emsworth - historic town of values

I'm sitting in the car with the windows down. While the breeze causes mild havoc with my newly acquired 'Curly Sue' hairdo I am distracted by the sound of passers-by crunching along the pebble beach. The ocean is glistening beneath a clear sky and I am embracing every moment of the first sunny day in weeks. The dog is fast asleep on the backseat after a long walk along the sea front, complete with some token seagull-chasing.

In order to better endure my husband working away from home, I am trying to accompany him when I can. This week we are staying in a B&B in Emsworth, Hampshire. These days I tend to judge every village I visit by whether or not I could live there. I am inclined to think this is reflective of my 'small town' upbringing and the longing for a quiet life, surrounded by lots of dogs and attending weekly sewing meetings or bookclub. I was born to be a granny. While my experience of many villages is that the residents can be a bit cliquey or aloof toward strangers, I have been pleasantly surprised by the welcoming nature of the Emsworth community.

One of the many disadvantages that arise as a result of a dog that suffers from acute separation-anxiety, is that dinners while away from home are limited to dog-friendly pubs. The Coal Exchange in Emsworth was recommended to us and on arrival it is pretty clear that this is the village local...and has been for a long time. I had forgotten that English pubs such as this one still exist; low ceilings, slot machines, people all know each others' names and if you ask for a receipt you get a handwritten one from a receipt book. Yet, rather than stare us down for being strangers who hail from the 'big smoke', the locals were friendly and warm. Fox also remarked on the evident respect that seems to exist between young an old; a trait so long gone in the bigger cities. This morning, as I strolled along the promenade, I lost count of how many times people said 'good morning' to me. So lost in my habitual solitude I was rather taken aback the first few times I was greeted. Even the postman appeared to enjoy his job...which makes a nice change from our grump who prefers to throw letters at residents rather than post them through the slot in the door.

So, while the sun shines down I am embracing a bit of the quiet life, breathing in the sea air and feeling encouraged that there are still places where common courtesy prevails.

monkeying around in gibraltar

As our Spanish adventure continues, yesterday we opted out of a day at the 'Costa del Windsurf' and instead crossed the border into Gibraltar. For all our enthusiasm to experience new cultures, we were sadly excited by English road signs, price tags marked GBP and British high street stores. Let's be honest, what town wouldn't be somewhat improved by the addition of an M&S? 
Gibraltar, situated on a rocky outcrop on the southern tip of Spain, could be any northern English town. Except, here the weather is great and the locals are fluent in English and Spanish but choose to converse in a hybrid of the two. 
To enjoy the full visitor experience we ventured to The Top of the Rock. Of course, we would naturally choose to hike the 467m summit but due to time constraints we reluctantly opted for the cable car instead. Pity.
The terraces at the top afford uninhibited views of the city below as well as across the Straits to Africa, which seems close enough to swim to. Almost. Also resident on the rock are local apes which have become overly familiar with visitors. As we waited to catch the return cable car, Fox decided it was an opportune moment for a snack. Now, is there anyone on earth who doesn't know what food is reputed to be a monkey's favourite snack? In which case, would you brave eating nuts when surrounded by greedy apes? What ensued was a slow motion scenario that involved Fox ensuring his snack was safe before warning me that a monkey was running straight toward me. In a calamitous moment I had Fox shouting my name, an ape helping itself to the contents of my handbag and me shrieking in shock at the cheeky monkey savouring my Prince biscuit! My immediate worry was the £500 fine incurred for feeding the apes and I began to shout, 'I didn't feed it! I didn't feed it! I have witnesses!' It turns out I needn't have worried as everyone else was too busy photographing the ordeal to report me. Once mommy ape had handed my biscuit to baby ape, she went after Fox to retrieve the nuts. Justice is sweet. However, he and his precious snack retreated safely into the awaiting cable car and we all returned to safety. In true British style we found respite in a pub where we were safe from harms way and agreed that we had probably endured enough monkey business for one day.

mani-pedi mayhem in nyc

I’ve wanted to come to New York for as long as I can remember. Having watched countless episodes of Friends and Sex and the City I feel like I know the place already but there’s just no substitute for being here in the flesh.
I’ve crossed the East River via yellow cab, visited the famous Serendipity cafe and meandered the streets of the Lower East Side. However, my highlight thus far is, undoubtedly, my $20 mani-pedi experience.
My close friend and tour guide, BB, insists I join her at…uuhhmmm…I think it is just called ‘Nails’…for a bargain manicure and pedicure. Harbouring a strong dislike towards people touching my feet, a pedicure has never been on my list of enjoyable experiences. Nevertheless, the disapproval I receive when suggesting I simply have a manicure leads me to agree to the full works and I am ushered to a massage chair by a somewhat militant beautician. As I sit back to enjoy my pamper session I start to feel a fierce thumping on my back. I swear the chair has grown arms and is targeting every stress induced knot from my shoulders down. As I shift to distribute the pain and fight with the controls, the beautician dips my toes into a boiling hot spa only to realise her error when my foot emerges ruby-red. I maintain my composure until she comes at my sole with a pumice stone, at which point I began to giggle through the torturous, ticklish pain and wrench my foot away from her. I’m subsequently shunted to a manicure table where my finger nails are attacked with a file and my cuticles hacked away at viciously. I only register the extent of the damage when I notice my friendly manicurist painting over my very own blood. Secretly wishing for the process to end soon I’m manoeuvred to a nail dryer which seems to take longer than expected and is switched onto ‘heat’ mode. No prizes for guessing what sort of pain this inflicts.
As we gather our belongings to leave the manager checks my nails and on conclusion that they are not satisfactorily dry, she begins to wrap my toes in cling film. Yes, just like you would do to leftovers.
We leave the salon in fits of laughter marvelling at the cling film sticking out the sides of my shoes and I am overwhelmed by a strong nausea induced by the massage chair releasing toxins, from stressed muscles, into my system. Unfortunately the wrapping efforts are futile too and the polish smudges irreparably.
All that mayhem but…you know what? I would pay it again. Because that sort of entertainment is simply priceless.

marrakech too hot to handle

It’s 3.15am and I can’t understand why I have been woken by what sounds like Arabic chanting. Then I recall that I am in Marrakech and it is Ramadan. The call to prayer is echoing throughout our riad via a distant mosque loudspeaker. I ask Fox if this is the call to breakfast to which he responds I should stop being sarcastic. When I insist that I am in fact being serious we both burst into uncontrollable laughter. It must be the heat. We discover during our stay that this is the hottest summer in Morocco for the last 60 years. Proof that I am not handling the 51°C heat very well lies in random strangers, locals and tourists alike, taking one look at me as they pass by then spraying me in the face with water squirters. Charming.

Our introduction to Marrakech is at Djemaa-el-Fna, the main city square. By day, one is likely to encounter mainly fellow tourists and some sad looking donkeys bearing heavy loads but at night it truly becomes the heart of Marrakech. As the sun sinks, the call for the break of fasting resounds throughout the city and along with it comes the setting up of street restaurants which draw crowds-upon-crowds. Everywhere you look there are just people – some whizzing through on scooters, many feasting, others mesmerised by the snake charmers’ cobras or the men with monkeys on chains. The square also serves as the gateway to the souks. There is little the sellers in this labyrinthine marketplace will not attempt to coax one to purchase their wares. From catch phrases to grabbing your arm or telling you that “looking is free”, my favourite has to be “What you want? You want scarf? Bag? Ah, belly-dancing…you want this belt to be like Shakira?” Priceless.
While I smile at these attempts to rid me of my dirham, less amusing are the many poor who tug on one's arm for a handout. Between them, the mistreated animals and countless scrawny, battered stray cats who roam the city, one has little choice but to become hardened to the harsh surroundings for fear of being overwhelmed.

Another day of sightseeing means having to cross more chaotic roads (it’s no wonder we witnessed a scooter accident the day before), being at the center of a fight between taxi drivers and the bustle of the square at 10pm. All of this craziness plus the sweltering heat means that not even the acquisition of my own trusty water spray bottle is enough to cool me down by this point.

Thankfully our third and last day is spent exploring the Ourika valley in the Atlas mountains, outside Marrakech. We visit a traditional Berber village where a kind lady makes us peppermint tea in her house, climb a mountain to a gushing waterfall and admire some of Morocco’s notable scenery.

We conclude our trip, surrounded by other westerners who also look to be escaping the mayhem for a bit, on the chic rooftop terrace of Kosybar. As we sip our cold drinks and chat about travels with our fellow mountain tour mates, Andy and Aletia, I considered how much more I can appreciate Marrakech when looking at it from a distance in the cool of night.

no place like cuba

It’s hard to detail our trip to Cuba without coming across partly pessimistic. Yet, our experience was far from negative, only somewhat different to the preconceived rustic experience we had fostered. It is true, Havana is a city of once colloquial majesty where, now, peeling paint, crumbling buildings and vintage cars reflect the struggles of the country. However, despite its perishing exterior, Havana is undeniably full of life. One only need explore the lanes of historic Habana Vieja where locals mix with tourists to create a buzz equal in scale to the stifling humidity. Here you can enjoy a mojito in Cathedral Square, seek out Hemingway’s favourite local spots and purchase cigars and rum. Don’t expect any bargains though; State prices, as we were informed a number of times, are non-negotiable. In many cases it’s hard to know whether this is the truth or if it is part of the wider conspiracy to sap tourists dry of every cent they might have on their person. We learned quickly, such is tourism in a socialist society. At the famous Coppelia ice-cream parlour we were relegated to the tourist area, taxi drivers conspired to over charge us on more than one occasion and walking out of the hotel meant we would be forced to decline numerous offers of cigars, rum and personal guided tours. Then there were moments when Havana redeemed itself by way of an unbelievably delicious dinner at Paladar Huron Azul (restaurant in someone’s home) and hanging out at the Malecon in front of our hotel, Nacional de Cuba. The Malecon, Havana’s sea wall, is where locals flock in the evening with food and drink to hang out with friends; after a few days in Havana we were happy to do as the locals and enjoy a cheap night out.
Notably, wherever you go, there is music. Cuban culture prides itself on its musical heritage and this is no different in Havana or Varadero where we spent the second half of our visit. From string quartets serenading us while we dined (and subsequently trying to sell us their CDs) to Cuban jazz in the lobby to dance beats while the resort guests did their stretches on the beach, silence is a rarity yet the constant buzz contributes to Cuba’s unique appeal. While our expectations of azure water and white beaches were met, the countless resorts that line the shores of this region highlight Cuba’s trend toward mass tourism and any illusions that this island is “undiscovered” are dismissed on arrival. But then, who doesn’t enjoy a bit of all-inclusive luxury spent on deck-chairs by day and in the Piano Bar by night?
In a country where taxi drivers earn more than doctors it is not hard to understand why tourists are so welcomed and cherished; yet one can’t help but feel the smiles burning holes in your wallet. Would we return? Probably not, but Cuba has left an impression like no other place could…and a tan to match, which makes any holiday worthwhile.

full of hope

The last few weeks have been crazy. Between being surreally stranded in Cape Town due to a volcanic ash cloud and writing my first university exams, I feel I am only now coming back down to earth. However, the aforementioned chaos is not the only reason I have held off on blogging about our recent trip to South Africa. More than ever before, this trip left me feeling quite conflicted within myself. It’s strange to return to the country of your birth feeling as if you are able, to some extent, to view the politics, the people, the landscape and the culture from an outsider’s perspective. The first thing that hits me to my core is the poverty that so many of the people must still endure. My initial instinct is one of anger at those who have money for simply allowing this to continue. Yet I am all too aware that this is utterly naive. No matter how much money you have, it is not enough; it is not enough to help every person who still lives in a shack, who begs at every traffic light, who guards your car for hours on end for five Rand, despite his university degree. In Africa so many do what they have to do to get by. After two weeks I found that I had almost become desensitised. It happens so quickly.

Speaking to friends and family, the thing that strikes me is that everyone has an opinion on the state of the country. From power cuts to Julius Malema to hijackings and the cost of living what is most evident is one thing: hope. A land that seems to find so much of it’s identity in its differences, also stands united in how passionate people are about the country. There is little doubt that, despite hardship, many are willing to fight to right the many wrongs of the past. It’s hard to describe how this sense of hope infiltrates the country. I guess it’s a bit like listening to a song that really stirs you. You feel such a surge of emotion you almost wish that the song would just keep playing, that the melody would last forever. There is evidence of this in small and big ways; just between Fox and my families alone they are counselling those who grieve, helping fight crime as volunteer police, rescuing abused animals and buying local goods that they don’t necessarily need just to encourage entrepreneurs. Nor does it stop there. The work continues and I must admit I found it very hard to leave it all behind. Perhaps it was climbing one of the majestic mountains that dominates the city or staring at a turquoise ocean that rivals the brilliance of crystals; maybe the warmth of the sunshine or even just the encounter with a culture which is so familiar but I left South Africa this time with a big lump in my throat. And all worries that I had been numbed simply vanished as the flight circled the harbour to afford us a view of Table Mountain in all its glory. What a sight, what a city, what an incredible country.

long journey home

As written on the back of a used Etihad e-ticket and typed while passing time in Abu Dhabi airport at 4.30am

I'm sitting in Johannesburg International airport having enjoyed a Cape Malay chicken curry courtesy of Etihad airlines who have just added 6hrs to my already gruelling 24hr journey. Thus, it is taking me 30hrs to complete, what should be, a straighforward 15hr trip. I'm already emotional having left my family behind so it's no wonder tears prick my eyes when the lady at security confiscates my Rooibos Facial Wash (amateur mistake ... I'd tried to bypass the 100ml liquid rule). Her consoling words, "Ay, eet weel bee orkay, mummy" were of little comfort. They're so friendly in Africa. Still, sometimes I really hate flying.

The rest of my trip was enjoyable. I was glad to see Africa was as I left it; "Africa time" (GMT +1-2 x4 +6-3), the PE beachfront, Steri Stumpie milkshakes and my grandparents house in Cotswold remain unchanged.

There's something about returning to "The Friendly City" that brings me down to Earth. I might live in one of the biggest, busiest cities in the world but a great chunk of my heart lies in the city where the wind starts to blow at 11am, 360 days a year. I cherish coming back to the place I called home for so long, spending time with my grandparents, eating Red Windmill ice-cream and staring out of Nans' lounge window hoping to spot a Southern Right Whale or a school of dolphins. I also find that I depart from SA feeling like one of the aforementioned whales thanks to Nans' relentless offerings of cakes and cookies, Grandpa keeping me in constant supply of biltong, Mug & Bean's giant muffins and scrumptious seafood - the best of which is found at Trawlers take-away in JBay.

However, this time was about more than visiting family and indulging. I also had the privilege of watching my long-time friend, Vanessa, walk down the aisle to marry Marcus at the elegantly rustic Plantation in Sardinia Bay.

So, despite my current frustrations and eagerness to see my husband, on reflection, some things are worth a mere 58hr roundtrip.

the joys of travel (and a bit about athens)

On reflection of our recent trips, I'm reminded of a few things I've realised about travelling over the years.

Firstly, you just have to accept that you are going to spend a lot of time in airports. My anxiousness usually starts when I head towards security and realise I've forgotten to remove a bottle of 120ml deodorant from my bag. Do I try and sneak it through? Do I declare it and watch some airport official on a power trip shake their head and give me a "you know better than that" look? Or do I avoid the whole debacle altogether and just dispose of it myself and make no attempt to take a stand against the "terrorists" who I am cursing all the way for causing me all this undue stress. It's inevitable too that an item of my jewellery will then set off the metal detector and I will be violated by another official who wishes it were them going on holiday and take it out on me. So I endure the aforementioned torment with gritted teeth and then locate the nearest Starbucks, order a latte and allow myself to relax. Airports and flights take up so much of my holiday that I now ensure I use the time as productively as possible. So, on our last stint, I blogged and read and willed my blood pressure not to rise when the flight was delayed by an hour.

I've also learned to find comfort in crowds of tourists. For all of my wanting to explore places that are "off the beaten track" I realised, on our recent trip to Athens, that when there are no other tourists around I begin to feel a bit vulnerable. If there are others who are talking to the waiter in English while he responds (slightly aggravated) in his native tongue, you don't feel as out of place doing it yourself. When other hoards are heading towards the same historical monument, you know you're on the right track. Yes, they might be annoyingly taking photos of everything and speaking unnecessarily loudly and flashing maps in the middle of the street (pickpocket target right there!) but deep down, we're all the same. We're all strangers in a foreign land trying to savour the experience in our own little way.

All of that said, the things that I will remember most from our trip to Athens are not typically touristy. If I close my eyes, I see the dogs that roam the streets so freely, in particular, the two who guard the crossing at Syntagma Square by night. Some are pets, some are former pets and some have never been pets at all. Has Athens gone to the dogs?
I will remember fondly the night at Bairaktaris restaurant, when the owner came running with a bowl of Greek yoghurt and honey, shouting for us not to leave. Because we had already stood up, he chased a prospective customer from our seats so that we could enjoy dessert, on the house. A cherished moment of Greek hospitality.
On a material note, I can recall the excitement I felt as we stepped inside the Intercontinental Hotel with it's lush lobby and swanky restaurants. Dimly lit and minimally, yet elaborately decorated, there was a sense that unless you were parading Prada or Gucci, you didn't belong. But for three days and nights we did belong and it felt great.
The city itself is covered in graffiti and I felt a bit short-changed by climbing to the Acropolis and finding it covered in scaffolding but it's all part of the experience and there's great value in knowing just how to angle your camera lens.
And when all was said and done and we had checked out of the hotel with a few hours to spare before we had to head to the airport, where did we find ourselves? In the most familiar surroundings in all of Athens. Starbucks, of course.

a taste of tuscany

Having merely whet my appetite with a short visit to Tuscany a few years ago, I was eager to return for a proper taste of all that this enchanting region of Italy has to offer. The scenery doesn’t disappoint mid-April, when the hills roll together to form a landscape too vast to capture with a camera lens. Our flight issues and debates with travel agents were a distant memory as Fox and I began the picturesque drive, in our tiny Fiat Panda rental, from Pisa to Siena. Whizzing around corners, we were captivated by the breathtaking greens and browns intercepted at intervals by fields of yellow mustard flowers. The numerous B&B advertisements dotted along the route are a giveaway that this area is not deprived of visitors yet the sense of tranquillity has by no means been tarnished.

Our first stop was a brief break at one of Tuscany’s characteristic hill towns, Volterra. Behind the city walls lies a typical Tuscan town complete with piazzas, medieval streets and a bell tower that stands proudly in the centre of it all. A quick slice of pizza at Pizzeria del Corso to quiet our hungry stomachs and it was straight on to Siena.

Siena’s quaintness and unrivalled charm make it one of my favourite places in Europe. With its narrow, paved streets enclosed by ancient apartments you wouldn’t be blamed for underestimating the 60,000 population. From the striking Duomo which appears as a vision of black and white, to the red-roofed views seen from the Panorama and the history behind the Palio and the Contrade, there is a lot to be discovered in this town which can easily be meandered across in an hour.
Our afternoon visit to Sam Gimignano was worth the hour drive to experience this most famous of Tuscan hill towns and its scenic views. The town now boasts thirteen towers where seventy-two once stood but it has become a bit of a tourist haunt so not worth a lengthy visit.

Departing Siena two days later, we headed back to Pisa where I still struggle to see any appeal beyond the necessity of having your picture taken in front of the Leaning Tower. So we took our token happy-snaps and boarded a bus for the buzzing city of Florence.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why so many visitors flock to Florence. This is not for lack of attractions but rather that there are so many; cafes spill onto pavements on every street; the city holds a collection of artworks so impressive it must make art galleries around the world turn green at the thought; the smell of real leather dominates market stalls; Tuscan cuisine is known to elicit great excitement in chef’s the world over; and there is the world famous statue of David. I did not expect to be so impressed by a single sculpture but it seems that you simply can’t deny the perfectionism of Michelangelo’s masterpiece which proudly dominates the Galleria dell’Accademia (an entire gallery built specifically to house this marble work).
After a few days in Italy we had experienced our fair share of pizza, pasta and far too much gelati. Gelateria entice with their lush displays at every turn and during a hard day of walking who can resist a scrumptious scoop of pistachio or almond...or both? After wandering aimlessly up and down Via dell’Isola we were unable to locate the ‘most famous gelateria in Italy’, Vivoli, and just when I thought Lonely Planet was having a laugh at our expense, it became apparent that perhaps it was just our ability to decipher the Florence building numbers that had failed us.
A stroll through the grand Biboli Gardens, to my delight, was free on the day we decided to picnic amongst its statues, fountains and terraces. After five days in Italy, the only drawback was that the British Pound just doesn’t go as far as it used to in Europe so a freebie was perhaps more welcome than usual.

There are few places to which I would consider returning when there is still so much of the world to see. Tuscany, however, is so unassumingly addictive that I suspect one can only keep cravings at bay for so long until a return visit is once again on the menu.

a highland fling

In our relationship, the differences between men and women are never quite so obvious as when it comes to making decisions about travel. Having left our Easter weekend plans to the last-minute, Fox and I made a spontaneous decision to take a tour of the Highlands. With it being a long weekend, we were left with little choice but to endure a gruelling nine hour bus ride to Edinburgh and back. We also opted for a Wild in Scotland tour which covered an extensive part of the Highlands over a course of three days. Since I’d left Fox to organise majority of our trip I was not at liberty to comment too much on the choice of tour or accommodation but it is no secret that our ideas of travelling ‘comfortably’ differ somewhat. Although pleasant enough, being guided by a wacky kilt-clad Scot in a minivan with fourteen fellow travellers and staying in hostels probably would not have been my first choice.
Nevertheless, from Stirling through Glencoe and onto Skye, we found ourselves in the most isolated setting I’ve ever experienced. My sense of peace, however, was shattered approximately five minutes later when we were told that the Glenbrittle hostel, which was to be our first night stopover, required girls and guys sleep in separate dorms. It was at this moment that I declared the final nail had been hammered into the coffin wherein lies any future hostel prospects.
The following morning we hiked up through the Cuillin mountains for a soggy but spectacularly scenic Easter egg hunt and then drove along Loch Ness to Drumnadrochit for our second night. To my delight, Fox had booked us into a B&B for the evening and as the rest of the group filed into the backpapckers I resisted the urge to squeal with delight at the thought of a comfy ‘bed bug free’ bed and a full Scottish breakfast. On arrival at the Aslaich B&B, the friendly owner welcomed us and after a bit of ‘housekeeping’ presented us with a bottle of champagne, congratulating us on our honeymoon. I’m still not sure how we managed to hide the confusion from our faces, or perhaps we didn’t and she just took it as surprised gratitude. It was later that we discovered that Wendy, who runs the backpackers and is mildly eccentric, decided that she would tell the B&B owner that it was our honeymoon and score us a couple of freebies. In my defence, I would like to say that I was not the one who decided it was okay to drink the champagne. However, I can’t deny that I too enjoyed partaking in it. Come on, a freebie is a freebie! I somehow managed to abstain from wincing when we were wished a continued good honeymoon the following morning. We left as quickly as possible without looking back.
After another day of history and rugged highland scenery which boasts glistening lochs, mountain passes and castles, we returned to Edinburgh feeling somewhat enlightened. Danny, our guide had spoken much of Scotland’s struggles and if anything, we learned how proud the Scots are of their heritage. Being half Scot, I can’t deny that there is something in me that stirs each time I see the majestic castle up on the hill. We finished the trip with a wonderful dinner at Mussel Inn and then a drink at Brown’s where I was served the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted. And despite our gender differences I think we were both in agreement that this was a pretty great way to end our brief but enjoyable highland fling.

where in the world

I never thought that having the world as your oyster could actually become a bit of a headache. Fox and I have planned to take a short break in April but finding a destination has been surprisingly difficult. We want sun but we don’t want to have to fly half a day to find it; we want a decent hotel but without the crowds; we would quite like a nice white, sandy beach; we don’t want to spend half a year’s salary; we would like to experience a different culture; it would be advantageous to go somewhere with a bit of sightseeing potential. Is this an impossible list? Are we asking too much?
I think I know the root of the problem. You see, Fox made a novice mistake when planning our (somewhat extravagant) honeymoon in the Maldives. You simply can not treat a lady to 5 star luxury, in one of the most serene settings on earth and then expect her to have the same expectations as she did prior to marriage. I used to be okay with the odd night in a hostel. It was never quite my thing but I tolerated it. Now, however, the thought of bedbugs and clogged drains in communal showers makes my stomach churn. It's like biting into a luscious 70 percent cocoa Godiva truffle; Cadbury’s Kitkat quickly loses its appeal.
For Fox, the attraction to ‘roughing it’ lies in the chance of an unexpected adventure but as we browse through pictures of resorts with palatial foyers, jetty’s enticingly lit by night, bubbling jacuzzi’s and poolside restaurants offering succulent tropical fruits, I get the feeling that he too finds it difficult to get excited by the thought of Brodie’s Hostel. Our goal for this year is to see as much of the world as we can within the restrictions of annual leave and limited long weekends. This means that extravagant luxury is simply not sensible and to be honest, I’m sure the novelty would soon wear off.
So, I am now going back to look for a holiday wearing my ‘Kitkat’ goggles in the hope that the world will become accessible once again. Because Godiva is delicious but surely it wouldn’t be quite as tempting if that was all I ate.

venetian proposal

I've rewritten my introduction to this entry twenty-times over. I'm afraid that my feeble attempt at summarising a moment that changed my life, simply isn't sufficient. No pressure, but this is something my kids will read one day. What's more, things like this only happen once in a lifetime. Hence, I only get to write about it once. Ever. So...

At 04:00am on Saturday morning, 10 May 2008, I was woken by a phone call from Fox to say that he was outside my front door. I probably should have been alarmed but the line between dream and reality was relatively blurred at that point. Bounding into my flat, Fox instructed me to get ready, gather my things and find my passport – we were taking a trip. On arrival at the airport an hour later, I let out a squeal of delight on discovering that we were headed to Venice. I have two dream-destinations: New York and Venice.
The rest of the day was spent exploring, what is said to be, the most romantic city in the world. I was totally engulfed by it’s charm, as Fox and I meandered the quaint streets leading off St Mark’s Square and strolled beside it’s many enchanting canals. I was like a kid captivated by the magic of Disneyland.
As the sun began to set and we continued to amble along in search of dinner, Fox led me down a narrow street that led to a quiet jetty, away from the crowds and the buzz of tourists. As I naively narrated an impromptu video while a gondola glided by, what I didn’t realise was that Fox was preparing himself to launch into a 32-line poem, which he had written and memorised. As realisation dawned I could feel my body tensing and then the tears begin to prick my eyes. As I heard the words “…Roxanne Sarah Tagg, I ask you, will you be my wife?” I could fight the tears no more and I responded with, “Of course I’ll be your wife!”

The last few weeks have a been a surreal combination of delighted congratulations from friends and family, wedding arrangements, venue bookings, dress shopping and getting used to be called, and having, a fiancé. It's nuts but totally, indescribably amazing! And it's only just begun.

ski-chick diaries: post-piste

On arrival in Torgon, as I slipped clumsily down the icy incline to my bedroom, the thought that I was unable to stay upright on the snow in my ugg-boots accentuated doubts that I was actually going to live to see the end of the week once I traded comfortable footwear for skis.
In the week that ensued I found myself flying down mountainsides at speeds that I'd be far more comfortable doing in a car. My peers were convinced that I had learned to ski in the space of a few days when, in fact, I'd simply not learned how to take it slow or how to stop effectively. Despite my inability to use my snow-plough technique to keep me from racing my fellow skiers, I came away with relatively few injuries and only a couple of bruises. These were largely due to beginner blunders such as slipping down slopes backwards, leaving my beginner group far behind as I careered towards a forest of pine trees and a couple of instances where my legs simply gave up on me after more exercise than they have ever had to endure over the course of my entire 24 years of existence.
Thanks to Sander, our Dutch instructor who fell down laughing into the snow every time one of us landed on our backsides or jammed a ski-lift or flew into the snow face-first, I did in fact learn to enjoy the slopes of Porte Du Soleil and found myself planning next years trip without a moments hesitation.
Fox was incredibly encouraging until an impromptu off-piste detour left me totally buried in thick, white powder. Unable to see through my snow-covered goggles, all I could hear were the muffled sounds of Fox's laughter from the top of the slope as I shouted the need to be rescued. After ensuring that my distress was caught on film, my knight-in-ski-gear came whooshing down the slope on his snowboard to pull me from my snowy-pit...my hero.
The thermals are packed away for another year. But the mulled wine is warming and pisters are revving, ready for ski-chick to dominate the slopes in 2009. Until then!

ski-chick diaries: preparation stage

I spent an hour in Lilywhites this afternoon gathering the last of my gear for our ski trip next week. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't find a Bridget Jones inspired, all-in-one, pink jumpsuit but when I realised I could get kids attire for a third of the price I stopped being picky. Laden with gloves, thermal underwear, ski boots and other ‘ski-chick extraordinaire’ essentials I left feeling quite eager to hit the slopes. I must admit, I'm starting to reconsider my decision to opt out of ski lessons. I'm not sure how I expected to be able to navigate the snow - perhaps instinctively - but as the thought of overbearing mountains becomes a looming reality I'm not quite as confident as I was when filling in my form.
Anyway, in my opinion, snow and ski holidays are a definite perk of winter. The necessity to pile on ten layers of clothing every time you prepare to walk outside and an insatiable appetite for anything that is starchy and warm are not quite as appealing. I'm lacking motivation and frankly, the desire to go to bed at 19:30 is vastly uncharacteristic of a night owl such as I. The only explanation is that it is the time of year when my body thinks I'm a grizzly bear (don't laugh, I'm not that small) and all it wants to do is hibernate. If only.
But another week in wintry London is made tolerable by the appealing thought of gliding effortlessly down the slopes, a vast snow-covered mountain forming a picturesque backdrop of tranquil grandeur behind me. Illusions aside, it’s more likely that I’ll be flat on my back, one ski perpendicular in the snow, the other lying 3 metres from me as a ski-school of 10 year old kids swerves obnoxiously around me. That, coupled with unbearably stiff legs on day three and a goggles tan and I just can’t wait.

high life not wildlife

I know I committed to relaying my weekend camping stories in a previous blog, but instead of telling you all about my trauma of sleeping on stones, almost drowning during the night thanks to a leaking tent, brushing death by hypothermia and surviving three days on camp food, I am opting to speak only of the positives!
There is something about escaping the buzz of the city that makes people become slightly more genuine. I love meeting new people, but even more than that, I love getting to know my friends and acquaintances better.
What made the suffering of camping worth it? I got to see stars. Granted, there were only about 3 and even then they kept disappearing behind clouds, but hey, am trying to appreciate the small things.
The highlight of our trip had to be right at the end when we were standing at the station, about 80 teens and young adults, and our train pulled up on the opposite platform. I have never experienced anything like it! There was silence as realisation descended upon us and then everyone started flailing their arms and yelling at the train driver as we stampeded down the stairs towards the correct platform. What bozo puts a sign saying 'to London' on the wrong platform anyway?? Thank the Lord, a large group of screaming lunatics is hard to ignore and the driver was alerted and delayed the train for us. This, I can assure you, would never happen in London.
Although the weekend was inspiring, it will not be an easy task to convince me to go camping anytime soon again. As much as I love the whole idea of being one with nature, I can get the same feeling from a Radox aromatherapy bubble bath and satin sheets in a 5* hotel.
Oh go on, call me precious if you must! Sticks and stones may break my bones (and I know this first hand) but I'm willing to deal with your words if it means I never have to camp again!