Vow of Silence

Call me anti-social, but for me, part of the appeal of travelling is the time you get to spend alone. Even if I'm on just a day trip, I enjoy spending time in my own company. Especially if I'm out in the countryside with an expanse of blue and white above me.

Last week, I packed my sandwiches, pulled on my boots and headed into a field somewhere just inside Wales. I was to spend a day mooching around Tintern Abbey.

First, I wanted to see it from up on high so I found a path that would lead to what is known as Devil's Pulpit, an overlooking point from where the devil is alleged to have preached to the monks in the valley below displaying a particularly devil may care attitude, even for Lucifer himself. To get to the viewpoint, I had a journey through several landscapes: a forest heathland, rolling grass fields and ancient woodland. And the best thing was that I didn't see another living soul (save a few birds) for close to an hour on the walk. It was bliss.

I passed through gates, followed the signposts and tramped my route with the sun getting ever stronger in the midday sky. My surroundings were so peaceful and so quiet I even felt slightly unnerved at one point. It's not often that you get to feel such solitude. The unnerving moment passed and I continued on, happy in my temporary, open-air hermitage.

The walk was very much worth the effort. By the time I wondered if I'd taken a wrong path or had missed a sign, the latest copse of trees led me up a slight incline to open up to gap in the undergrowth that looked out over a cliff edge and down into the valley below. I was blessed to share the same view that once belonged to the devil. An actual "wow" escaped my lips as my eyes fluttered in panic to take in all the sights of the winding river, the green hills and the ancient ruins, all framed by nature.

I don't think I've ever before eaten my sandwiches with a better view. 

But I couldn't stay there all day. I had other ground to cover. 

I retraced my steps across the various terrains. I was soon back down in the valley, ready to explore a little closer. There were slightly more people here that the none I had encountered on my walk, but I was still enjoying the relative isolation. 

Sure, I looked around the outside of the abbey. It's very grand and architecturally beautiful. But did I pay to go in and read a lot of signs? No, I did not. I don't think the medieval monks would've wanted me to do that. I read up about the former inhabitants of the site. These Cistercian monks took pledges of austerity and silence. I liked their chutzpah. 

They endeared themselves to me further when I discovered their planning requirements: "None of our houses is to be built in cities, in castles or villages; but in places remote from the conversation of men." Amen to that I say. We are often better off without the conversation of men. And when the scenery is as breathtakingly, naturally magnificent as the Wye Valley, what else is left to say? 

A Brief, Bracing Boat Trip

Not all adventures have to be far-flung or extended, back-pack necessary epics. Some can be ad hoc discoveries on your own doorstep.

I like the adventure where you can find some beauty in the most unexpected places. I like an adventure where you can suck in so much fresh, sea air that it feels like your nostrils will freeze. I also like it when there is cake at the end of said adventure.

This is exactly what happened last weekend. And this is how it started:

Do you want to go for a walk this afternoon?

Sure.

Do you want to go on a boat trip this afternoon?

Sure.

Do you want to go to the cafe after for a cake?

Hell yeah.

Yes, the wind chill factor was on a par with the Arctic tundra, but my friend Kate convinced me to walk along the Hamble River and take the short ferry ride to Warsash last Sunday afternoon. I wore ALL my clothes and it still wasn't enough. But we're British so we, and many other we passed, carried on regardless. I'm sure we weren't the only ones who had the promise of cake as a sugary carrot to tempt us along the footpath.

It seems that a short adventure needs a short account, so I shall do my best.

- We walked.
- We waited for the iconic pink ferry.
- We lost visual of the ferry as it bobbed around in the waves.

- We boarded the pink ferry.
- Our bottoms almost got frozen to the metal benches on the ferry.
- Distraction from frozen nether regions was provided by an 8-month chihuahua.
- We walked.
- My nose ran.
- We saw some fancy ducks.
- We explored a half-hidden pathway.
- We stopped exploring the half-hidden pathway when it became a fully hidden pathway.
- We asked some photographers about the fancy ducks - they had no idea.
- We walked.
- We decided to get the next boat back before my fingers fell off.
- We were relieved to see the boat ready at the jetty to head back.
- We were too slow.
- The boat left without us.
- We waited by the shelter.

- We decided it was better / warmer to continue walking.
- We got the next boat back, avoiding the seemingly apocalyptic sky above.

- We rewarded ourselves with some tea and motherfucking cake.

Hidden Hengistbury

This is a little embarrassing.

I generally pride myself on my navigational skills - GCSE Geography don't you know?

But there has always been one thorn in my side, one niggling Achilles' heel in my travelling boots: Hengistbury Head.

I'm a Bournemouth girl, for sure. Although I live in Southampton, "going to the beach" has always meant going to Bournemouth beach. I have been going to one of the beaches along that stretch of coastline as long as I can remember. Digging huge holes in the sand, playing in and out of the water, crabbing on the quayside, eating sandy crisp sandwiches, walking every inch of promenade, and of course swimming until I thought I'd turn into a fish.

I go to many beaches in and around the Bournemouth area, but Hengistbury Head had always escaped me. Not through lack of effort though. Over the past fifteen years or so, I had tried to find it on two separate occasions. It's not that hard to find, one might think.

One would be wrong. This was in pre-Sat-Nav days it should be noted, but that is still no excuse. I couldn't find the bloody place. I remember hitting the coast and just not being able to find the fabled stretch of sandbank leading to the grand headland. Several times, on visiting Mudeford, I was literally a stone's throw away. Farcical! (Although I wasn't paying a ferry fare to get there.)

I had banished thoughts of these failures to the back of my mind and made peace with the fact I was never going to make it. Until New Year's Eve. My friend Kate asked if I fancied an end of year trip to the seaside.

"Do you want to go to Hengistbury Head?"

Yes Kate, I bloody well do.

And so, under the guidance of more seasoned visitors to the Head, I was driven to my destiny.

I mean, I knew I was going to love it, and I did love it. I loved every single bit of it.

Love list:

1) Sheep
Nobody told me there were sheep there.
I loved seeing a flock of sheep being led down a hill as I embarked on my journey.

2) The sea
Of course I bloody loved the sea. What's not to love? You're surrounded by it as you walk up the headland and along the sandbank. I always love the sea.

3) The dogs
There are loads and loads of dogs (with their walkers) everywhere. Got a dog? Take it to walk Hengistbury. Love dogs? Go there to vicariously live out your dog walking dreams with the hordes of hounds already there. (My favourite was the tiny dachshund that I was amazed had got up the hill - shh, don't tell the other dogs I have favourites.)

4) The hill
Yes, it's a steep hill. Yes, it's hard on the legs to push forward. Yes, your lungs burn in the numbingly cold air at the exertion (especially after Christmas excesses). But isn't that the joy? The feeling of being pushed to confront your own existence. There were a lot of runners taking the hill a lot faster than us. Maybe I'll do that next time. Maybe.

5) The end of the hill
When you reach the top of the headland, you are treated to a wonderful view of the sandbank below that reaches towards Mudeford, allowing your eyes to adjust to the moving waves that lap the sand, the screeching gulls overhead and the general colourful mosaic of a British seaside vista. And you know that it's all downhill from there. (Physically, definitely not metaphorically.)

6) The beach huts
The sandbank is filled, crammed, chock-a-block even, with beach huts of different shapes, sizes and personalities. They are their own living entities, jostling for their position facing the sea, or Christchurch harbour, or in some case, both. Some are blue, some are new, some are cracked, some are worn. All are lucky to stand watch over the sea.

7) The Beach House
This is a cafe on the sand spit. It sits on the beach, pride of place, nestled amongst the colourful beach huts. Unfortunately, it suffered a fire recently and so I was unable to experience it fully. However, it's currently still working to provide rejuvenation for tired beach walkers from a small kiosk. My cup of sweet tea and a cheese and onion pasty was a culinary delight. I don't know whether it was because I was tired, or I was cold, or I was very, very hungry, or because of the breathtaking view, or if it was a combination of factors, but, I kid you not, that cheese and onion pasty was the best bloody pasty I've ever had. The best.

It was a very cold day, yet there was no wind. Even the five layers I had bundled on to keep the elements at bay would have been no match to a gusty headwind blowing in off the sea. I was thankful that mother nature chose to let me enjoy my snacks in peace on my first visit to Hengistbury Head. I guess it owed me a treat after the hassle of actually finding the place.

Yet now, due to the law of averages, I fear that the next time I head down to this magical seaside escape, I will have to contend with whipping winds that push me backwards down the hill and send sand into my tea. Bring it on, I say. I think I'll love it whatever the weather.

As long as I can find the bloody place again.

A Lull During Bestival

A festival
Bestival!
Packing
repacking
squishing it all in the car.

Driving
driving
queuing
a little bit more driving
waiting in a skin blisteringly hot car.

Driving solo;
a lack of car snacks
a lack of air conditioning
a lack of traffic patience
a build up of hot, sweaty frustration.

Cake at the campsite
greetings, hugs, questions, stories,
tents, pegs, airbeds, long walk to the toilets.

Long walk to the arena,
dusty pathways, dog searches, bag searches

Finally in the festival;
glitter, sequins, funny hats, fancy dress, sore sunburn lines already in residence,
arguing couples, screaming children, funfair melodies, pumping beats, long build ups, disappointing drops, bass bounding back in like a bully barging into my brain.

My bass, our drums, forty odd drummers moving in unison.
Rhythms and beats pounding through me.
Sweat running into my sun-squinting eyes.
The rest evaporating in the midday heat.
Sun cream reapplied,
following the shade as the day draws on.

Tightrope walkers, spinning lights, blinding lights, stages you can only see through the silhouetted crowd.
People.
People everywhere.

Food smells, toilets smells, funny smells the dogs missed.
Fuzzy head from too much sun. Too much heat. Too much everything.

Sleep.

Time to escape.

An early morning escape. Not ten minutes down the country lanes.

Here:

Lulworth Cove. A hidden retreat that was once a haunt of many a smuggler. I imagined the cool, calm water to be a veil over possible forgotten loot and stranded vessels strewn over the jagged rocks, littering the sea bed.

Yet none of this was enough to deter me from my mission. I needed the sea.

The pebbled beach invited me towards the shore and soon my shins were pushing past the lapping waves. The sun was shining but had yet to hit its full stride. I took a deep breath and took my first dive beneath the surface.

Cold, salty water rushed over me and my muscles propelled me on through the waves. The dust, and the sweat, and the aches, and the stresses, and the lingering remnants of festival life were washed away, peeled away from my skin by the cool currents swirling into the bay.

Once I surfaced, I squinted into the sunlight and wished to be below the surface once more. So the process was repeated. Diving, surfacing, pushing through the water until I could no longer feel my fingers. The floating was the best. Lying silently still, staring up at the white cliffs comfortably besieging us. Sculling around so as not to be blinded by the ever-strengthening sunlight. My head submerged below the surface so that the only sounds reverberating through my body were the garbled push and pull of the ocean and the sound of my breathing, pulsing like the tide itself.

I knew I couldn't stay there forever. My numb fingers were reminder enough of that.

And we had to get back to the festival. To the sounds. To the smells. To the people. To the everything.

I could just about manage to steel myself for another festival onslaught because of what Lulworth Cove had given me. I could follow the steps of the smugglers before me and leave the cove with my own personal contraband. Not rum or gold, but peace and reflection.

And the knowledge that the next day would bring another lull from the craziness.

Imperfect Beauty

Hands up if you like perfection.

I'm a no. Always no to perfection; it's too shiny, too finished, too...perfect. Nothing good can come from perfection. There is no soul in perfection. Imperfection is where the real life is.

Lisbon is a great place to visit for fans of imperfection. Don't get up in arms here Lisbonites - what I'm saying is that it's more beautiful because of the imperfections: the chipped tiles, the graffiti all over, the scaffolding hiding architectural works of art, the broken down trams, the boarded up windows, the perennial renovations. They are much more interesting. They show the daily grind of life in Lisbon. I love Lisbon!

Sure, I expected to see a good few tiles around Lisbon - it's part of the package. You wouldn't go to New York and not expect to see any yellow taxis. But I hadn't anticipated the aesthetic love I felt for the small ceramic squares to be quite so strong. They make everything look more interesting. Even when a splash of modern spray paint invades the barricade of tiles, it only augments the pleasure radiated by the colours and patterns. I had to stop myself taking photos of every tiled building - why do you need so many pictures of patterned tiles woman?

Lisbon seems to run on making do. If there's a problem, an imperfection, don't worry. Leave it there, cover it up (or don't) and move on. The tram we were on had to stop, we were transferred onto a bus in literally one minute to continue our journey. A grandiose, colonial mansion is broken, leave it and move on. Leave it to its own devices. There are many such abandoned buildings strewn around the streets of Lisbon, all adorned with graffiti tags, broken windows and the creeping invasion of nature's greenery. I have no doubt that they are also filled with a countless number of stories and fragments of people's lives that they will never share.

This was one of my favourite buildings. If you peer through the gated walls you can see what must have once been a wonderful house. Does anyone still live there? Are the walls still sanctuary to someone? What will happen to its history? What will happen to its future?

Finally, we need to talk about the most imperfect and at the same time perfect things to be found in Lisbon. To be fair, they were one of my main reasons for travelling there in the first place: the Portuguese custard tart.

It is quite possibly, the greatest feat of culinary engineering ever mastered.

No, it does not look pretty. It doesn't look like one of the faultless delicacies you'd see in a Parisian patisserie or an utterly immaculate cream concoction from an Austrian bakery. The custard tart is not uniform. It is speckled. It is a bit burnt. It has uneven borders. It has a crusty, flaky edge ready to drop off. But these 'faults' are what makes it so great. Excuse me a moment whilst I wipe the drool away from just thinking about these delicious devils.

These features that first seem like imperfections melt away into a gooey, flaky gloop of sweet sweet goodness. A mouthful of tart will give you the heady mix of soft crunch and glutinous goo that will make you want to send for all your belongings and set down roots within walking distance from one of Lisbon's many pastelarias.

Lisbon is the European capital of flawed beauty and, in mastering this, it has a warm, welcoming heartbeat pervading every single aspect of life within the city, from the tumbling buildings to the admirable irregularities in the food. Everything about Lisbon is a little less than perfect; but perfect is pointless.

I never want to taste perfection if this is the taste of battered, crumbling, but most of all, loved, imperfection.

Dance Badajoz Dance!

I found it. I found the choreographed dance centre of the universe.

I didn't know I was even looking for it, but I'm super glad I found it.

It was a slightly unexpected find as I had presumed my visit to Spain would consist mostly of drum playing with only a smattering of dancing. I was wrong. They were dancing in the streets in Badajoz. Literally.

Badajoz, a city next to the Portuguese border, hosts a wonderful carnival every year that lasts several days. I was lucky enough to be invited to play with Batala, a samba-reggae band that I'm also lucky enough to be a part of.

The carnival engulfs the whole city and everyone in it. You can't walk to the supermercado without bumping into a family of bears or having to skirt past a loitering group of Incredibles - one presumes waiting for disaster to strike in order to spring into superhero action. If you're wearing 'regular' clothes, YOU'RE the oddball. It's brilliant.

But enough talk of costumes; let the dancing begin!

The people of Badajoz love to dance. I love to dance. I guess that's why I spent a lot of my youth making up bedroom dance routines or learning the grapevine for the Scout and Guide Gang Show. And I guess that's why, on some level, I joined Batala.    

Yes, we play drums. Yes, we are incredibly good at drumming. But we also like a little movement with our music. I, personally, find it easier to remember the music when I have a dance to go with it. Which is handy as a lot of our songs have dances. Yet when I got to rehearse with the super-band made up of the Badajoz contingent and delegates from Batala bands from around the world, there were MORE dance moves. And heaps of sun-invigorated energy. We were adding extra steps and bending here there and everywhere. There was a dance train and I was running along trying to keep up.

The Badajoz dancing didn't stop at rehearsals either. Party time is always dancing time in Spain, but at these parties, the dancing was a finely tuned, chaotically choreographed affair. Apparently, I missed the best of the dancing on the night before I arrived but the upshot was that there was a dance for every song. The Badajoz band were kind enough to dance the rest of us through the basic moves. So much so, that when certain songs started, there was a cheer and the collective was called into dancing action. Having missed the tutorial night, my favourite was the one where we basically charged around the dance floor like teenagers hyped up on too many Haribo and then let loose in a circle pit. Not the prettiest of dances, but fun.

The Badajoz band had a more civilised dance planned as a surprise for us visitors later in the night. I say civilised, but it's always hard to be civilised when dancing to 'Cotton Eye Joe'. They demonstrated the routine and then urged us to join in. Which we did, with gusto. It's not often you get to line dance amongst farm animals, DC super villains and Frida Kahlo. (A party without costumes isn't allowed during carnival.)

Alongside our recreational dancing, Badajoz is overtaken by the serious business of the main parade on the Sunday with the Desfile de Comparsas. This is when hundreds of people, all dressed in the most elaborate and wonderful costumes, parade through the city, dancing all the way. Each comparsa has a different theme and so a corresponding costume and dance. They are an explosion of colour and material. The time and effort that goes into this is astounding. I'm reliably informed that local comparsas spend the whole year secretly planning what to showcase during the carnival.

The dancing is incredible. There are lines upon lines of people (men, women and children) all dressed immaculately and all doing the same choreographed moves. Incredible is an over-used word, but I completely couldn't work out how, logistically, so many people had learnt the same things and were performing their moves so militarily.

Dancing is a passion and a serious business here. Take a look at some of the comparsas' work here. I loved the Marvel heroes particularly, but if you pick any moment in the video, it will bring a smile to your face. And isn't that why we all dance? That's why I dance - for the joy it brings me and the joy we can spread through dance. Nos encanta bailar.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9a84xN4Teuc

The Sweet Side of Cheddar

Cheddar. Like the cheese? 

Exactly like the cheese. The place where the cheese was first brought into existence and continues to be lovingly cultured in order to make our lives all the more enjoyable, and cheesy. 

Cheddar is a village in Somerset that you have to reach by driving through a gorge (Cheddar Gorge by coincidence) that is basically a magic portal. As you wind you way down the hill, flanked by giant, foreboding  walls of rock either side, it does actually feel like you're leaving Earth as you know it. A feeling that's further compounded once you get into the village. It's like you've shifted back through time. There are small shops that wouldn't look out of place in a photo of 1950s England. Each of the shops are small outlets selling only food, drink, souvenirs or Christmas crap (honestly). 

Let me give you a little context. A few weeks ago, I managed to persuade two of my friends to join me in a cheese based pilgrimage - the best kind of pilgrimage surely? We were on an adventure to go see the caves and cheese.

So on arrival, our first port of call was the cheese shop. Well, it was supposed to be, but our long drive and the impending onset of hanger dictated that we had to fuel up with lunch and so had to visit a quaint cafe. What else is there to eat in Cheddar? We devoured cheese toasties, with molten gold oozing down the pitifully effective napkins. It was glorious. And then we hit the cheese shop. 

I consider myself a bit of a cheese connoisseur and I don't say this lightly, but I think the best Cheddar in the world is the Cheddar Gorge Cheese Company cave-matured cheddar. It really is the good shit. I have managed to eke out my wedge until now. The last slither of it disappeared into my mouth this very day. I have only eaten it solo. It is too good to be grated nonchalantly on undeserving pasta or lost in a sandwich with common pickle. It has to be savoured. 

Anyway, cheese covered, we continued our mooch around Cheddar to see what goodies it had to offer. As it turned out, all the goodies were sweetie goodies. And they were EVERYWHERE. 

Walking down the main drag of Cheddar village is like running the gauntlet of a diabetic coma. There are fudge shops, sweet shops, ice cream shops, cider shops, a marshmallow shop (yep, my first as well), nougat shops and of course, a whole plethora of various afternoon tea / cream tea / cake outlets. 

It was AMAZING! 

I was in heaven. Sickly, sugary, gooey heaven. 

The realisation soon came upon me that this would be the perfect place for a cream tea crawl. I am 100% committed to this idea of spending a (calorific) day stumbling in and out of the establishments in the shadow of Cheddar Gorge and sampling a variety of the goods on offer. A different cake or treat at every stop. This is a thing right?  

Time constraints being what they were, the day we visited, I had to make so with only dipping my toe into the sea of sugar. After spending time underground in the caves, I staggered to the nearest ice cream outlet ready for a cone of salted caramel. Then we ventured into another cave which was again followed by a stop at an ice cream counter. Yes, it was a two ice cream kind of day. But you weren't there man: you don't know! The second ice cream place had more flavours than I'd ever seen or could dare imagine. Added to this was the fact that there was free toppings. FREE TOPPINGS. It was a no brainer. 

Here's our selection from the ice cream kiosk. Yes, that's hundreds and thousands AND marshmallows. I was all in on the sugar count. 

On the way back to the car, we called into one of the fudge shops but I resisted the urge to indulge further. For a village so steeped in savoury fame, Cheddar is impressive in its selection of sweet treats. I certainly need to return sometime for that cream tea crawl. I reckon I have the form and the experience for such a mammoth task. Especially when there's the best Cheddar cheese in the world to take home as a prize at the end. 

Who's with me?