
“Don’t think of us as human beings having a spiritual experience; rather, we are spiritual beings having a human experience.”
And then, the music began.
My ears drowned in the strangest sound; a gentle note but so loud it filled my head. Other notes washed in like the tide, and out again. Vibrations hummed through my body and I lost all track of time. The hole in the dome looked like an eye to me. And I stared back. It was hypnotic and soothing.
Once I closed my eyes I began to look at the darkness behind my eyelids as a symptom of my own state of being. Be more open, came the voice in my head. As my mind attempted to part the darkness, I realised it was jungle, overgrown, blocking the light, and I made great efforts to hack through it and let the light in. Be more open to giving and receiving, came the voice and curiously, I realised my hands were now at my sides, palm-up. Let the light in, I thought.
I was surprised just how many people did indeed start snoring. The young woman next to me began with a low, back-of-the-sinuses purr which gradually became louder, and despite an extended effort to ignore it, my focus was being pulled away from the progress of hacking at my mental jungle, to the sound of the buzz-saw in my ear. Finally I was compelled to give the girl a gentle prod. She awoke, looking at me with all the surprise of someone who, well, has just woken up on the floor of the Integratron.
Eventually the reverberations of the quartz bowls came to a stop and recorded meditation music was played, a chance for everyone to come back to the present in their own time. Slowly, people rose, padded across the room and descended the ladder. When I stood up to leave myself, I looked over at the circle of quartz bowls. The guide had gone.
Emerging from the building into the heat and the light, I felt a little slow, drowsy even. I’d considered stopping by the reception to say thanks again to Boo for fitting me in, but he was busy checking in the next session’s arrivals, and I realised I didn’t want to speak. Getting in the car I also didn’t want to listen to any music, as I always do. I wanted to hold onto whatever I was experiencing: a feeling of total calm, total relaxation, awake but not quite present. It occurred to me that I had been relieved of every ounce of anxiety.
Had I really tapped into my own energy fields via the geomagnetic currents of the desert? Or, was it simply that I’d meditated? There’s a part of me that wants to be cynical, in defence of my pride – it’s hippy nonsense! Dreamed up by some UFO-nut! – but I’ve meditated before and it’s never left me in such a deep state of otherworldly calm. So who knows? Whatever it was, I drove all the way home, down the long, straight desert roads, in complete silence, just the faint sound of the quartz bowls still ringing in my ears.
That evening my usual anxiety returned, namely as soon as I logged into Twitter. So I deleted the app from my phone and the calm returned a little. That’s when I had another realisation: that channelling magnetic energy from the earth under the instructions of extra-terrestrials didn’t seem so preposterous once I considered how much time I waste communicating with strangers on the virtual reality machine I keep in my pocket.
I wonder what George Van Tassel would make of that.
Whisky is usually my friend. But cheap whisky and I are, I’ve now come to accept, not on the best of terms. At my AirBnB I was several drams of $8 Canadian Club down as I waited for the new friend I’d made in Montreal to let me know when he and his friends got to the bar they’d invited me to. I was in the mood for some socialising, and had mostly come back to Montreal on his insistence – he wanted to introduce me to some people and show me around. He’d let me know when they got there. I waited, had another whisky. Then another. And hell, one more to lift the spirits. The message never came, and by midnight I gave up and went to bed.
The next morning I woke up cross and with a head well and truly Canadian clubbed. Cheap whisky hurts. That same guy had originally invited me to a food festival that day, but since my phone was still sans messages I sacked off the idea and took myself out for the day.
The whisky had darkened my mood to an unreasonable level of irritability. I could feel the black cloud creeping. Booze is never good for the head, let alone one trying constantly not to dunk itself into anxiety and depression. It is like someone treading water grabbing hold of a bucket – it will float at first, keep you up, make you feel secure, but eventually it will fill up and drag you down. One thing I did have on my side – other than this level of awareness that I was booze-cranky – was the weather. Spring had sprung, practically overnight. The sun shone gloriously warm over Montreal, the sky blue and clear, my smallest jacket still too padded for the balmy 7-degree temperatures. I wandered to the Jean Marche, the farmers market. I took in the barrels of shiny red apples, the perfect pyramids of oranges, the tumbling stacks of freshly baked loaves, and the spread of golden cheeses. I treated myself to a just-made custard tart, and stopped for coffee.
But although this was nice, I decided to do something even nicer for myself. I booked into Bota Bota, a spa on a docked historic ferry in the old port. I’d wanted to go on my last visit to Montreal, but when you’re travelling on a shoestring a spa day doesn’t exactly fit into the budget. Some things, however, are more valuable than a luxury. This was bona fide self care. And it was only $40 for three hours, I’d been living off Lean Cuisine all week, and didn’t spend any money on Friday night bexcuse I was sitting at home being pissed off. I deserved this, dammit. I deserved Bota Bota.
Photo by @coraliedpn
It could just be the best decision I made that week. I didn’t bring a swimsuit in this leg of the journey so I went in my bra and undies. (They were Knixwear, and passed impressively for a bikini.) I was beyond caring about what I looked like; this was about how I felt. Free of my phone, free of everything but a big white robe, my sunglasses, and some flip-flops I’d picked up from Dollarama, I could focus on feeling good.
Three hours of circulating different parts of the boat in a rhythm of sauna, steam, cold plunge pool, hot tub, and relaxing on a bean bag or a lounger looking out to sea. I sat in the round porthole window in a silent relaxation room and contemplated staying here they kicked me out. But alas, they had my credit card, so eventually I peeled myself away, feeling incredibly relaxed and calm, tranquility coming out the wazoo. I downed litres of water, I craved fresh fruit, I bought melon and salmon at the supermarket. I decided to take a break from booze. My body had become a temple. I felt unbelievably good.
Back in the real world, reunited with my phone, I had a message from the dude who’d stiffed me. “Hey, did you show up to the bar last night? I was wasted.” I paused as I wondered whether to reply, or whether, in fact, to just throw my phone into the port. I imagined it plopping below the surface, sinking slowly down. Instead, I threw it into my bag. “Reclaiming my time” I thought, and bit into a massive piece of melon.
It’s the middle of April in Quebec City, the sun is high and the sky is a cool, clear blue. Not that you’d know it was Spring. The city is frozen: framed in snow drifts, carpeted in ice. As I walked around in the early morning, I have to tred carefully, minding each step doesn’t land me on my arse – shuffling, I realised, just like a penguin. (Might penguins, I wondered, actually stride if you put them on a non-slip surface? No. Forget I asked that.)
It was -11 degrees and if my hands emerged from my gloves for even a minute, they would sting and start to go numb. Icicles hung from doorways. Step and bridge access points to Montmorency Park were so buried in snow they’d been barred off. A man in a heavy jacket clambered over the roofs of the shops on Rus du Petit Champlain, shovelling off the snow and ice, letting it hail down on the cobbled avenue below, as his colleague, wearing orange hi-vis, stood sentry in the street and bellowed up a warning when pedestrians passed by.
Presumably the task was to avoid an avalanche on unsuspecting shoppers later in the day. Indeed only yesterday a large sheet of snow had come plummeting down from an office block as I was passing below, and crashed right at my feet. The woman right in front of me had, as far as I was concerned, reacted perfectly – which was to whirl around and exclaim a high-pitched “Mon dieu!”
Thank god indeed that I wasn’t crushed by falling ice, as I’ve only just got to Quebec City and for one, I would have missed out on trying Quebeois ice wine. Looking for an excuse to get out of the cold – and the showers of snow from the roof sweeper – I stepped into a charming little cidrerie, manned by a nice old chap, the sort who smiles with his whole face: eyes a-twinkle and chin a-crinkle. As I tasted a range of ice wines and ciders – made from the region’s apples, which freeze in the cold but in the process become lovely and sweet – he admitted the temperature was not normal for this time of year. “We are maybe… 9 or 10 degrees less than what is usual,” he explained, in his French-Canadian twang. (I liked how he said this with the nonchalance one might use when talking about a 2-degree margin. Buddy, in the UK, 10 degrees is jumping a whole season.)
He asked where I was from and his twinkly eyes widened when I told him. “New Zealand!” he sighed. “Ah it is my dream.” I couldn’t help feeling a sense of strange irony that here I was in Canada because I had similar yearnings. However, I did my duty as a wandering Kiwi and answered his most pressing questions about travel to the other side of the earth, before purchasing a bottle of ice cider. I asked if I might have one more sample – y’know, to warm me up for the road? The man gave a twinkly smile and passed me another cup. In a place where it’s cold enough for apples to freeze on their branches, I kinda think the friendliness of Canadians offers life-giving warmth.
In a New Zealand-inspired coffeeshop in central Toronto, the young, hip Canadian barista is making me a dirty chai – that’s a chai latte with an all-important shot of espresso: possibly the greatest crossover of all time – while we discuss The State of Things. “The world feels so crazy right now,” says the barista, with the familiar world-weary bafflement we all seem to reserve specially for this topic. “It’s like…” He searches for the words. “No… It’s just that: crazy. When I was a kid in school, reading about World War Two and Hitler, I remember thinking, ‘C’mon, how could that even happen?’ And now we have an American President refusing to condemn actual Nazis.” I remark that Canada feels like one of the politically saner places to be right now. He purses his lips, leans his head to the side and ‘hmmmms’ as he froths the jug of milk. “I’m not so sure about that. The whole world feels so unstable lately. America used to be one of the brighter countries, but it’s fallen so far from it.” There is, we agreed, optimism in what comes next. History might threaten to repeat itself, but maybe we’ll find we’ve learned just enough from what has gone before to change the arc of the story. “Look at all the marches, protests, especially about gun laws, I mean, that’s so great,” he says, handing me my cup of elixir. “It gives me hope.”
It’s not the first time I’ve talked politics with a barista since I moved to Canada three weeks ago. (It’s also my gazillionth dirty chai.) But then, I spend a lot of time in coffee shops – they have become little havens. Not only do they provide good, affordable coffee and free wifi, but there I can be amongst other people. The benefits of this being that I feel less alone, and that I get to tune into the world around me, listening to conversations and having chats with baristas – some of whom now greet me by name. (Y’know, I frequented the same coffee places in London for weeks on end and I almost never got so much as a nod of familiar recognition. I say almost never because once I got a hesitant squint, which I decided to take as a sign they remembered me from the previous day.) This is one of the things I love about Canada – people here are so friendly, and more than happy to chat. For the most part, talking to strangers elicits an opportunity to share, rather than the horrified suspicion I’ve grown so used to in London. Strangers on the bus will get into an enthusiastic yarn about traffic. Locals walking their dogs will stop on the street, their pooches engaged in a snuffling rotation of nose to butt while the owners enjoy an unhurried exchange of doggy anecdotes, laughing and talking more like old friends than people who literally just met on the street. The dude who sorted my local phone contract spent half an hour showing me around his home town on Google street view so I’ll have more context if I visit it on my travels. Canadians, I have come to realise, are remarkably open to the people around them.
This is in spite of the fact most coffee shops I go to are, when I look around, a vast sea of laptops, every one with a coffee drinker attached, plugged into the digital world. And I’ve become one of them. Around Toronto you can find the odd cafe that frowns upon laptops, refusing to provide wifi as a deterrent to the digi renegades who threaten to turn them into a hot-desking office. Which I totally understand. ‘No wifi here: make a real connection and TALK’, reads the sign in one such coffeeshop. But Canadians talk plenty. And I, too, will find more opportunities to talk when working away in these coffee shops. Conversations will be struck up with people at the next table, or beside me at the counter; with the baristas or their friends who pop in to chat; or to someone who comes in with a toddler or with a dog, either of which might totter over to my table and beg for some of my biscuit.
I know I have to get out from behind my laptop, and I will – there is a helluva lot of Canada to explore. (Honestly, it’s pretty fecking big you guys.) But the fact remains – you’ll always find me in a coffee shop somewhere or another, listening to people, soaking up the atmosphere, being a part of something – in a funny way, feeling a connection. And the way the world’s going lately, I’m all for taking them where I can find them.
Five of my favourite Toronto coffee spots: Safehouse (Dundas W) Run & Gun (Dundas W) Jimmy’s Coffee (Kensington) Fantail (Roncesvalles) Field Trip (Bloor W)
I was probably feeling a little too pleased with myself. That must have been it. A Monday morning, up before the dawn, I had – swaddled in my faux fur coat, my comfy trainers on and coffee held jauntily aloft – sailed through all the usual scans and checks to take my seat on a Eurostar. It was a day trip to Paris; a hop across the Channel for little mooch about, for no other reason than it being possible, and something I’ve not taken advantage of nearly enough. Strange, how we can feel content in the assurance of possibility, but forget to actually DO the thing. I silently applauded two-months-ago-me who had snapped up tickets for £28 each way. (Nice work, two-months-ago-me, you deserve a croissant.)
Taking the 5.40am train from Kings Cross will deliver you into the cavernous echoing throng of Gare du Nord by 9.17am, which is precisely the right time to hit the nearest boulangerie. (Well, get well clear of the station first.) Take the 8.13pm back that evening and you can be home in Blighty by 9.39pm, ready to fall straight into bed. With check-in times and all, you’ll have a little over 9 hours to spend in the City of Lights.
But plans, as it is in life, can sometimes go wrong. The Eurostar emerged from the dark of the Channel tunnel into the bright morning of the Normandy countryside… and then lurched to a complete stop. We sat there a bit. We sat there a bit longer. Eventually we were informed the train had broken down, the power was switched off, and there we continued to sit for the next three hours. Eventually the train was rolled into Lille, where we were shimmied onto a replacement train to Gare du Nord. By this point it was 1.30pm. And I was gasping for a pastry.
Five and a half hours in Paris is better than no hours in Paris. But since my time had been so brutally slashed, so too was my itinerary. Gone was early morning browsing of the flea markets at Cliquencourt. Gone was the climb to the top of the Arc de Triomphe (I’ve still never done that). Gone was the cultural musings amongst the art in the Musée d’Orsay. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful crisp autumn day in Paris, so I dispensed with the Metro – gone – and set off on foot.
I ventured through the gritty, pretty streets of the Marais, to Yann Couvreur, for un cafe latte and a fist-sized pistachio pastry scroll. My wanderings took me past Chanel, where I resisted temptation to enter the gates of style and instead treated myself to some elegant ballpoint pens from Papier Tigre. I browsed the racks of chic but eye-wateringly expensive vintage clothing and stacks of cool modern kitchenware at Merci, and crossed the river to poke around Shakespeare & Co, the bookshop I am determined to go to whenever in Paris. They have a new cafe attached, and curiosity – plus a growing urgency to charge my phone, which I was using as my camera – took me inside, where I plugged in my charger behind a stack of satisfyingly leafed-through books and ordered a noisette. (Only after the first sip remembered that noisette coffee has nothing to do with hazelnuts. I may well forget this again.) From there I strolled the backstreets of St Germain, past the cafes and restaurants with their rows of little tables on the pavement, stopping to buy the perfect Breton from Saint James and popping in to La Chambre aux Confitures to try the handmade jams. The day could not have been more perfect, the air cool and crisp, the trees that lined the Seine turned to an avenue of gold, and people wrapped up in smart coats and light wafty scarves. Paris in the spring time is lyricised often, but Paris in the autumn is especially glorious.
The afternoon was fading into evening by the time I crossed the Pont Royal and made my way through the well-kept Jardin des Tuileries. And now I was running dangerously low on battery (thanks to four hours on a powerless Eurostar). This was the moment I realised, unhappily, that for all my determination to ignore my phone I still relied on it, not only as a camera, but as my map and clock. The streets west of Pyramides loomed grey and empty, all glitzy hotels and offices and fine-dining – no cafes to be seen – and my always-comfortable shoes began to give me blisters as I roamed the blocks. Until at last, I staggered into Cafe de la Comedie, a little red-toned brasserie on Rue St Honore. The only table with a plug socket, I was informed, was the one beside the bar – a great place to sit and keep warm from the autumnal evening, to watch the comings and goings of the patrons and to listen to the weathered old barman sing quietly to himself as he polished the glasses. I ordered a Campari and gentiane de salers from the waitress with angel wings tattooed on her shoulders. Later, phone and sanity suitably recharged, I went to pay; a problem of minimum card spend was solved, thanks to my Parisian angel, by ordering a campari and soda in a coffee cup, to go. The old barman, amused, muttered something in French as he tipped ice into a cup and prepared my well-disguised dirty secret. One for the road!
I sipped my drink and giggled to myself, shrouded in a light Campari haze, as I made my way to E.Dehillerin. This famous kitchenware store is somehow both tiny and cavernous at once, its high-ceiling and basement-level shelves stocked to the rafters with all things cookery, customers squeezing through the gaps. Everything – from enormous stainless steel soup pots to the tiniest sugar spoon – is labelled with a number corresponding to their hefty catalogues. I had tried, and failed, to get here on two previous visits to the city, so was not leaving empty handed. I selected a lovely little paring knife with a wooden handle for just a few euros, E.Dehillerin etched into its blade. Whenever I use it I can remember being there, browsing the wares, cocktail in hand and ever so slightly tipsy.
Finally, with an hour before my check-in at Gare du Nord, I stopped for a meal. Walking-weary and coming off my Campari buzz, I found a table in a corner and plopped myself into the red-leather banquette. The good-humoured waiter even accepted my paltry French. I liked this place. Only once my steak bavette and frites arrived did I realise how hungry I actually was and swatted away the usual norms of etiquette and trying to appear elegantly Parisian. I hoofed that food down, my friends, and it was magnifique. Shortly after, having made it back to the station, I sailed right through the immigration process once again. It is the best way to travel. However, the Eurostar heading home was busier than the one I’d been stranded on that morning, and I would not be travelling alone. I took my seat next to a stubbly ol’ snowy-haired gent with a beaten-up jacket and an American accent; ordinarily I would put my polite Tube face on, and go back to my own train of thought but the day in Paris had shaken loose my uptight sensibilities and instead we got chatting. I learned he was a bassist in a couple of blues and jazz bands, one on either side of the Channel, and as a harmonica-playing blues fanatic, I was glad I’d taken the time to start a conversation. The rest of the journey was spent talking music, literature and the perils of the creative process.
Even though five and a half hours in Paris was less than I’d planned for, my brief escapade abroad left me feeling inspired, nourished, satisfied. A miniature adventure is still an adventure. Sure, sometimes things don’t go to plan. But we are living in times of uncomfortable uncertainty. Perhaps we need reminding that anything could happen at any moment. And so – why not take that damned day trip to Paris?
“Today I will be happier than a seagull with a stolen chip.” So declared the sign in the pub, where seven of us filled up on fish-finger sandwiches and pints of ale ahead of a blustery walk across the Seven Sisters. I can’t believe I’d not been to Eastbourne before – especially as I actually grew up in another Eastbourne, in Wellington, New Zealand. Both are little seaside towns, both the kind of places city folk might pop round to for an ice cream (and both have seagulls that steal chips), but the comparison ends there.
Where the Eastbourne of my youth was all lush green hills and tiny harbour, here on the Sussex coast it’s all about the white chalk cliffs, the Seven Sisters, looming above shingly beaches. And every day, a throng of day trippers, like us, amble along the tops of them. I can’t decide whether it’s refreshing or actually rather mental that there are no safety measures in place to keep people a safe distance from the sheer cliff edge, where the green grass suddenly turns into thin air. Nothing between yourself and oblivion.
When we stopped for coffee at Birling Gap, a sea-salted man from the National Trust told me the cliffs erode by almost a metre every year. Yet only two weeks after we visited, a 10-metre chunk of cliff gave way, crashing into the sea and killing some pour young soul in the process. And the crazy thing is, we had seen the crack. Friends and I had even stood on it. Because we were foolish, and yes, we dared to stand on the edge. As it turned out, we all ambled our way safely across and strode happily into Seaford, resting our legs in another pub, with another pint, and regale what a breathtaking part of Britain this is. The pub, it turned out, was called The Wellington. Maybe someone up there was looking out for me? Or maybe we were just lucky. But I’ve learned my lesson – always mind the gap.
I couldn’t tell you exactly when I became an introvert, but somewhere between the constant craving for company in my early twenties and the sudden delight at cancelled plans in my early thirties, I turned into one. Time on my own is as necessary to my ability to function as physical exercise. Or coffee.
And while introverts need alone time to recharge their batteries, sometimes, when the daily minutiae builds up and your head feels like a browser with too many windows open, a bit of alone time at home doesn’t cut it. So, with a few days leave to use up, I knew exactly what I would do.
I would go off grid.
While I dreamed of an isolated cabin by the sea (where, I fantasised, I might write my Great Novel and thrive on salty sea air), there were logistics to consider – no driver’s licence, no availability, nowhere remote enough – but after some extensive investigation I found the next best thing. A converted shepherd’s hut in the Scottish Borders. For four days the Woodsman’s Hut would be all mine.
I could get there by train, to Berwick-Upon-Tweed, and then a taxi ride across the English-Scottish border into Abbey St Bathans. It’s hardly the great wilderness, but it’s a gem of a place, surrounded by nature. The hut sits on the property of Mhairi and her husband Ed, but down in the woods, where you feel very much alone. I love a bit of solitude. We should all be able to be quality company for ourselves.
Life in the hut was wonderfully quiet. There is no phone signal, and I switched my phone off as soon as I arrived. I had no watch with me to tell the time. I had just enough electricity – thanks to solar panels on the roof – for a quick hot shower in the morning, and to have the lights on for a couple of hours in the evenings. (But in truth, I preferred reading by camping lantern.)
It rained for the entire four days I was there. And it was glorious.
My daily routine became thus: wake up, peek through the shutters, get the log fire burning. Boots on, trudge round the back of the hut to switch the converter on. Hot shower, water on the wood burner (for coffee and porridge), pick up a book, read, relax. I wrote pages of words. Once or twice I put the radio on. Other times I practised my harmonica – for once not even remotely guilty about the neighbours hearing – and one afternoon, during a rare lull in the rain, I went for a walk through the amber-coloured woodlands, windy hill paths and past the remains of an Iron Age broch. I didn’t see a single soul. In the evenings I’d make dinner, pour a dram of whisky, return to my stack of books, and fall asleep to the sounds of the owls hooting back and forth in the woods outside. Oh, bliss.
People asked me if I got lonely. I didn’t. Wasn’t I bored? Not once. The important question was, did I manage to recharge my batteries? That I did. My mind actually had a chance to declutter itself; I chipped away at writer’s block and found the space to assemble my thoughts. In four days I read three books, more than I’ve managed to finish in the past 12 months.
I could have stayed so much longer, to be honest. And by the time I was on the train back to London, I still didn’t feel any urge to switch my phone back on… whatever noise was waiting for me could wait a little longer. Instead, I opened another book.
“For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of – to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others… and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.” – Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
Messing about on boats is one of those innate New Zealand pastimes that come with the territory of a Kiwi upbringing. (Ironically, this upbringing included many a warning that one should never actually “mess about” on a boat. ‘Have fun in the water but do what you oughta’, right kids?)
Growing up, my dad would take my brothers and I out on our little dinghy with the outboard motor strapped to the back. Life vests on, away we’d go to Ward Island, the distinctive blot in the middle of Wellington harbour. “Dad, can we go out on the boat?” was one of the recurring pleas of my childhood.
So it felt rather apt to be out on a boat with my brother again this summer. He was visiting me from Sydney, and a friend had arranged a day out on a narrowboat in the Lee Valley. Turns out, messing about on boats is a very British thing as well. In fact, in The Wind in The Willows Rat tells Mole, “There’s nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as messing about in boats”.
Preach.
The folks at Lee Valley Boat Centre must have been heartened by this notion too, because all their boats are named for Kenneth Graham’s characters. We were heading out on one Mr Otter, with picnic packed, drinks in the cooler, and a playlist all lined up and ready to go.
Our optimism about the weather was somewhat admirable, considering it was late May – and the Bank Holiday. This is the time of year when spring is dragged kicking and screaming into early summer, and in the throes of its reluctant tantrum the temperature plummeted and the skies were menacingly grey. We were all freezing; huddled on the tiny benches in the narrow cabin, which just fit us all if we hunched together, side-eyeing the coolerbox and wondering why we didn’t have the foresight to bring tea.
(Although we managed.)
Partly as an attempt to distract myself from the possible onset of hypothermia, I opted to be the first designated driver; I’d steered a narrowboat a couple of times before – years ago an old friend had bought a houseboat on a whim (as you do), and I’d offered to help him bring it down to London via the maze of canals. He’d had no idea what he was doing, I’d had no idea that he had no idea, so we’d had to ask a neighbouring boatie for a few tips and suddenly I was steering someone else’s home down a busy waterway, my heart in my mouth.
In truth, steering a narrowboat is rather easy, because nothing happens quickly. If you are going to crash, it happens in slow motion, like two snails preparing for a head-on collision. You just have to keep an eye on what’s ahead; if you see a corner in the distance you should start steering now, and the boat will chug slowly and gently in response. Patience and planning are key. Perhaps the trickiest thing to master is that if you want to veer left, you steer the tiller to the right. Get that mixed up and next thing you know, you’re taken out by a tree.
Locks, on the other hand, require a little more nous. Or, for fellow novices, a handbook. Always read the handbook when you take out a boat, it’s one of the rule of the high seas. (And the low ones as well.) This guide from Lee Valley Boats is pretty comprehensive.
But a few important tips to get you started: always go slowly into a lock, make sure the back of your boat is a good couple of metres from the gate or you’ll get stuck on the raised cill when the water drops, and always know where your lock key is. It also helps to have a crew when you’re narrowboating. People to run ahead and check the water levels, others help loop the ropes around the bollards and people to open and close the gates. How boaters do this alone or in pairs astonishes me. But I suppose that’s the difference between us and, well, people who know what they’re doing.
After all our hard work we moored Mr Otter alongside a local pub, locked the doors and shutters and stopped for lunch. Fish and chips all round in the beer garden and thawing out in the sun which had suddenly burst forth through the dismal skies. It turned out to be a glorious afternoon.
Sunshine! That was what we were missing. Now with the sunlight sparkling on the canal, cyclists and dog-walkers drifting past along the bank, music playing on our speakers, everybody draped over bits of the boat, there was an overriding feeling that actually, this messing about on boats thing is rather glorious, isn’t it? That Rat was right – there really isn’t anything else half worth doing.
It seemed so unlikely, this Brexit nonsense. Something that sounded like a cereal and was promoted by the likes of Nigel ‘I’m-not-racist-but’ Farage and Boris ‘I’m-stuck-on-a-zip-line’ Johnson was surely a bit of a joke. This whole idea about pulling the UK out of the European Union; they couldn’t be serious, could they?
I’m certain it was only a small percentage of the UK that had issues with the EU. Until, that is, we were all asked to decide whether we wanted in or out. Suddenly we had to consider what it actually meant to us, and what it offered. That was hard, given the barrage of skewed statistics on campaign leaflets, scaremongering from the tabloids, lies dressed as facts and people comparing other people to Hitler. And all of it culminating last week in a flotilla battle in the middle of the Thames; Nigel Farage and Bob Geldof calling each other names from little boats (Tower Bridge had to stay open for 20 minutes due to the whole kerfuffle). For god’s sake, how could anyone take this very serious decision seriously?
But the next day the MP and Remain-campaigner Jo Cox was murdered in the street by a neo-Nazi political extremist. And then we had to take it seriously. Very seriously indeed. For the first time, people stopped bickering in their political sandpits and took stock of what the hell was happening here. What were we doing? We had become a country divided upon itself. We were full of fear and uncertainty. Why on earth was David Cameron putting something so incredibly important in our hands, when we didn’t really know what we should do with it? Where should we set this thing down? And what will happen once we do, David? We’re not really sure we want to be holding this, could we give it you back?
Of course, at the end of the day, this is the great thing about democracy – we all had a right to have a say on something that would affect us all. It was exciting to be a part of that. And regardless how one voted, we were all given a chance to make our voice heard. I have always been in the Remain camp: I believe immigration brings more value than problems, and that it’s far less damaging than the tabloids would have people believe. And that the EU is not the source of all poor decisions and lack of control, but our own elected government. (Those who shouted that they “want to elect our own rule-makers” seem to have forgotten the House of Lords.) I had complete confidence in the economic experts who warned we would face a deep recession and that living costs would rise. The statistics being bandied about by the likes of Boris Johnson and his Brexit bus had been dispelled several times over and I already knew Farage and UKIP’s views were bad for women, the LGBT community, minorities and many things I believed in. Many things I wanted made better for the UK. I wanted to live in a more united society, not a divided and isolated one.
So I was down at the polling booth yesterday as soon as it opened, crossing the box to remain in the European Union. All day I wore my IN sticker, discussing the literal Ins and Outs with colleagues, fascinated at the openness of votes and also slightly unnerved by how unsure so many people still were, on the day of such a massive, historic decision. Once the polls closed at 10pm I tuned into the live coverage as the votes were tallied, chatting away with a nervous Twitter community, before passing out on the sofa at 2am. At that point, Leave were inching ahead. When I awoke at 4am, Leave were still in the lead. I felt uneasy. And then I heard that announcement: the UK has voted to leave the European Union.
Shock came first. Then the wave of sadness. I was grieving, but I didn’t know for what. “It’s like hearing someone has died,” messaged a friend. People were crying. This was not what we thought would happen, and we can’t go back. I realised what I was grieving for was the Britain I thought I knew. Like everywhere in the world, this country had its share of misguided Daily Mailers… What I hadn’t realised is that they made up the majority. That more than half of the nation supported people like Nigel Farage and Michael Gove. Finding this out made me genuinely sad. And a little afraid.
There was a mere 4% between for and against. More upsetting numbers include the statistic that 75% of voters under the age of 25 voted to Remain. And 58% of the over-65s voted to Leave. The new generation of Britons, many of whom identify as European, were now denied the sort of future they wanted.
On a personal level, I’d spent 11 years working towards earning my British passport, becoming a citizen of this country that I loved and that adopted me, and, furthermore having the right to easily live and work in any one of 27 European countries. I finally got my UK passport in April. Three. Months. Ago. I could have enjoyed that freedom for the rest of my life, but that’s gone now. What a crushing disappointment. As is the entire Brexit situation.
But like I say, this is democracy. The Leavers, while I don’t understand or agree with their choice, have the right to vote for it, and the right for that choice to be respected. By the same token, I have the right to disagree. Which I do, firmly. This morning I’ve been dragged kicking and screaming through the stages of grief. Denial. Depression. Anger. Bargaining…. Acceptance? Yeah, I’m not ready for that yet.
But after six hours of trying to absorb the reality of historic change, I’ve tried to console myself with notions that maybe, just maybe, we are not powerless yet. That we can still make things better.
My uncle once told me that success is not the outcome of the event, but the reaction to the outcome.
So while the outcome feels devastating and looks terribly bleak right now (the pound at its lowest since 1985, the Prime Minister resigning and the reality of an unelected PM – possibly even Boris – taking his place) let us not hoist down the life boats just yet. Britain will only go to the dogs if we allow it to. 48% is almost half of this country. Frustratingly, not enough to sway the referendum, but enough of us to make sure this country stays true to the greater of its values. Isn’t Britain all about rolling up one’s sleeves and showing courage in the face of adversity? We may not have succeeded in staying in the EU, but it’s up to us to encourage those same values we were pushing to retain: openness, diversity, equality, standing up for the vulnerable, and to the voices of division… We might only be able to make small differences, but those things matter.
The plane has been there since 1973. To look at the thing now – the torso of an aircraft, riddled with bullets, left to erode on a black beach in southern Iceland – you’d imagine something sinister happened. A tragic crash, a plane shot down in battle, a Bermuda-triangle-style missing airliner. The eeriness of this rusting wreck is its greatest allure.
If you’d prefer to keep it cloaked in mystery, skip this part… But the truth – or as much of it as I or anyone can gather – is quite charming. This Douglas Dakota aircraft (often referred to as a “DC-3”) was part of the old Icelandic US Navy base at Keflavik. Nobody is certain why it was forced to land in Sólheimasandur (theories abound) but everyone on board survived, dusted themselves off and went home. Once the military had claimed the wings, cockpit and engines, the rest was left to rust on the beach, on what was – and still is – a farmer’s private land. Later, the tail was sawn off by the farmer’s friend, who dragged it back to his place and used it to build his house. As for the bullet holes… the farmer had some buddies over to take pot-shots at it for target practice – because what else do you do with a 5-tonne tin can on your property?
None of this information should remove the mystique of the plane; that remains, simply in its strangeness. It’s a fish out of water. A stark white plane-wreck on a vast, black beach. It’s mesmerising enough that you will create your own stories: certainly ever since Sigur Ros featured the wreck in their music doco Heima, people have been drawn to it. This broken husk of a machine somehow enhances the wild beauty of the Icelandic landscape. To me it says: the land is bigger than all of us, and it can claim us.
FINDING THE SOLHEIMASANDUR PLANE WRECK
I wanted to come here in early 2014, when on assignment for a magazine with photographer Adrienne Pitts. She had told me about the mysterious wreck, but restraints of the job meant we didn’t get there. I’ve thought about it ever since.
Until recently, you could drive right up to the plane. This year vehicles were banned due to the increasing number of visitors who were using the land for a bit of an off-road joyride. The folks who own this land are farmers, and they want people to have access to the plane, but they can’t afford to be fixing damages. (See, people, this is why you can’t have nice things!) Now, one must go by foot, some 50 minutes from the access point. Personally, I’m glad that you have to walk there. Something like this calls for a little dedication.
Directions: Driving eastward along the south coast, you want to pay attention after leaving Vik. Once you pass the Skogafoss waterfall on your left, start looking out for a bridge with blinking yellow lights, then a road leading to the glacier. Carry on for about 1 mile (if you reach another bridge you’ve gone too far), until you see a large gate on your right. And seemingly nothing beyond it. This is where you begin.
Once you’ve found the access point, head towards the horizon. Keep in mind that over the years a lot of travellers have lost their way, got stranded, and a surprising number have had to be rescued. So if you’re going at an unsociable hour, or in bleak weather, I’d definitely take along some form of GPS with co-ordinates. There are no landmarks out there.
The day my brother and I went was clear and sunny, as perfect conditions as you could ask for – but even on the best of days the land can play tricks on you. The horizon was a hazy mirage that not only made it look like people far ahead were walking into the ocean, but it was impossible to gauge distance. For almost an hour, it felt like we were walking into nothing. A road to nowhere.
Then suddenly, the land dipped – and there she was.
Once I was done having a moment (“we’re actually here!”), Chris and I approached the wreck, taking in the decay of the metal body, the gnarled bullet holes and initials – old and new – scratched into the interior. There were a few people padding around the plane trying to capture it, so we took ourselves off for a picnic against a boulder: tomato sandwiches with lashings of salty Icelandic butter. This is the great thing about having to walk to the plane – everyone who was there had made time. We’d all committed to it. We were not in any hurry.
Shortly after – before we’d even constructed a second sandwich – the other people left, and my brother and I were alone with the Sólheimasandur plane. I hadn’t expected to get the place to ourselves. That was special, if not a little eerie, being the only ones there.
Eventually some fluorescent specks of visitors appeared over the rise, so we gave Sólheimasandur’s ghost one last glance before setting off on the long walk back to the car. Within a couple of minutes a worried-looking woman came towards us, pleading: “Is this the right way to the plane? Is it far? I cannot see it!” A few steps more, we explained, and she would see it. The land, like I said, will play tricks on you. So don’t worry; if you’re seeking something mysterious, it’s there, for those willing to find it.
(Most of these photos were taken by Chris Nelson – please do not use without permission. Thanks for the epic pics, bro.)
Funny, isn’t it, the things you get self-conscious about. My whole life I quietly resented little quirks of my features – my nose, my teeth, the usual things people fret over, worrying how they look to the rest of the world, despite the fact that all anyone else thinks is that it’s just your FACE. I’m now old enough and wise enough to realise that not only does nobody else care, but those quirks are a part of me, and I’m the one who turned them into hang-ups. Nobody’s remarked on them, they’ve never stopped the suitors and at the end of the day, they’re a part of who I am. This is the packaging, babe, and I own it! And yet, there I am, on a Monday night, with some stranger on Instagram criticising my feet.
MY FEET!
I laughed – because my feet are not, and have never been, a player in my game of hang-ups. And then I thought, what have we come to, when one’s feet are taken to task for not being… Wait, what are feet supposed to be, exactly? Supermodel thin? Glossy? (Seriously, should be my feet be glossy?) Should I have a toe gap? I don’t even know what the airbrushed ideal for feet is, but anyway… what is the world coming to?
“Ugly foot… bloated” remarked some bored teenage girl. (In Italian, but no less rude.)
Now, first of all, I have a chronic injury in my right foot – there’s me doing a half marathon in cheap joggers, that’ll learn me… (Kids, stay in school, don’t do drugs, and WEAR QUALITY RUNNING SHOES) – which means it’s now very slightly bigger than my left. It’s been that way for years and it doesn’t stop me doing things. Even though every day of my life it hums with a dull ache and on a hot day, or if I’ve been wearing heels, that thing will swell up like a watermelon. Don’t get me started about what happens when I fly long-haul – it reaches such epic proportions that one time when I showed it to an air hostess she gasped and hid in the galley. (When this happens I can only refer to it as Footzilla).
In the photo that drew a scathing remark, my foot was as good as it gets. The swelling is barely noticeable. Trust me, Insta-critic, you ain’t seen nothing! And let’s not overlook the fact that in this picture I was having breakfast in bed in Paris and indeed had A WHOLE ENTIRE BAG OF CROISSANTS, so if all you can see when you look at it is a slightly puffy foot, then young lady, your life is a dark and dreary place and may I never have to go there. (Have you ever had a whole bag of croissants to yourself, in bed, in Paris? Nah, I didn’t think so.)
Feet are funny. I know some people have a deep fear and loathing of them – I once lived with a grown-man flatmate who would have to leave the room if I wore toe-socks. (They’re socks that have little sections for each toe, like gloves. They are slightly creepy, but they are also very snug). And there are many others who think feet are wonderful. (I’ve known an actual foot fetishist. And for what it’s worth, I never got no complaints about my tootsies.) But wherever you stand on the matter, feet are hardly deserving of scorn for not being attractive enough. Are they? Or is this like when Demi Moore got cosmetic surgery on her knees and suddenly women panicked because they hadn’t been considering their knees aesthetically, lying awake wondering if their knees weren’t noticeably droopier than yesterday?… Is foot beauty a thing now?
Of course a little grooming is good, but at the end of the day I’ve always put feet in the zone of just being… feet. They’re totally amazing! Mine have taken me to some pretty incredible places. And I take far more footsies than I ever do selfies (my stepdad often remarks that my feet have been more places than I have). They even got me through that half marathon, despite what I put the buggers through. I jog-limped crossed that finish line with gusto.
So thank you, feet, for being fabulous and strong and getting me through years of stubbornly wearing flip-flops in winter and insisting on wearing uncomfortable heels for Nice Occasions. For pedalling me from London to Paris and getting me up Helvellyn and supporting me on the dancefloor even when you wanted me to sit the hell down now, please. For helping me push doors open when I’ve got arms full of shopping and for being big enough to keep my 5ft9 body from falling over every single time it’s upright. You’re really bloody awesome, even when you hurt, and, for the most part, even when you (yeah, I’m looking at you, right foot) turn into Footzilla and frighten airline crew. I don’t like my injury but I do love my feet, and like those other quirks I learned to accept, my big fat foot is as much a part of me too.
And to you, Miss Bad-Manners of Instagram… my bigger foot is all the better for kicking your arse with. You better run, kid.
Today in the moments after waking I discovered two things: 1) that David Bowie wasn’t an immortal being, and 2) that all this time I had actually believed that he was. But Bowie had died. Cancer. One he had never announced. Lying in the dark, at 6am on a Monday morning, pitch black and rain beating against the window, this was a huge realisation to digest. I moved through the day rather stunned. I know a lot of fans want to take rightful ownership of this grief; those who have lived longer, loved him longer, met him, known him more intimately, followed him more dedicatedly. But all my life, for more than three decades, I had inhabited a world with David Bowie in it – and suddenly, the world was different. Anyone who had a bit of Bowie in their life feels that loss one way or another: my flatmate locked in her bedroom all day blasting the Berlin Trilogy; my colleague sharing a sudden urge to carpe the hell out of this diem; or my own desire to curl up in a cave somewhere and listen to Underground from the Labyrinth soundtrack on repeat, and sulk like the little girl I was when I first fell in love with him. We all want to share our stories, thoughts and favourite music – in that way Bowie really is immortal.
“It’s only forever / It’s not long at all.”
THE DAY BOWIE AND I SHARED A STORM
The superstars never came to Wellington. When big artists stretched their tour as far as New Zealand, they went to Auckland, the big smoke. Our miniscule capital didn’t hold much sway with tour schedules. So when it was announced that, in February 2004, David Bowie would be gracing our shores and playing little old Wellington – and only Wellington – there was audible rejoicing. Even for me, having gone and moved to Auckland a couple of years before, this was good news. Nothing a plane ticket couldn’t fix. It would take more than a hiked up airfare to get between me and the man whose music had way-marked the various stages of my life, in the way that it has for most of us.
Of course, being Wellington, the place where New Zealand keeps all of its weather, on the day of the show it absolutely, utterly, bollocksed it down. Torrential, pouring rain, with some gale winds thrown in for good measure. It was enough to cause my return flight that night to abort mission shortly after take-off and return to dry land (I got a free night in an Ibis). But it didn’t stop David Bowie.
That evening a couple of old friends and I raced towards the stadium, negotiating the sodden Wellington streets and running late – late for Bowie! I was beside myself! – and high-stepped into the stadium just as the opening bars of Fame burst forth from the stage. I’ll never forget that moment: the lights, the reverberations, the bass, the damp… It was like walking into a steamy disco spaceship. One, it should be noted, that did not have a roof. I negotiated my footing down slippery steps, past rows of seated fans wrapped in raincoats, steadfastly ignoring the buckets of rain coming down on them, and joined the standing throng at the front. There I spent the rest of the evening ankle-deep in water and soaked to the bone and not giving a damn, not caring if the rain slowly filled up the cake tin of a stadium and drowned us all. Because Bowie was on.
All The Young Dudes. China Girl. A Pixies cover. He was nailing it. But after a couple of songs, the man decided he couldn’t take it anymore. If we were going to get wet, he declared, then he would get wet too. He came down to the front of the stage where he was exposed to the elements and performed there for the rest of the night. “Are you alright out there?” Bowie called out, grinning, “Because if you are, we are!” The regular torrents of water cascading over the roof of the stage merely seemed to spur him on. David Bowie was singing in the rain. Space Oddity. Starman. The stage manager threw the singer a towel to mop his head, while he flicked his sopping hair and flashed those pointed teeth. He was boyish, cheeky, having fun, and he played his towel like an instrument: “Towel guitar!” he joked. Everyone laughed; it was soggy and joyous.
Under Pressure. Ashes to Ashes. The great man turned back to face his band, who were safely tucked away under the eaves. “Come on in, guys, the water’s fine!” he laughed, beckoning with a big wet sweep of his arm, then throwing his head back in a laugh, knowing they would be staying put. Nothing could dampen the spirits that night, neither Bowie’s, nor ours. Not even the foulest of Wellington weather. And to finish an incredible set, he dedicated Heroes to us, his committed, partly-drowned audience, who risked trenchfoot and pneumonia to sing along with him. And nobody minded that it was raining, because it felt like Baptism by Bowie, and he had selected us, the wettest bloody little city in the southern hemisphere, and we loved him for it.
BLAME IT ON THE BLACK STAR
I had a bit of a moment when Bowie released his last album. Because when I was 17 I was going to be a rock star. And so, like, obviously, I got a tattoo. I had decided on a black star: at the time, symbolic of my big dreams and probably my ego. And, being an aural glutton of a teen, it was a tribute to the artists that inspired me. I realise it’s hardly an intricate design (some fat bloke in a side street in Auckland city wielded the gun); the star itself was traced right off the cover of the Velvet Goldmine CD soundtrack. I loved the film for its glittered homage to London, glam rock, David Bowie, Lou Reed and T Rex. And I had the tattoo coloured black, because Black Star was a Radiohead song. Let’s face it, it’s a silly teenage fancy of a tattoo. It certainly wouldn’t stand up in a bar fight. But it represents me at age 17, my utterly incomprehensible dreams and the musical heroes that encouraged them. So when I heard Bowie’s final album was called Blackstar, I smiled. My teenage self would be totally freaking out.
Considering my interest in food (preoccupation, some might say), there will always arise the question of what I don’t like. And for a long time my answer would elicit surprise. COFFEE. I couldn’t stand it. It was the only thing I detested, the last hurdle of flavour that I’d yet to conquer; I’d sooner stuff my gullet with offal than take even a sip of a coffee. Not that I didn’t try it – I did, many times, hoping I’d find some hidden magic. I couldn’t. The taste was revolting. Of course, many people told me I would grow into it.
“Try a macchiato!” they said, “It’s like a hot chocolate!” they said, “It doesn’t even taste like coffee!” they said.
ALL LIES. No sweetness could mask the vileness of the nasty bean. It’s why coffee ice cream or capuccino cake were firmly off-limits. Taking a chocolate from a selection box without a menu meant the risk of getting a coffee cream, like confectionary Russian roulette. (Getting it wrong was mouth death.) But believe me, this wasn’t how I wanted to live. I wanted to enjoy it all! In a world full of flavour sensations, to dislike something as vehemently as I did coffee, well… it felt like failure. Plus, there were the social elements. When people say, “let’s go for coffee”, of course this includes tea, but deep down it felt like being in a sub-class of hot beverage drinker. A pat on the head: “There, there, you get yerself a wee tea. Poor you with your unrefined palate.” Then there’s the variety. If you’re a tea drinker you get, at best, leaves in a pot. At worst, you get a bag in a cup. That’s more or less your lot, and although I explored the world of tea with as much love and loyalty as I could, celebrating independent loose leaf producers and wiling away hours in the Twinings shop, ordering tea out was limited. (The sign of a cafe that gives a damn is one that offers lemon with your earl grey. These are surprisingly rare.) Coffee, on the other hand is like a respected member’s club, with its own secret handshakes and special code. Decaf? Latte? Skinny? Roast? Drip? Espresso? Double shot? Americano? It was a fascinating world, but one that I was destined never to know.
Turns out I was wrong. Exactly one year ago, something changed. I was in Iceland, of all places, doing a food story, and the photographer was shooting early morning coffees at Reykjavik Roasters. My bleary eyes honed in on the frothy latte left there on the table. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was because I was tired, maybe the eerie Icelandic atmosphere had an effect on me. But I had a sip. And I didn’t hate it. Panicked that this spell would wear off, I took another sip. Then another. And then another – and oh, wait, there we are. BLEEUUURGH! Yes, I still hated coffee, but for the next three months I couldn’t stop thinking about those first few illicit sips. So began my slow dalliance with coffee. Now, I love it. And a whole new world has opened up. I get to say things like “Arabica” and “ristretto” and “don’t even TALK to me until I’ve had my coffee”. Everything is a novelty and as such, I’ve continually taken pictures of my coffees, frustrating every Instagrammer who’s ever tired of seeing another arty latte shot with a Valencia filter. But it’s been fun. Here I’ve shared a few excerpts of my conversion to coffee. My caffeinated diary.
2 Feb 2014: Reykjavik Roasters coffeehouse. The latte that changed everything.
29 Apr: Today, for the first time, ordered a coffee. Drank a quarter of it before my mouth cried.
1 May: Colleague made me an iced coffee. Not convinced. Had to put a bucket of ice cream in it.
1 Jun: Proud kiwi moment – my first flat white. Even finished it. Getting easier.
5 Jun: Deadline week – offered to do the coffee run. Mine is the tiny one. Baby steps.
1 Jul: I LOVE ICED COFFEE. Esp this one with dark chocolate sorbet in it. (Cheating?)
25 Jul: Easily swayed. Thinking I might have an iced coffee problem.
16 Aug: Terrible cappuccino in Soho. Realised bad coffee is a new, and very real, life risk.
23 Aug: Saturday latte at L’Eau a la Bouche. Look around at people and think, “I am one of you now”.
25 Aug: I AM ON THE TRAIN. Grabbed my first Caffe Nero. Passionless.
28 Aug: After years mooching in Borough Market, had my first Monmouth coffee. Was worth the wait.
29 Aug: Coconut-oil-infused Bulletproof coffee could be my new favourite thing of all time…
1 Sep: Can’t sleep at night. Someone suggested decaf. Not ready to admit defeat.
4 Sep: Love Bulletproofs but the caffeine high lasts HOURS. (Plus side: getting lots done.)
6 Sep: Try my first black Americano at the Finch Cafe. Had to add milk. Lots and lots of milk.
10 Sep: Have my first espresso AFTER DINNER. Had to add sugar. Lots and lots of sugar. Also: I am never sleeping again.
22 Sep: First time in Italy as a coffee drinker. Belissimo latte in Tuscany. Heart the Italians.
25 Sep: In Florence. Iced coffee is different here. Wasn’t prepared. Sad face.
23 Oct: Have given in and accepted decaf as my friend because I miss sleeping.
1 Nov: Coffee at home now! Had to Google “How to make coffee in a stovetop percolator”.
9 Nov: NYC bound. Paced airport looking for decent coffee place. Think have become snob.
11 Nov: Tried Starbucks in NYC as I needed wifi. People drink this stuff? Had name spelled ‘Glen’.
29 Nov: Love finding independent coffee places around London. Confess: am stuck on lattes.
4 Jan 2015: Friend introduced me to filter coffee. Not just diner fodder! God. Still much to learn.
28 Jan: One year on and I love coffee. Just a shame caffeine hates me.
Any good city, no matter how much it might threaten to dent your wallet, is packed with free things to see and do. So even on a shoestring you can still taste a slice of the Big Apple. You will want to invest in a transport card – $30 will get you a pass that covers the subway and buses for a week. As for the sites? You don’t have to spend a dime if you don’t want to. I’ve barely scratched the surface of this city, but here are some of my favourite freebies that New York has to offer…
BROOKLYN BREWERY TOUR Be educated and entertained by one of the beardy brewmasters behind Brooklyn’s best-known beer brand. Now say that ten times fast. Saturdays and Sundays offer free guided tours throughout the afternoon – just turn up an hour ahead to collect your tickets (once they’re gone, they’re gone). Optional spend: If you do fancy enjoying the wares while you wait, £5 gets you one beer token, $20 gets you five. Ask to sample the beers before you pick, they’ll happily talk you through the options. Click for more: brooklynbrewery.com
BROOKLYN BRIDGE Since 1883 this has been a popular and rather scenic passage between Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan. It’s a good half hour walk and well worth it for the views. Tip: Be particularly wary of the bike lane. Impatient cyclists will take no prisoners.
CENTRAL PARK It’s a no-brainer. 2.5 square kilometres of sprawling, breathtaking park in the middle of Manhattan, this place is stunning any time of year, although in autumn the colours are something else. It fills the space from 59th Street to 110th Street between Fifth Avenue and Eighth Avenue. If you’re lucky (and you probably will be), there’ll be a busker playing the saxophone, and all you’ll need to complete your New York moment is for Woody Allen to jump out from behind a tree. Optional spend: Cycle hire available throughout the park (about $12-15 for 1 hour). Click for more:centralparknyc.org
FILM LOCATIONS The options are endless, and all you have to do is walk around. Sex & the City is my guilty pleasure so I sought out Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment in Greenwich Village. (FYI: The owners prohibit you sitting on the steps of their Brownstone. A little reminder we’re back in the real world. One where writers can’t actually afford a stack of Jimmy Choos.) I also came upon several other locations completely by accident. Google locations from your favourite New York shows or films, and keep your eyes open. Tip: Fellow SATC fan? Carrie’s apartment is at 66 Perry Street.
GRAND CENTRAL STATION This historic railway terminal is really worth seeing (and not just because its vast interior makes it tricky to photograph.) Serving as a landmark of its time, and transforming the Manhattan transportation network, the current building was unveiled in 1913. It’s a romantic-looking building and a great spot for people-watching. Where IS everybody going, anyway? Optional spend: For $4.99 (£2.99) download the Official Grand Central Tour app for an audio guide. Click for more: grandcentralterminal.com
THE HIGH LINE Once a section of a freight train route, the last load being carried in 1980. For years there were battles between those who wanted to demolish it and those who wanted to save it – thankfully the latter won. The High Line was turned into a 1.45-mile-long public garden, the first section opening in 2009. It’s maintained by Friends of the High Line and runs from West 34th Street to the Meatpacking District.Tip: The indoor Chelsea Market sits below the southern end of the High Line, wander through or stop for a bite to eat from one of the many food producers. Click for more: thehighline.org/visit
TIMES SQUARE Sure, it’s not square – but you will be if you go to the Big Apple and don’t check it out. Lights! Billboards! Touts! This famous junction is a mad extravaganza but worth taking a brief moment to gawp at. Click for more: timessquarenyc.org
STATEN ISLAND FERRY A free scenic ferry ride to Staten Island? It’s not a rumour. Hop onboard at Whitehall in the Financial District. You’ll need to disembark and wait to get back on to do the straight return to Manhatten. It’s about 25 minutes each way – and don’t forget to wave to the Statue of Liberty. Tip: To see Lady Liberty keep right on the way to Staten island. Click for more:siferry.com
Comedy and death seem so terribly contrary and yet are so inextricably linked, that last week when I heard Rik Mayall had died, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What do you MEAN Rik Mayall’s dead? *snort* As IF.
It was a joke! And you fell for it… like the facist you are!
Except it wasn’t. And he IS. And I felt so terribly sad about it all. But it wasn’t just me being all girly – people everywhere were sharing real and virtual hugs over it, mourning somebody who had made us all make strangled bear noises because we were laughing so hard. God he was funny. The explosive energy, the conscientious chaos, the intelligent insults and sheer ridiculousness. Sometimes I thought he crossed the line of lewdness, yet I found I would still honk with laughter.
I suppose it feels like bidding adieu to a teenage chum. Because a vast chunk of my formative high school years were invested in watching The Young Ones – so much so that my friend Maria and I knew all the episodes by heart. We’d scribble our favourite lines in notes to each other in class. We’d shout “Piss off you girl!” or “Hands up who likes me!”. We – weirdly – listened to Madness songs and would snigger about cornflakes and lentils. We even adopted personas: Maria was Rick; I wanted to be Vyvyan – but was usually Neil, mostly because I was a people-pleaser who wore flares. (Bor-ring!)
Before all of that there was Drop Dead Fred – I was only about 10 but, in spite of all the snotting, I had a very real crush on Fred’s enthusiasm, big eyes, and incorrigible loyalty. And let’s face it – there’s nothing quite as fanciable as a man who can make you laugh like a drain.
Anyway. Look. I wasn’t going to do a tribute post. PA-THET-IC. Every Rik Mayall fan has their own personal stories to tell and top comedy moments to share. We could all go on and on about it and I’m sure we’d never not have something to say.
But today it was Rik’s funeral and I wanted to pay my respects. And I want to do it with poetry. Rik’s poetry. Because those really were some of my favourite bits.
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1. BOMBS! These days Maria are linked only via the loose virtual thread of Facebook. But she and I used to recite this so bloody often, that the day Rik died we unhesitatingly took turns to recite it line by line on her Facebook page.
2. ARE YOU, CLIFF? From the very first episode. This was my all-time favourite Young Ones poem, partly because I grew up a dedicated Cliff Richard fan and this gave me licence to admit it… But mostly because it’s actually a bloody excellent poem.
3. BUT I DON’T KNOW VANESSA REDGRAVE! What I love about this stand-up bit, from his early comedy act with Ade Edmondson, is that is shows elements of what would become the Young Ones’ Rick, but he’s somehow even more hilarious. I never stop shrieking with laughter watching this.
My all-time favourite perfume is Chanel Coco Mademoiselle. I coveted it for years, and eventually, in the days of being broke and freelance, I spent the paycheck from my first published article on a bottle of it. Even now I wear it every day because I love the way it smells and the way it makes me feel. And yet, despite all this, if you were to ask me to describe the scent to you, I couldn’t.
Perfume is such a personal thing, but there is so much I don’t know. Fortunately, I was about to get an education, thanks to a birthday gift from my brother. I had an appointment with a London perfumer – and not just any perfumer. I was going to Floris.
One of London’s oldest perfumeries, Floris has been operating since 1730, and is where Queen Elizabeth buys her own personal fragrance, although naturally that scent is kept a secret.
The original location is tucked away on Jermyn Street, behind the pastel façade of Fortnum & Mason – incidentally, where the Queen gets her groceries – but the bespoke perfumery appointments take place at their new Ebury Street address, in the pretty colonnaded streets of Belgravia. It was here that I met Shelagh Foyle, an experienced perfumer who would take me through an olfactory journey.
And it really was a journey – it even had an element of time travel. Although all the senses contain memory receptors, those of smell are the oldest, and a whiff of a scent can take us back to a specific moment in time. We will all react to a fragrance in different ways because there will be something personal associated with it. And it could be good or bad. For this reason, I was warned, I may not like everything I would smell during my appointment.
“I have no idea what you’re about to experience”, said Shelagh. This was personal.
The first scent I loved. It reminded me of the CK One I used to steal from my mother’s dressing table when I was fifteen. (Sorry Mum, about time you knew.) I found out this was bergamot, which makes sense given my obsessive adoration for Earl Grey tea. It is also, Shelagh revealed, one of the main components of Coco Mademoiselle. Wow. We’d barely started and I already had my world rocked.
Another scent was immediately offensive – it smelled exactly like my dad’s place did after a house fire gutted most of the building. “Sandalwood”, said Shelagh. I thought I knew what sandalwood smelled like from dabbles with cheap incense, but turns out the real thing is quite different. And, interestingly, I’m told that not everyone can smell sandalwood. Seriously? How can someone not smell that? I found this hard to believe, but the very next fragrance – musk – gave off no smell at all. I sniffed it again and again, but there was nothing there. Shelagh gave me a knowing nod. Everyone’s nose is different.
So is everyone’s skin. I’m a warm person so apparently I carry perfume well, but as is widely known, a perfume will smell different on me than it will on someone else. We tried my favourite base fragrances on my skin, allowed them to develop, and in the meantime I whiffed my way through a vast selection of complementary scents, from grassy citrus notes that smelled like the foliage in a florist, to resinous amber that reminded me of the souks in Morocco. There was spicy ginger and sweet burnt sugar, smooth vanilla and pure almond. Things I thought I would like and recognise, I rejected. Others I didn’t connect with, probably because I could find no point of reference. It was like being in a test kitchen, except nobody else could taste what I was making. This was just for me.
As Shelagh masterfully measured from large brown bottles, squeezed in essences with an eyedropper, gently stirred and made calculations in her notebook, I was busy with the task of naming my fragrance. Shelagh’s method was inspired by whisky distillation, and being a big fan of whisky I was tempted to bring that into the label. But ultimately the tea influence of the bergamot and the association with the royal perfumery meant only one name would do. Lady Grey.
Putting the final touches to my perfume was tricky – mild panic set in as I couldn’t decide if I liked the scent on my skin. Florals, citrus and base notes jostled for front row and every few minutes it smelled different. What if I changed my mind? What if I get it wrong? My error was overthinking it. Don’t think, just smell. Shelagh reassured me we would get it just right, and patiently added a touch more of this, a little less of that, and finally we found the perfect balance. A perfume made of good memories and ingredients that would mingle magically on my skin.
Lady Grey went into the official database, my own personal Floris fragrance. I watched as the concoction was bottled, boxed and then presented to me in a carrier bag tied with ribbon. I was even handed an official copy of the recipe – but, just like Her Royal Highness, I’m not telling.
