"We used to build civilisations. Now we build shopping malls." - Bill Bryson
When I was very young indeed, the concept of buying clothes was completely alien to me. I used to wonder why a country-wide uniform hadn't been imposed on us from on high, We-style, that would have relieved us all of the stresses and strains of having to choose clothes that not only could we afford, but also looked vaguely stylish and, most importantly, actually fit me. I've since realised two things - that we're not actually as far from the uniform idea as I thought (pick any commuter train and you'll see the same suits, shirts, tie, cufflinks, shoes, belts and iPads throughout the carriages), and that I'm not as averse to shopping as I thought I was.
At some point at the turn of the millennium, some bright spark decided that whilst London certainly boasted a good deal of historical monuments and cultural attractions and all that, what it definitely needed was a million square foot of places for people to buy things, presumably because the city could up till then only boast such pathetic shopping precincts as Oxford Street, Regent Street and Knightsbridge. The opening of Westfield in 2008 passed me by somewhat - I'd already experienced the likes of Meadowhall and White Rose and wasn't particularly keen to visit a London version, believing it would simply be a hyper-inflated, ultra-expensive shopping Mecca that had far too many pilgrims already without me joining the queue. I relented last Christmas though, deciding to go on the proviso that I arrived early, in the middle of a working week. In a state of panic a month beforehand I had booked an entire week to do my Christmas shopping, a ridiculous decision in hindsight, but somehow I ended up completing the whole lot in three hours, a feat seemingly unthinkable on the train to Shepherd's Bush with a bulging wallet and a seemingly never-ending list of gift ideas.
Since then, Westfield has become a failsafe destination for me. Go in all guns blazing without a clue about what you want or need, and you'll be overwhelmed, if not by the layout then by the crowds that will inevitably gather around you, but with a couple of obvious tricks you can make a mockery of a potentially horrendous shopping experience.
To start with, travel on a Tuesday or Wednesday and avoid, for the most part, hordes of screaming teenagers or toddlers, and dithering couples wandering zombie-like through the arcades. Then, arrive early - ideally at 9 o'clock - and head straight for Ca'ppucino. Whilst I don't enjoy coffee, I do enjoy comfortable chairs, excellent tea, granola with yoghurt and berries for breakfast, and, crucially, silence (the place is usually empty, even during lunchtime). You've got time to spare - I wouldn't leave until ten at the earliest - so enjoy the quiet and prepare mentally. Perhaps you have a list of items you need to purchase. No? Then make one - borrow the waitress' biro and use a napkin if you need to. Otherwise, I just read - I'm particularly enjoying Trollope's Chronicles of Barsetshire, all the more ironic for a pre-shopping experience given the author's fixation on money's incredible effects on society.
I fortunately only needed to purchase a pair of trousers, which I found relatively speedily and cost twice as much as I thought they would, and satisfied myself with a cursory glance in Foyles and HMV before realising I needed to cool my credit card before making any other purchases. It only remains for me to provide my final tip - get out of there before lunchtime. Not only will the crowds rise and swell uncomfortably about you, but in general the food court is overpriced and generally average quality. After all, if you are celebrating a pain-free shopping experience, you may as well enjoy a decent meal back at home.
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Days 20, 21 and 22: Yorkshire
"What do yer want to go to London for? It's nowt but twenty Doncasters end to end" - Derek Garrett
Any right-minded born-and-bred Yorkshireman, a leashed whippet in one hand and a pint of Tetley's in the other, would sooner swim the River Calder then pronounce me a bona fide son of the White Rose. I don't have the doughty demeanour, the taste for real ale, the fanatical interest in Rugby League, or the unmistakable (and occasionally impenetrable) accent. Or, if you prefer stereotypes - my extended family don't live within five miles of the street I was born in, I've never eaten chips with gravy, I don't own a tweed jacket or cap and I've never been found comatose halfway along the Westgate Run. Everything about me is the antithesis of an authentic (as opposed to a stereotypical) Yorkshireman, but the county is my home, and Wakefield, even if some commentators would consider it more a primordial soup than a city, is my home town.
I left London early on a Saturday morning. Once again I had to brave the never-ending tunnels and ever-present rabble of fellow escapees at King's Cross, but by eleven I was at Wakefield Westgate station. For all the flak that Wakefield has to take from seemingly more highly esteemed cities, the rail approach to Wakefield is still quite something, with a great view of the lovely cathedral as the ageing East Coast trains wheeze over the bridge. Plus, as the station boasts only two platforms, there's no confusion over whether you might have accidentally boarded the train to Edinburgh instead of Eastbourne. Going to London? Platform 1. Leeds? Platform 2. Clearly laid out and easily understood - not characteristics you would normally associate with Yorkshire.
I'd actually travelled oop North to go walking my Dad, something I do frighteningly irregularly given how much time he spent trying to interest me in the great outdoors and in rambling in general. I'd purchased some walking shoes (in the sale, mind) only 24 hours previous, much to the chagrin of the sales assistant who was extolling the virtues of weatherproofing and breaking in and other such outdoors-y things I had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with. Fortunately, though, my Dad decreed that the walking would not commence until Sunday, as England were about to complete a thumping of the Indians at the Test Match, and gleefully we sat drinking tea (not coffee for us Yorkshiremen, you see) and waiting for the inevitable crushing victory. If sitting at home with your family, drinking tea and watching your country's cricket team top the world rankings isn't the best way to spend a Yorkshire Saturday, then I'd like to hear what is.
Our destination on Sunday was the village of Bradfield, a classically Northern parish outside Sheffield. I imagine that if you were a fly on the wall on one of David Cameron's Big Society briefing meetings, you would see the greatest social pioneers in the country prostrated, in wonder and amazement, before a framed photograph of Bradfield in the summer. Village green? Check. Beautiful Gothic church? Try classic 15th century. Quiet but well-appointed pubs? More than you could shake your cap at. And for bonus points, there were pensioners stood Last of the Summer Wine-style in groups, bridges over gently rippling streams, and cricket and bowls matches in progress. With the pictures of the devastating London riots still fresh in my mind, I must admit I thought of tearing my return ticket in two.
Dad and I walked about fifteen miles in all over six hours. I'm certainly no Wordsworth - the peaty soil of the Peak District moorland did not appear to me "apparell'd in celestial light" - but to breath Northern air, to walk on open moorland and vault narrow stiles and intrude on fields of confused sheep, I felt half a world away from the rat race. It didn't really matter that my feet were blistering with every step in those accursed boots, and that the last mile was a horrific ascent that worked the calves far harder than any resistance exercise in the Kingfisher Leisure Centre, I was truly grateful for the chance to break out of the M25 and explore on a far greater scale than I've tried in these past few weeks of freedom.
At King's Cross the next evening, tired and incredibly stiff, the barriers didn't accept my ticket, I hauled myself yet again through more ridiculous tunnels, and waited in vain for a train from Vauxhall that didn't turn up. Much as I love London, and couldn't for the moment see myself anywhere else, sometimes I wish the South was just a little more like the North.
Any right-minded born-and-bred Yorkshireman, a leashed whippet in one hand and a pint of Tetley's in the other, would sooner swim the River Calder then pronounce me a bona fide son of the White Rose. I don't have the doughty demeanour, the taste for real ale, the fanatical interest in Rugby League, or the unmistakable (and occasionally impenetrable) accent. Or, if you prefer stereotypes - my extended family don't live within five miles of the street I was born in, I've never eaten chips with gravy, I don't own a tweed jacket or cap and I've never been found comatose halfway along the Westgate Run. Everything about me is the antithesis of an authentic (as opposed to a stereotypical) Yorkshireman, but the county is my home, and Wakefield, even if some commentators would consider it more a primordial soup than a city, is my home town.
I left London early on a Saturday morning. Once again I had to brave the never-ending tunnels and ever-present rabble of fellow escapees at King's Cross, but by eleven I was at Wakefield Westgate station. For all the flak that Wakefield has to take from seemingly more highly esteemed cities, the rail approach to Wakefield is still quite something, with a great view of the lovely cathedral as the ageing East Coast trains wheeze over the bridge. Plus, as the station boasts only two platforms, there's no confusion over whether you might have accidentally boarded the train to Edinburgh instead of Eastbourne. Going to London? Platform 1. Leeds? Platform 2. Clearly laid out and easily understood - not characteristics you would normally associate with Yorkshire.
I'd actually travelled oop North to go walking my Dad, something I do frighteningly irregularly given how much time he spent trying to interest me in the great outdoors and in rambling in general. I'd purchased some walking shoes (in the sale, mind) only 24 hours previous, much to the chagrin of the sales assistant who was extolling the virtues of weatherproofing and breaking in and other such outdoors-y things I had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with. Fortunately, though, my Dad decreed that the walking would not commence until Sunday, as England were about to complete a thumping of the Indians at the Test Match, and gleefully we sat drinking tea (not coffee for us Yorkshiremen, you see) and waiting for the inevitable crushing victory. If sitting at home with your family, drinking tea and watching your country's cricket team top the world rankings isn't the best way to spend a Yorkshire Saturday, then I'd like to hear what is.
Our destination on Sunday was the village of Bradfield, a classically Northern parish outside Sheffield. I imagine that if you were a fly on the wall on one of David Cameron's Big Society briefing meetings, you would see the greatest social pioneers in the country prostrated, in wonder and amazement, before a framed photograph of Bradfield in the summer. Village green? Check. Beautiful Gothic church? Try classic 15th century. Quiet but well-appointed pubs? More than you could shake your cap at. And for bonus points, there were pensioners stood Last of the Summer Wine-style in groups, bridges over gently rippling streams, and cricket and bowls matches in progress. With the pictures of the devastating London riots still fresh in my mind, I must admit I thought of tearing my return ticket in two.
Dad and I walked about fifteen miles in all over six hours. I'm certainly no Wordsworth - the peaty soil of the Peak District moorland did not appear to me "apparell'd in celestial light" - but to breath Northern air, to walk on open moorland and vault narrow stiles and intrude on fields of confused sheep, I felt half a world away from the rat race. It didn't really matter that my feet were blistering with every step in those accursed boots, and that the last mile was a horrific ascent that worked the calves far harder than any resistance exercise in the Kingfisher Leisure Centre, I was truly grateful for the chance to break out of the M25 and explore on a far greater scale than I've tried in these past few weeks of freedom.
At King's Cross the next evening, tired and incredibly stiff, the barriers didn't accept my ticket, I hauled myself yet again through more ridiculous tunnels, and waited in vain for a train from Vauxhall that didn't turn up. Much as I love London, and couldn't for the moment see myself anywhere else, sometimes I wish the South was just a little more like the North.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Day 19: Proms Redux
"I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'"
- Shakespeare, Henry V (III.i.1-34)
After yesterday's rather somber post about the labours of dragging a body accustomed to action through the tension and discomfort of relaxation, I'm glad to say I was somewhat more animated on Friday. Two days of R&R had proved more than enough, and now a wall of errands of admittedly varying levels of dullness stood before me, the pith and peel that required careful and methodical unwrapping before I could get at the juicy flesh - pizza at the amazing Rossopomodoro, and the hugely anticipated Film Music Prom at the Royal Albert Hall (my third this season).
I will spare you the details of my multiple voyages to Kingston, to attend the gym and to find some walking shoes for my weekend in Wakefield, and of my haircut in Surbiton - if you are desperate to hear the ins and outs of these trivialities then you can always find me on Twitter. I did, however, enjoy the feeling of once again being busy, of performing tasks and enjoying their results, even if those tasks were hardly Herculean labours. Striding from house to town to bus with the Test Match in my ears and what I liked to think was a steely visage of determination on my face, time ticked quickly and fruitfully, so much so in fact that before I knew it I was in Covent Garden, mooching slowly around the various shops and stalls awaiting my slightly-delayed girlfriend. By this point, with only a hastily consumed Waitrose salad inside me, I was ravenous.
I never cease to witter on about Rossopomodoro (on Monmouth Street) to everyone I know. It is the most authentically Italian restaurant I have ever visited in London - in that the service is attentive yet incredibly patchy. I asked for two beers, yet received only one glass. I gave our usual pizza order to one waiter, who shrugged in what I believed was grudging acknowledgment, before his colleague returned in five minutes to say could we please repeat our order as he seems to have forgotten it already. Once your mains have arrived you are condemned to restaurant limbo, so that you have to practically wave your wallet in someone's face before you are allowed to pay.
All of this sounds awful, but they are just some of a number of reasons why this place is so real, so authentic. We English Londoners, used to clipped confidence and smart service, visit Rossopomodoro and experience a new methodology, one where patience and humour is required, because the staff are simply enjoying their jobs, having fun, and smiling and joking with regular customers (many of whom appear to be Italian). And once you have sampled their simply divine La Verace pizza - for which all ingredients, including the water for the dough, come from Naples - then you won't care an ounce about what hurdles you may have had to leap to get that far.
Dinner digested and, eventually, paid for, we took a Number 9 Routemaster bus, one of the few still working in London and as such a gloriously retro experience, and sauntered to the Royal Albert Hall. We arrived perhaps a couple of minutes before 7, to be greeted with a ringmistress of a ticket inspector who insisted we marched on the double to our seats as the performance was about to commence. I had rather banked on a gin and tonic and a peruse through the programme first, having mistakenly believed the concert wasn't due to start until 7.30, but instead we were herded like disobedient sheep to our 2nd Tier box just as the conductor made his way onto stage.
The concert itself was mixed but on the whole extremely successful. It tried to cover almost every base imaginable, and couldn't help falling flat at times (including a particularly turgid performance of Walton's Henry V suite, which despite stirring narration from Rory Kinnear of the key scenes, sounded woefully out of place), but overall it was a real triumph of a night. The usual favourites were all out in force - Star Wars, Psycho, Murder on the Orient Express, the main themes from Out of Africa and Schindler's List - but two other arrangements really stood out.
Firstly, and rather surprisingly given I've read none of the books, was the performance of Hedwig's Theme from Harry Potter (I'd previously confused Hagrid and Hegwid before, much to Jo's consternation), which is a real masterpiece of mystery and suspense. John Williams' haunting opening melody, chimed gently on celeste, is magical enough, but the swooning string scoring and staccato brass betray a real sense of ingenuity in the construction of the score.
Secondly was a rousing collection of highlights from the James Bond films, with all the main themes covered, but what struck me was how much the BBC Concerto Orchestra really seemed to be enjoying themselves - at one point, during a particularly important mid-bar rest, the string players as one twirled their instruments full circle before continuing as if nothing had ever happened. I was in fits of laughter at its sheer audacity and comic timing.
As I've said before, the Proms should be praised for consistently aiming away from of elitism and cultural snobbishness and instead embracing allcomers to appreciate top-class music making. Yesterday's concert was simply another example of that theory being put effortlessly into practice.
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'"
- Shakespeare, Henry V (III.i.1-34)
After yesterday's rather somber post about the labours of dragging a body accustomed to action through the tension and discomfort of relaxation, I'm glad to say I was somewhat more animated on Friday. Two days of R&R had proved more than enough, and now a wall of errands of admittedly varying levels of dullness stood before me, the pith and peel that required careful and methodical unwrapping before I could get at the juicy flesh - pizza at the amazing Rossopomodoro, and the hugely anticipated Film Music Prom at the Royal Albert Hall (my third this season).
I will spare you the details of my multiple voyages to Kingston, to attend the gym and to find some walking shoes for my weekend in Wakefield, and of my haircut in Surbiton - if you are desperate to hear the ins and outs of these trivialities then you can always find me on Twitter. I did, however, enjoy the feeling of once again being busy, of performing tasks and enjoying their results, even if those tasks were hardly Herculean labours. Striding from house to town to bus with the Test Match in my ears and what I liked to think was a steely visage of determination on my face, time ticked quickly and fruitfully, so much so in fact that before I knew it I was in Covent Garden, mooching slowly around the various shops and stalls awaiting my slightly-delayed girlfriend. By this point, with only a hastily consumed Waitrose salad inside me, I was ravenous.
I never cease to witter on about Rossopomodoro (on Monmouth Street) to everyone I know. It is the most authentically Italian restaurant I have ever visited in London - in that the service is attentive yet incredibly patchy. I asked for two beers, yet received only one glass. I gave our usual pizza order to one waiter, who shrugged in what I believed was grudging acknowledgment, before his colleague returned in five minutes to say could we please repeat our order as he seems to have forgotten it already. Once your mains have arrived you are condemned to restaurant limbo, so that you have to practically wave your wallet in someone's face before you are allowed to pay.
All of this sounds awful, but they are just some of a number of reasons why this place is so real, so authentic. We English Londoners, used to clipped confidence and smart service, visit Rossopomodoro and experience a new methodology, one where patience and humour is required, because the staff are simply enjoying their jobs, having fun, and smiling and joking with regular customers (many of whom appear to be Italian). And once you have sampled their simply divine La Verace pizza - for which all ingredients, including the water for the dough, come from Naples - then you won't care an ounce about what hurdles you may have had to leap to get that far.
Dinner digested and, eventually, paid for, we took a Number 9 Routemaster bus, one of the few still working in London and as such a gloriously retro experience, and sauntered to the Royal Albert Hall. We arrived perhaps a couple of minutes before 7, to be greeted with a ringmistress of a ticket inspector who insisted we marched on the double to our seats as the performance was about to commence. I had rather banked on a gin and tonic and a peruse through the programme first, having mistakenly believed the concert wasn't due to start until 7.30, but instead we were herded like disobedient sheep to our 2nd Tier box just as the conductor made his way onto stage.
The concert itself was mixed but on the whole extremely successful. It tried to cover almost every base imaginable, and couldn't help falling flat at times (including a particularly turgid performance of Walton's Henry V suite, which despite stirring narration from Rory Kinnear of the key scenes, sounded woefully out of place), but overall it was a real triumph of a night. The usual favourites were all out in force - Star Wars, Psycho, Murder on the Orient Express, the main themes from Out of Africa and Schindler's List - but two other arrangements really stood out.
Firstly, and rather surprisingly given I've read none of the books, was the performance of Hedwig's Theme from Harry Potter (I'd previously confused Hagrid and Hegwid before, much to Jo's consternation), which is a real masterpiece of mystery and suspense. John Williams' haunting opening melody, chimed gently on celeste, is magical enough, but the swooning string scoring and staccato brass betray a real sense of ingenuity in the construction of the score.
Secondly was a rousing collection of highlights from the James Bond films, with all the main themes covered, but what struck me was how much the BBC Concerto Orchestra really seemed to be enjoying themselves - at one point, during a particularly important mid-bar rest, the string players as one twirled their instruments full circle before continuing as if nothing had ever happened. I was in fits of laughter at its sheer audacity and comic timing.
As I've said before, the Proms should be praised for consistently aiming away from of elitism and cultural snobbishness and instead embracing allcomers to appreciate top-class music making. Yesterday's concert was simply another example of that theory being put effortlessly into practice.
Friday, 12 August 2011
Days 17 and 18: R&R
"Tension is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are" - Chinese Proverb
After two days of being on the road, or more precisely on the railroad, I decided to take it easy for a couple of days. After all, I left my last job because I was constantly travelling, and here I am recording for posterity the minutes of voyages around the country, when I should be lounging in a deckchair and ordering in the Tequila Sunrises. Travel is mentally as well as physically exhausting - the brain needs a number of sleep cycles to process the new information received and create new paths and thought branches that allow us eventually to accept changes of environments. Though I'd hardly become Ranulph Fiennes overnight, voyaging as I had as far as the mystical lands of Nuneaton and Cambridge, I still felt I was owed a couple of days to myself to relax and to recuperate - finally finish Mass Effect 2, actually practice some piano, cook some amazing food, all those kinds of things we like to do when we are enjoying precious time off.
However, I was surprised by just how impossible I have found it to "relax" in the last two days. As I have a long-standing agreement with Jo that I would continue to produce tea and breakfast for her in the mornings while she showers (one of the few things that make me worth living with), I find myself, at 8.30 in the morning, in the uncomfortable position of being all dressed up (admittedly in pyjamas) with no place to go. Normally I would have thought that my body would allow me to return to bed, perhaps with a paperback and another cup of English Breakfast, and gently while the morning away. But even attempting to lie on the sofa for a few minutes felt weirdly uncomfortable. TV became unpalatable (there really is nothing on, even with Sky, during the day), the Internet unappealing, even reading was somehow unsatisfying.
Instead, the last two days have passed somewhat in a blur. I haven't quite relaxed, yet neither have I achieved anything. I have move from distraction to distraction, from piano to console to computer to kitchen to TV to book to radio to phone, and found I could spend no more than ten minutes on one activity before tiring and moving on. Almost at the midpoint through the journey of my days of freedom, I became panicked that without the shadow of work constantly threatening me, the light of rest and relaxation couldn't shine.
Perhaps I have spent so much time convincing myself that these forty-two days would be filled to the brim with ceaseless personal activity and constant growth - every second of every day packing in all the wonderful things I wanted to do that I couldn't before because of work. But what I have learnt now is that, just like good cannot exist without evil and black is useless without white, work is only a grind when you can't relax, and relaxation is only a joy when you know that work is around the corner. Quasi-work such as a quick trip to see relatives in Cambridge will not fool my body into thinking it has earned a day or so of hard nothing. As long as I remain in a state of employment flux - technically jobless but with a start date, a contract and pension forms to fill in - I'm condemned to remain in a parallel relaxation flux.
To those of you who can switch off, lean back and have nothing but your thoughts about you, I salute you. Either your work-life balance is perfect, or you are just very, very lucky.
After two days of being on the road, or more precisely on the railroad, I decided to take it easy for a couple of days. After all, I left my last job because I was constantly travelling, and here I am recording for posterity the minutes of voyages around the country, when I should be lounging in a deckchair and ordering in the Tequila Sunrises. Travel is mentally as well as physically exhausting - the brain needs a number of sleep cycles to process the new information received and create new paths and thought branches that allow us eventually to accept changes of environments. Though I'd hardly become Ranulph Fiennes overnight, voyaging as I had as far as the mystical lands of Nuneaton and Cambridge, I still felt I was owed a couple of days to myself to relax and to recuperate - finally finish Mass Effect 2, actually practice some piano, cook some amazing food, all those kinds of things we like to do when we are enjoying precious time off.
However, I was surprised by just how impossible I have found it to "relax" in the last two days. As I have a long-standing agreement with Jo that I would continue to produce tea and breakfast for her in the mornings while she showers (one of the few things that make me worth living with), I find myself, at 8.30 in the morning, in the uncomfortable position of being all dressed up (admittedly in pyjamas) with no place to go. Normally I would have thought that my body would allow me to return to bed, perhaps with a paperback and another cup of English Breakfast, and gently while the morning away. But even attempting to lie on the sofa for a few minutes felt weirdly uncomfortable. TV became unpalatable (there really is nothing on, even with Sky, during the day), the Internet unappealing, even reading was somehow unsatisfying.
Instead, the last two days have passed somewhat in a blur. I haven't quite relaxed, yet neither have I achieved anything. I have move from distraction to distraction, from piano to console to computer to kitchen to TV to book to radio to phone, and found I could spend no more than ten minutes on one activity before tiring and moving on. Almost at the midpoint through the journey of my days of freedom, I became panicked that without the shadow of work constantly threatening me, the light of rest and relaxation couldn't shine.
Perhaps I have spent so much time convincing myself that these forty-two days would be filled to the brim with ceaseless personal activity and constant growth - every second of every day packing in all the wonderful things I wanted to do that I couldn't before because of work. But what I have learnt now is that, just like good cannot exist without evil and black is useless without white, work is only a grind when you can't relax, and relaxation is only a joy when you know that work is around the corner. Quasi-work such as a quick trip to see relatives in Cambridge will not fool my body into thinking it has earned a day or so of hard nothing. As long as I remain in a state of employment flux - technically jobless but with a start date, a contract and pension forms to fill in - I'm condemned to remain in a parallel relaxation flux.
To those of you who can switch off, lean back and have nothing but your thoughts about you, I salute you. Either your work-life balance is perfect, or you are just very, very lucky.
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Day 16: Cambridge
"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on a foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land" - G. K. Chesterton
I have been lucky enough, or unlucky depending on your point of view, to have lived all over England. My Dad often need to travel with the bank (when I was younger, "the bank" was an omnipotent demi-god that controlled all it surveyed) and every three years or so we would embark on that well-spun merry-go-round: new house, new school, new friends, new surroundings. As an impressionable young boy I was convinced that such perpetual motion was merely human nature, and that being in the same house for more than a few years at a time was at best laziness and at worst stagnation. There would be periods of readjustment, certainly - friends would fade out of the metaphorical rear-view mirror, and be replaced by more exciting friends on the horizon - but I think I was young enough to take such cycles of uprooting in my stride.
In the course of my Forty Two Days (now elapsing at a worrying rate) I plan to revisit as many of these places as I can. For some I was young enough to have no permanent recollection (Cambridge, Ipswich, St. Ives), and for others I was old enough to know they are worth revisiting (Wakefield, Bristol, Durham). Having already conveniently ticked off Durham for the wedding, and reminded myself of quite why I enjoyed my life there so much, an opportunity arose to visit Cambridge when I found out my Mum was there visiting her sister and my Nan. A mere forty-five minutes from my favourite train station, I was delighted to tag along.
We lived just outside Cambridge, in Milton, for three years while I was attending primary school. Whenever I think of the city, I always think of a static photograph in my mind of the street where we lived (though I can't remember the house itself, nor my school, for the life of me), or visiting the good chunk of family that both my parents have stationed here. There was an annual ritual that continues to this day where we would haul a bootload of Christmas presents in whatever car my Dad had at that point (I always remember the Vauxhall Cavalier most clearly), drive along seemingly endless motorway and tour Cambridgeshire. We would stop at various relatives' houses to exchange presents and to gulp down tea or ham sandwiches, catching up on news and views and chattering excitedly about how much they've grown or what GCSEs they're taking. Through my teenage years I was reluctant to undertake this annual pilgrimage but now in my mid-twenties I look back on those times fondly - you only really appreciate family to the fullest when you realise how rarely they touch your life.
Pulling up to the station and being met by mother, grandmother and aunt, I was immediately at home. The fact that I only really saw that station platform, the road, and my Nan's house didn't matter a jot. Sitting in the sunshine with bacon rolls, Chelsea buns (as opposed to splodges) and tea made with love and care, chatting to family I hardly ever see, I was completely carefree. The world was outside somewhere - for one afternoon, at least, I could forget the riots and the unrest that are plaguing London, and relax where everybody knew my name. I can't wait to go back.
I have been lucky enough, or unlucky depending on your point of view, to have lived all over England. My Dad often need to travel with the bank (when I was younger, "the bank" was an omnipotent demi-god that controlled all it surveyed) and every three years or so we would embark on that well-spun merry-go-round: new house, new school, new friends, new surroundings. As an impressionable young boy I was convinced that such perpetual motion was merely human nature, and that being in the same house for more than a few years at a time was at best laziness and at worst stagnation. There would be periods of readjustment, certainly - friends would fade out of the metaphorical rear-view mirror, and be replaced by more exciting friends on the horizon - but I think I was young enough to take such cycles of uprooting in my stride.
In the course of my Forty Two Days (now elapsing at a worrying rate) I plan to revisit as many of these places as I can. For some I was young enough to have no permanent recollection (Cambridge, Ipswich, St. Ives), and for others I was old enough to know they are worth revisiting (Wakefield, Bristol, Durham). Having already conveniently ticked off Durham for the wedding, and reminded myself of quite why I enjoyed my life there so much, an opportunity arose to visit Cambridge when I found out my Mum was there visiting her sister and my Nan. A mere forty-five minutes from my favourite train station, I was delighted to tag along.
We lived just outside Cambridge, in Milton, for three years while I was attending primary school. Whenever I think of the city, I always think of a static photograph in my mind of the street where we lived (though I can't remember the house itself, nor my school, for the life of me), or visiting the good chunk of family that both my parents have stationed here. There was an annual ritual that continues to this day where we would haul a bootload of Christmas presents in whatever car my Dad had at that point (I always remember the Vauxhall Cavalier most clearly), drive along seemingly endless motorway and tour Cambridgeshire. We would stop at various relatives' houses to exchange presents and to gulp down tea or ham sandwiches, catching up on news and views and chattering excitedly about how much they've grown or what GCSEs they're taking. Through my teenage years I was reluctant to undertake this annual pilgrimage but now in my mid-twenties I look back on those times fondly - you only really appreciate family to the fullest when you realise how rarely they touch your life.
Pulling up to the station and being met by mother, grandmother and aunt, I was immediately at home. The fact that I only really saw that station platform, the road, and my Nan's house didn't matter a jot. Sitting in the sunshine with bacon rolls, Chelsea buns (as opposed to splodges) and tea made with love and care, chatting to family I hardly ever see, I was completely carefree. The world was outside somewhere - for one afternoon, at least, I could forget the riots and the unrest that are plaguing London, and relax where everybody knew my name. I can't wait to go back.
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
Days 14 and 15: Hampton Court/Nuneaton
"Keep calm and carry on" - British Second World War Poster
As London implodes around me, my indulgence of freedom as I enter Week 3 must remain unfettered - I don't intend to let the horrific actions of an imbecilic few keep me locked in my flat, and in any case South West London seems to have escaped the majority of the trouble. So in a bid to escape the Armageddon-style glut of rolling news and harbingers of doom, my itchy feet continue to direct me well away from my home, and in the last forty-eight hours I've taken in the glorious historic attraction that is Hampton Court Palace, and the slightly less glorious and palatial but still highly enjoyable Nuneaton.
The journey to the former was made by boat. I'm not known, frankly, for my love of water - I like looking at it, but am less keen on interacting with it - but I was pleasantly surprised by the serenity of the service from Kingston Pier to Hampton Court. Frankly, with the choice being between a uninspiring ten-minute Southwest train journey, or a leisurely half-hour cruise along the river, past astonishingly large houses and pretty bank-side pubs in Thames Ditton, I think we made the right decision. As boats of all sizes, from tiny punts to gleaming white yachts, sailed past us, they all without fail waved at us as we cut a path towards the Palace. Sometimes, when the TV is angrily declaiming the end of civilisation as we know it, falling back on these seemingly inconsequential details renders their verbiage flat and lifeless.
Being cheapskates and penny-pinchers we didn't actually go in to the court itself, simply wandering the informal grounds (the "Formal Grounds" were behind the paywall) and taking in a summer Sunday. I couldn't help notice that the head of one of the statues in the rose garden was covered in rather un-Tudorish clingfilm (or was Henry VIII simply very much ahead of his time?) but the place really was a perfectly encapsulated time-warp. It would be difficult to state with a straight face that, at the time of the construction of the palace, England was settled and stable, but even a cursory wander allowed us to be transported away from financial meltdown, civil unrest and political rebellion.
The next day, I had an unmistakable sense of "deja vu". I woke up early on a Monday morning, left the house before my girlfriend, and fought my way past commuters to Euston from where I was going to take a Virgin train to the north. If I'd been on auto-pilot, I would have quite easily mistakenly climbed into First Class on the next train to Preston, instead of cattle to Rugby, but fortunately I had my wits sufficiently about me to remind myself I was simply heading out for the day to visit a good friend of mine from university days, now living in Nuneaton.
I didn't see a great deal of the town itself, as Dave decided wisely instead that we should see a little of the Midlands countryside. Indeed, tramping past the quarry at Hartshill and along narrow, winding canals (I of course took the opportunity to wave at more boats), we managed to visit three separate counties - Warwickshire, Staffordshire and Leicestershire. I was at times hopelessly lost underneath the canopied forests and the endless rolling hills, but my guide knew his way expertly, even if the odd wrong turning (leading to another hill) occasionally flummoxed us. There was even a time for a quick visit, in the name of amateur dramatics, to Tamworth Castle, to scout out potential rooms for a production Dave will be involved in for Hallowe'en. Overall it was wonderful to escape into the countryside, as even in Durham I was still technically in a city, and while I'm no Wordsworth, I believe it is only possible to enjoy nature to the full when you have experienced so much contrasting urbanity that you feel suffocated by its weight.
Fortunately we managed to counteract the healthy exercise and appreciation of God's green earth with a couple of ciders in Spoons and a chicken kiev dinner at the Old Malt Shovel. Life is, after all, about balance.
As London implodes around me, my indulgence of freedom as I enter Week 3 must remain unfettered - I don't intend to let the horrific actions of an imbecilic few keep me locked in my flat, and in any case South West London seems to have escaped the majority of the trouble. So in a bid to escape the Armageddon-style glut of rolling news and harbingers of doom, my itchy feet continue to direct me well away from my home, and in the last forty-eight hours I've taken in the glorious historic attraction that is Hampton Court Palace, and the slightly less glorious and palatial but still highly enjoyable Nuneaton.
The journey to the former was made by boat. I'm not known, frankly, for my love of water - I like looking at it, but am less keen on interacting with it - but I was pleasantly surprised by the serenity of the service from Kingston Pier to Hampton Court. Frankly, with the choice being between a uninspiring ten-minute Southwest train journey, or a leisurely half-hour cruise along the river, past astonishingly large houses and pretty bank-side pubs in Thames Ditton, I think we made the right decision. As boats of all sizes, from tiny punts to gleaming white yachts, sailed past us, they all without fail waved at us as we cut a path towards the Palace. Sometimes, when the TV is angrily declaiming the end of civilisation as we know it, falling back on these seemingly inconsequential details renders their verbiage flat and lifeless.
Being cheapskates and penny-pinchers we didn't actually go in to the court itself, simply wandering the informal grounds (the "Formal Grounds" were behind the paywall) and taking in a summer Sunday. I couldn't help notice that the head of one of the statues in the rose garden was covered in rather un-Tudorish clingfilm (or was Henry VIII simply very much ahead of his time?) but the place really was a perfectly encapsulated time-warp. It would be difficult to state with a straight face that, at the time of the construction of the palace, England was settled and stable, but even a cursory wander allowed us to be transported away from financial meltdown, civil unrest and political rebellion.
The next day, I had an unmistakable sense of "deja vu". I woke up early on a Monday morning, left the house before my girlfriend, and fought my way past commuters to Euston from where I was going to take a Virgin train to the north. If I'd been on auto-pilot, I would have quite easily mistakenly climbed into First Class on the next train to Preston, instead of cattle to Rugby, but fortunately I had my wits sufficiently about me to remind myself I was simply heading out for the day to visit a good friend of mine from university days, now living in Nuneaton.
I didn't see a great deal of the town itself, as Dave decided wisely instead that we should see a little of the Midlands countryside. Indeed, tramping past the quarry at Hartshill and along narrow, winding canals (I of course took the opportunity to wave at more boats), we managed to visit three separate counties - Warwickshire, Staffordshire and Leicestershire. I was at times hopelessly lost underneath the canopied forests and the endless rolling hills, but my guide knew his way expertly, even if the odd wrong turning (leading to another hill) occasionally flummoxed us. There was even a time for a quick visit, in the name of amateur dramatics, to Tamworth Castle, to scout out potential rooms for a production Dave will be involved in for Hallowe'en. Overall it was wonderful to escape into the countryside, as even in Durham I was still technically in a city, and while I'm no Wordsworth, I believe it is only possible to enjoy nature to the full when you have experienced so much contrasting urbanity that you feel suffocated by its weight.
Fortunately we managed to counteract the healthy exercise and appreciation of God's green earth with a couple of ciders in Spoons and a chicken kiev dinner at the Old Malt Shovel. Life is, after all, about balance.
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Day 13: Tagine
I wouldn't, at a guess, have though that Kingston-upon-Thames would immediately be associated in general with North African food. But interrupting a shopping trip (where I was practically forced at gun point to buy this bag) for lunch, we happened upon a lovely market just off Eden Street, where a rather gruff man sold me a wonderful wrap stuffed with marinated Moroccan chicken and a surprisingly moreish salad. Taken together with a mint tea that was literally hot water and green leaves, and served in a pretty glass mug, I was transported back to a trip to Damascus where I remember eating baba ghanoush and falafel for about 50p a serving, revelling in the simplicity of good food made simply, lovingly and incredibly cheaply.
In honour of our Moroccan lunch we decided to make chicken tagine, and though I'd never attempted to cook such a dish before, I was salivating at the prospect. Who can resist slow-cooked, aromatic meat, richly spiced with ginger and harissa and doused in thickened, honeyed tomato sauce and garnished with chickpeas and served with zingy couscous? Anyone with a moderately stocked spice rack and a few vegetables on hand can make this with modest expense, and I feel the results were so successful that I'd like to share the recipe here. I wouldn't dare try to undercut the professionals to produce an authoritative recipe with ingredients and methods and so on, so I've stuck, Nigella-style, to prose, but if you try it, do let me know what you think.
First of all, you need to marinate your meat. We used chicken thighs, skin and bone retained, and covered with a combination of olive oil, harissa, ground ginger, crushed cumin seeds, cinnamon, paprika and ground coriander (I would imagine you could substitue certain spices with whatever you have in the cupboard, but I feel at least the harissa, whilst the most obscure, is probably the most important). Once suitably bathed, we browned the thighs on a hot heat in a decent pan, and set aside.
Next up, the sauce. As with most dishes, it seemed appropriate to first chop a couple of red onions and garlic cloves and soften in the same pan used for the chicken, with more spices chucked in for good measure. Then add a good dose of tomato paste, a tin of tomatoes, a tin of chickpeas and a few spoonfuls of set honey. Fill the empty tin of tomatoes with water and throw in, then return the chicken thighs to the pan. A quick season and you can put a lid on, reduce the heat to low and simmer for as long as you can stand to wait. We waited an hour or so, I reckon you could get away with thirty minutes, but as seems to be the case with all tomato sauces, the longer you wait the better.
Then it's a case of finding suitable side dishes. We plumped unoriginally for couscous - cooked in boiling chicken stock and seasoned with lemon, olive oil, salt and pepper. We didn't have any flatbread to hand, but white pitta, brushed with oil and griddled on a hot pan (and rubbed with a cut garlic glove if you're so inclined) made a suitable substitute.
Weekends are made for experimenting in the kitchen, and with a bit of inspiration and a couple of Google searches, we ended up with a recipe that worked and was uniquely ours. I'm inspired now to push on to other global cuisines - if they work out, I'll share them here. Happy eating!
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