tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80988145671206269282024-03-14T05:50:57.032+00:00Today I Wrote NothingSharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.comBlogger303125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-54829915209923893052021-06-25T11:48:00.008+01:002021-06-25T12:08:05.549+01:00The limit does not exist<p>WELL, WELL, WELL. Guess who had a great time slumming it in the Dordogne? NOT OUR FRIEND, THAT'S FOR SURE. </p><p>LOL JK. We FORCED him to. The key to a good time when you have a small home is to LEAVE IT, and that's exactly what we did: we dragged that poor man to wineries, farmers' markets, flea markets, riverside beaches and through the forest. Anytime it looked like he was about to sit contentedly on the sofa, we'd leap up -- Wait! You haven't seen the bins by the rugby pitch yet!</p><p>It was delightful. Pretty sure he went home and slept for ten days.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GftP7llBP3A/YNWUwDZsXOI/AAAAAAABAAY/JeDxOhrYx2Umr2mnrvfhHg4h3uisK-uYQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9913.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GftP7llBP3A/YNWUwDZsXOI/AAAAAAABAAY/JeDxOhrYx2Umr2mnrvfhHg4h3uisK-uYQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/IMG_9913.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The water we shoved him into</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>One of the best takeaways from our time together was having him as a flea market and brocante companion. One of his (many, varied) backgrounds is in antiques (he's even a guest judge on an <i>Antiques-Roadshow</i>-esque program in the UK) so the man not only knows when an item is special, but also its history, whether the price is right, and when to bargain. SHOPPING WITH HIM WAS THE BEST ANTIQUING OF MY LIFE. <p></p><p>Just LOOK at how he's upped my pedestals- and plinths-game in two short weekends. (Finally! Places for the <i>objets</i> I'm now collecting! What a good influence he is! Alan is one hundred percent on board with all of this!)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lufwHd8ISSo/YNWUt4sufdI/AAAAAAABAAQ/WxL-U9VIDNoybKtUP1AJ7G55liZhGnh1QCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9872.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lufwHd8ISSo/YNWUt4sufdI/AAAAAAABAAQ/WxL-U9VIDNoybKtUP1AJ7G55liZhGnh1QCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_9872.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">18th-century butcher's table! I know how old something is now!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d679kYWforw/YNWUtnU36uI/AAAAAAABAAM/-n_euT1fGyIjJmvHR8QLmyWujqhaSmdkACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_0128.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d679kYWforw/YNWUtnU36uI/AAAAAAABAAM/-n_euT1fGyIjJmvHR8QLmyWujqhaSmdkACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_0128.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Solid marble! I can't even lift this!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_fuNUpF1x3w/YNWUxQNHcAI/AAAAAAABAAc/ID_iiOImFNgWgGSOLYxdVuODS7gY6VSrwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9971.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_fuNUpF1x3w/YNWUxQNHcAI/AAAAAAABAAc/ID_iiOImFNgWgGSOLYxdVuODS7gY6VSrwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_9971.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And this apprentice piece, which Aidan pointed out is a great example of traditional French curvature in a modern style! (Alan definitely thought we needed this!)</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There was a moment in this massive vide grenier flea market on Sunday, one so big it took up every street in its village, when -- possibly around hour two of cruising -- Aidan and I spotted this amazing 70s-style geometric set of side tables that we were desperate for (Alan had long since slumped against a wall under a tree, leaving us to it), right next to a sombrero the size of a dinner table and a giant set of iron letters spelling, mysteriously, CARP. And we realised -- as we formulated how best to convince Alan to hand over the wallet -- that regardless of what treasures we brought back to show him (not unlike a child showing his dad a nice rock), THE MAN SEES THEM ALL AS SOMBREROS AND CARP. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Needless to say, when we rushed breathlessly back to him and pointed out the tables we wanted across the field, he ACTUALLY put his head in his hands and groaned. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Father was unimpressed by our pebbles. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2DtQ7orW_bg/YNWoDniH4KI/AAAAAAABAA4/7CHlMdBPcxwBPj0KEXRu3zqjFyJubPjAQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_0135.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2DtQ7orW_bg/YNWoDniH4KI/AAAAAAABAA4/7CHlMdBPcxwBPj0KEXRu3zqjFyJubPjAQCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_0135.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">He still let us get matching salamanders, though</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Eventually we took pity on him (once we had finished with every inch of every lane, rewarded at the very last table with a set of <i>gres</i> dinnerware that is coming straight back to London) and returned home. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Where immediately Alan and I saw Aidan was in danger of relaxing and prodded him into the nearest forest for a hike.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iPKLfdDvJjU/YNWVAOwqysI/AAAAAAABAAs/17RPgOnd67MEOj5ujK-A7N1uzuiqp4b_wCLcBGAsYHQ/s4032/IMG_0013.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iPKLfdDvJjU/YNWVAOwqysI/AAAAAAABAAs/17RPgOnd67MEOj5ujK-A7N1uzuiqp4b_wCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_0013.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The best part of this picture is the angle that makes Aidan look even more giant than he actually is, and Alan his fierce tiny friend.</div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G2wWqmHkb5I/YNWUv2b736I/AAAAAAABAAU/44-ehODXxOENcRq-ShqJaR_YMz_TEiN2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9943.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G2wWqmHkb5I/YNWUv2b736I/AAAAAAABAAU/44-ehODXxOENcRq-ShqJaR_YMz_TEiN2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_9943.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Not unlike the affect of every selfie we take together</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>It was the best sombrero- and carp-collecting weekend I've ever had, and Alan's promised that if those tables are at next summer's vide grenier, WE CAN DEFINITELY GET THEM, so that's RESULTS.<div><br /></div><div>Now we're in the middle of laundry and packing, because we're off on a mini-road trip tomorrow! We've got clear PCR tests firmly in hand, and we're heading south to cross the border into Spain. We have no idea what the border crossing is going to look like, but we've been told they're actually stopping cars to check Covid tests, so things could get exciting! </div><div><br /></div><div>Wish us luck, and hopefully see you from Galicia! </div><div><br /></div>Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-87554734869700488762021-06-17T20:19:00.000+01:002021-06-17T20:19:09.142+01:00Some dump in Cognac<p>OMGYOUGUYS, so remember me saying we were going to Cognac to visit a friend last weekend? This is a friend we know from our neighbourhood in London, who lives much like we do there, in a flat superbly tiny but of course terrifically glamorous. When we realised our places in France were so close, we decided to co-host each other over a couple of weekends, a la how they did things in Jane Austin times, except with fewer ballgowns. </p><p>Our friend offered to welcome us first (mostly because his car was out of commission while planning) so we packed a handful of flip-flops for our casual weekend and hit the road. 'It's just a small place,' he assured us, before we headed up. 'Your typical run-down French house.' Ah, excellent! We know it well.</p><p>We arrive just after sunset to his village and, following the satnav, we pull up to a walled property with an arched gate set in the wall. This ... is this his gate? The one with a smaller side gate, presumably for the guards and city watch? </p><p>We stop the car and I text him: 'We're outside a gate -- are we here?'</p><p>Yes, my friends. Of course we were. </p><p>We pulled through to find out our friend is a BIG. FAT. LIAR. Because this was his old run-down pile of house: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6vmHeamwvB8/YMjt59k5z5I/AAAAAAAA_7w/vfzpgTQ-vhQyEGzRY7KW0RMx-Flt7mp6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9553.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6vmHeamwvB8/YMjt59k5z5I/AAAAAAAA_7w/vfzpgTQ-vhQyEGzRY7KW0RMx-Flt7mp6ACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/IMG_9553.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I should have packed my ballgowns. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So, parking next to the bubbling fountain - as one does - we disembark and look around, trying to play cool, like we just stay at places like this all the time. Even though, immediately to the right, there is another archway containing this:</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8uw6ua7lTIc/YMjt5zFKCLI/AAAAAAAA_70/50CY67J4XXwc_wKbbF0WezvLUC4HC9F-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9560.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8uw6ua7lTIc/YMjt5zFKCLI/AAAAAAAA_70/50CY67J4XXwc_wKbbF0WezvLUC4HC9F-wCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_9560.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Just another run-of-the-mill open-air dining space.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We didn't actually sit and eat here at any point -- why, when there are eighteen other dining spaces to choose from? -- but MAN, I'm marking this for my 50th.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Then we go in, and the house tour commences. We have to choose which bedroom we want, you see. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gvDvBb6Lsc0/YMjt50mKEgI/AAAAAAAA_7s/5pMM7r7G3S8OQI7kXKVz6_H6Z1GRzhFEgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9568.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gvDvBb6Lsc0/YMjt50mKEgI/AAAAAAAA_7s/5pMM7r7G3S8OQI7kXKVz6_H6Z1GRzhFEgCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_9568.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Pick a floor! Any floor!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Our first option was in the old-timey servants' wing (advantage: near the kitchen, always a pro), followed by the second option, which he discouraged because 'it's a little haunted'. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K2clJYYm2OE/YMjt7M-a7dI/AAAAAAAA_74/ADiUs9pEE9E7u_b4W9GH-3Y80KZ9L5Y4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9588.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K2clJYYm2OE/YMjt7M-a7dI/AAAAAAAA_74/ADiUs9pEE9E7u_b4W9GH-3Y80KZ9L5Y4gCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_9588.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">How, with so many guardians right outside the door?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Then we peek in:</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gDEpUdMejLI/YMjt7PqSQpI/AAAAAAAA_78/IVEjf_YHtFYAi9L3YvvvwojNCYBcLN_IQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9592.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gDEpUdMejLI/YMjt7PqSQpI/AAAAAAAA_78/IVEjf_YHtFYAi9L3YvvvwojNCYBcLN_IQCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_9592.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Yeah, okay.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Needless to say, we went with Door Number Three: </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xxJR5ewh_3s/YMjt_eEixXI/AAAAAAAA_8c/gWiQxMjqXv8_oUHsuL9dQerfrNWSn3vzwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9628.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xxJR5ewh_3s/YMjt_eEixXI/AAAAAAAA_8c/gWiQxMjqXv8_oUHsuL9dQerfrNWSn3vzwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/IMG_9628.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">JUST YOUR COMPLETELY NORMAL GUEST BEDROOM.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The next morning we woke up and I put on my fanciest pair of shorts (AGAIN, WHY DIDN'T I PACK MY BALLGOWN) to take myself upon a daylight tour of the house, so please: enjoy this interior design porn as much as I did, before immediately deciding I had to cut this guy out of our lives before he came to visit us. </div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WzgOPzjCxtg/YMjt8txb5II/AAAAAAAA_8E/kuaNrqj5fvIaNHWsWCYy4IMlk7BqZgVOACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9599.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WzgOPzjCxtg/YMjt8txb5II/AAAAAAAA_8E/kuaNrqj5fvIaNHWsWCYy4IMlk7BqZgVOACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/IMG_9599.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh, he carved that white stone head himself, by the way. Of course.</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">In his studio, where he just -- and I quote -- 'messes around':</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TQFXLjRe9zw/YMjuIp9DDcI/AAAAAAAA_84/Uh9VQIu-Zskq9FQhzcAJiBZ_HaYtWr9UACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9736.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TQFXLjRe9zw/YMjuIp9DDcI/AAAAAAAA_84/Uh9VQIu-Zskq9FQhzcAJiBZ_HaYtWr9UACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_9736.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is just like where I watch Netflix.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kvJOtJoEuoM/YMjt9Dk7tEI/AAAAAAAA_8I/f1Jf6Ne9Bx0-o_DHBjFcvN7qrTcXRlAmACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9601.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kvJOtJoEuoM/YMjt9Dk7tEI/AAAAAAAA_8I/f1Jf6Ne9Bx0-o_DHBjFcvN7qrTcXRlAmACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_9601.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Living Room #86</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DG6XlhMoiz4/YMjuAHGDsiI/AAAAAAAA_8g/x4ypwg7WR4IQu7PmKmfrCypHu-YhvgQXgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9640.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DG6XlhMoiz4/YMjuAHGDsiI/AAAAAAAA_8g/x4ypwg7WR4IQu7PmKmfrCypHu-YhvgQXgCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_9640.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Dining Room #12</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IbUI6SlJwNE/YMjt90v8xrI/AAAAAAAA_8Q/IIsAjr-_CmkUoKGHTSZCwEyBTS7mi9B-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9606.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IbUI6SlJwNE/YMjt90v8xrI/AAAAAAAA_8Q/IIsAjr-_CmkUoKGHTSZCwEyBTS7mi9B-ACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_9606.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">See that white bowl? You can't tell from here, but that is full of eggs, FROM HIS CHICKENS. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">After my nose around, I found a steaming carafe of coffee on the table and helped myself to a mug that I then took out to the garden, where our down-to-earth host was already up and about watering his garden:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zfkS-N7U4jk/YMjt_I1d7FI/AAAAAAAA_8U/thmEchWv9fAmCsmGP2FStZNmWC9YVMGxACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9618.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zfkS-N7U4jk/YMjt_I1d7FI/AAAAAAAA_8U/thmEchWv9fAmCsmGP2FStZNmWC9YVMGxACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_9618.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I have so much to learn.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The rest of the weekend was filled with other delights: </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">We went to a trout farm to pick out fresh fish for dinner: </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-10Fj5qSJLYQ/YMjufKZh62I/AAAAAAAA_9o/-iyup-dMQ1EDTSku8NuyZJnxjk_4iOW4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s4032/IMG_9659.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-10Fj5qSJLYQ/YMjufKZh62I/AAAAAAAA_9o/-iyup-dMQ1EDTSku8NuyZJnxjk_4iOW4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_9659.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Went antiquing:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aohSfDDa7e4/YMjuCDSn9-I/AAAAAAAA_8k/6Vp21FAK6fgJD-A0J6vCY3JZ8BcLWcHiACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9677.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aohSfDDa7e4/YMjuCDSn9-I/AAAAAAAA_8k/6Vp21FAK6fgJD-A0J6vCY3JZ8BcLWcHiACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_9677.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">And, of course, when in Cognac: a distillery tour:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TBS_7WKVWaQ/YMjuEkef2BI/AAAAAAAA_8s/vEzefZ0tO4IqUgv5dQbV4MIhrX41f99ZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9689.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TBS_7WKVWaQ/YMjuEkef2BI/AAAAAAAA_8s/vEzefZ0tO4IqUgv5dQbV4MIhrX41f99ZQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_9689.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Then back to the hovel for oysters and smoked trout, putting Alan to work gathering wood: </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kylU53W9RxA/YMjuLcWGkFI/AAAAAAAA_9A/5cdXAnIfst0_0BQUUmZ4vSAWBtoN7dcMACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9750.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kylU53W9RxA/YMjuLcWGkFI/AAAAAAAA_9A/5cdXAnIfst0_0BQUUmZ4vSAWBtoN7dcMACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_9750.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">It was a pretty awful weekend, really.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8tqkrrg0D9E/YMjuNH3AeCI/AAAAAAAA_9Q/P2ds-_cAIv0VZ-W55JqGlIeBM5D6ECFFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_9845.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8tqkrrg0D9E/YMjuNH3AeCI/AAAAAAAA_9Q/P2ds-_cAIv0VZ-W55JqGlIeBM5D6ECFFQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_9845.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The last photo you'll ever see of us together, because he's dead to us.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">Except, of course, we aren't nearly so lucky, because HE'S COMING TOMORROW TO VISIT. Honestly at this point, I think we might be better off just changing our names and heading for the border.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Alas, too late, his ballgown is packed. Now if you'll excuse me; I've got a futon to dust.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-78976950166097506052021-06-11T07:39:00.007+01:002021-06-11T07:56:14.609+01:00The perfect birthday bbq<p> OMGYOUGUYS. Who lights a firepit when it's 90 degrees at 7 p.m.? WE DO, APPARENTLY.</p><p>As part of my <i>the birthday plan must go on</i> attitude (I'm rarely stubborn, except for the cases in which it serves me), I was determined to light the fire and cook the Boerewors sausage that a dear South African friend in London got me for my birthday. </p><p>One thing I did not plan for, however, was the heat wave that has squatted upon us this week, as heavy and unmoving as a sumo wrestler. </p><p>But no chance I'm giving up the idea. Sitting around the firepit in the evening is one of our favourite things to do down here (in the autumn, like normals, but I refuse to acknowledge this) and it's my <i>birthday</i> (month). Who cares if I'm so sticky I'm attracting fruit flies. Who cares if my Eau de Bug Repellant has given me a fragrant, clammy sheen. THIS IS ROMANTIC. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://media1.giphy.com/media/eaFdcy4GSj5Qk95bT3/giphy.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" src="https://media1.giphy.com/media/eaFdcy4GSj5Qk95bT3/giphy.gif" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">Mmmmm, char away, little feast. Blister those peppers, roast that sausage, smoke out those mozzies.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Fortunately, by the time we sat down to eat, the temperature had cooled to the point Alan DARED TO SUGGEST WE EAT INDOORS. You can imagine how that idea went down. Too hot to sit around a fire, too cold to eat outdoors, THIS IS MY DREAM NIGHT, IT'S ALL GOING PERFECTLY. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L7KrDYYj_0g/YML9FmZnNRI/AAAAAAAA_68/fDwCy2NBqzYr_mFBikiW6BVtvSrcZShfwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2021-06-11%2Bat%2B7.35.42%2BAM%2B%25281%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L7KrDYYj_0g/YML9FmZnNRI/AAAAAAAA_68/fDwCy2NBqzYr_mFBikiW6BVtvSrcZShfwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2021-06-11%2Bat%2B7.35.42%2BAM%2B%25281%2529.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Not pictured: beanies, hoodies, long-suffering husband.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In other news, Wolf McQuade has picked the tennis back up again! I don't play with him (I'm too lazy to run and for some reason, he refuses to bounce the ball directly into a convenient four-foot radius around me) but luckily he's got a local friend who also likes to get shirtless and 'rally'. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kHzWgGSMg1g/YML9GE9JsNI/AAAAAAAA_7A/11JOh2q2r6Ix7sBOqpBtXaAyg-AaQ4FnQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2021-06-11%2Bat%2B7.35.42%2BAM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kHzWgGSMg1g/YML9GE9JsNI/AAAAAAAA_7A/11JOh2q2r6Ix7sBOqpBtXaAyg-AaQ4FnQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2021-06-11%2Bat%2B7.35.42%2BAM.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">As far as spectator sports go, I don't hate it.</div><br /><p>We're off this weekend to Cognac to visit a friend, so that's exciting! We're actually neighbours in London, and his place down here is only a two- to three-hour drive away from our own -- which in France is basically next door -- so we're heading up after work today. Looking forward to seeing a new part of the country and spending the weekend eating, laughing, and of course, sipping Cognac. </p><p>I hope he's got a firepit.</p><p><br /></p>Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-34837996299027579902021-06-07T07:22:00.034+01:002021-06-07T07:46:40.406+01:0040: already mocking me<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">OMGYOUGUYS. It's been over a year since my last blog post. Maybe even a year and a half. I tried posting a few times during 2020 but it turns out my brand of light-hearted nonsense felt tone-deaf in the face of a global pandemic, and after several futile attempts, I gave it up as lost. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But now, here we are. It feels like a particularly relevant time to pick it up again, in light of turning 40 this weekend.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;">I had big plans for the day (one might say too big, but there we are, me in a nutshell). The plan was a run, followed by a garden breakfast, then a farmer's market in which we source ingredients for a picnic, a hike (to said picnic), all wrapped up by twilight back in our garden at the fire pit. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Ahhhhh, folly. One would think you couldn't follow me into my fifth decade, and yet: here we are.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It started off perfectly. The run: ideally short. The first K was a hill I wasn't keen on, but I survived, and we came home to the coffee percolating, and cooled down on the terrace with a cuppa in hand. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Breakfast: Alan's famous Indian scramble, also on the terrace, also perfect:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KhuA2Anhz_I/YL0p-nR0xNI/AAAAAAAA_5A/rrWvFeRUxagyGWWERbQAlNMx5gg_fqKngCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/0%2Bbrekkie.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KhuA2Anhz_I/YL0p-nR0xNI/AAAAAAAA_5A/rrWvFeRUxagyGWWERbQAlNMx5gg_fqKngCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/0%2Bbrekkie.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">HOW ABSURD IS THIS. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then we headed off to the farmer's market, which was also delightful. This day was so on track we were just BUOYANT with joy and satisfaction. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GKNjDhKIzmE/YL0raM0kA_I/AAAAAAAA_6A/KzuMDO-IEkEnizuchNL1NHWdcWgGK8_igCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2021-06-06%2Bat%2B10.07.33%2BPM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GKNjDhKIzmE/YL0raM0kA_I/AAAAAAAA_6A/KzuMDO-IEkEnizuchNL1NHWdcWgGK8_igCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2021-06-06%2Bat%2B10.07.33%2BPM.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">[Disclaimer: older pic because I didn't snap one today, but same lovely market, two years on]</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And then. The hike. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's not a new hike to us. In fact, we've both walked and/or run this nine-kilometre loop (what we call the Ridge Run) on several occasions. It goes up, up, up, through gorgeous, leafy, shadowy, fern-laden forest, then flattens on top of the world with scorching, sun-drenched fields and swooping valley views, and then plummets back through Jurassic forest and cave and shadow, to end at the foot of the chateau's lake in our village. It's a lovely little jaunt, and we decided to picnic at the top in the Field o' Views. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We hiked, Alan gamely carrying the world's heaviest backpack stuffed with baguette, tomatoes, nectarines, cheese, charcuterie, and a local pet-nat. And then we find it -- the perfect picnic spot:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KAsHPBSEajo/YL0qLFsIqgI/AAAAAAAA_5I/rb2VXby1UZAYqEUhqfgfQ428FLvPnLK1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/1%2Bpicnic%2Bspot.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KAsHPBSEajo/YL0qLFsIqgI/AAAAAAAA_5I/rb2VXby1UZAYqEUhqfgfQ428FLvPnLK1ACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/1%2Bpicnic%2Bspot.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">JUST LOOK AT IT.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We weren't quite hungry yet when we reached this nook, so we decided to relax in the sun, read our books, and just generally enjoy the peaceful setting.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And then we hear a bark. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There's a farm nearby. The farmer is out, mowing his field. The dog is also out, and keen to play. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The next we know, he is ON us. Literally, tackles us. Within seconds, our bottles of water have been knocked over, our Kindles stampeded, our arms and faces covered in slobber. Our new friend is going NOWHERE. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upfOI5utnxk/YL0uG4aNleI/AAAAAAAA_6I/FpT2eUvJz1YGceVzLNyEM3fWrezxVQSvwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_9278.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="320" height="364" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upfOI5utnxk/YL0uG4aNleI/AAAAAAAA_6I/FpT2eUvJz1YGceVzLNyEM3fWrezxVQSvwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h364/IMG_9278.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sure, there's a whole blanket to enjoy, but NO, HE WILL SIT WHERE YOU ARE.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is clearly no place to be unpacking charcuterie. We have to move. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So, resigned to losing the perfect picnic spot, but optimistic we will find another (field! o'views! expanses of space!) we gather our things to journey on. We are sure Leon (short for 'Lost Leon', as we christened him) will stay behind in His Field Near His Farm, leaving us alone to find the peace of another grassy knoll. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So we start walking. And Leon...escorts us:</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DILzojf62DI/YL0qK6Wtn_I/AAAAAAAA_5E/xQ09Fouoyawxh5CzxymNUCgRZJUIhLlxACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/3%2Balways%2Bleon.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DILzojf62DI/YL0qK6Wtn_I/AAAAAAAA_5E/xQ09Fouoyawxh5CzxymNUCgRZJUIhLlxACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/3%2Balways%2Bleon.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">When we lag, he kindly waits. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We keep going. There's 5k between his home and the lake. We are confident: he must leave us at some point. He has to have a wander-radius, and will eventually bore of our company and head back.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We keep going. We get to the Top, and with relief, realise Leon is nowhere to be seen. Perfect! Let's find a new place for the blanket and start rolling out the food! And then:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://media0.giphy.com/media/ifRjxRwHT2zKxWypg6/giphy.gif?cid=790b7611917cd296352d3e4826257918f12b46fa2b0cd96d&rid=giphy.gif&ct=g" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" src="https://media0.giphy.com/media/ifRjxRwHT2zKxWypg6/giphy.gif?cid=790b7611917cd296352d3e4826257918f12b46fa2b0cd96d&rid=giphy.gif&ct=g" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">THAT. MOTHER. EFFER. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We eventually get all the way back to our lake -- now far past a reasonable late lunch hour and well into a reasonable early dinner hour -- and our companion is still gamely at our side. We are ultimately forced to settle at a picnic table a fifteen-minute walk from our front door. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BAz1LkHABT8/YL0qMgDwHuI/AAAAAAAA_5U/Cjn_r-gHdSc60P9xA5wIm9jfWcu4cgjPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/5%2Bstill%2Bhere.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BAz1LkHABT8/YL0qMgDwHuI/AAAAAAAA_5U/Cjn_r-gHdSc60P9xA5wIm9jfWcu4cgjPgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/5%2Bstill%2Bhere.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Leon: shamelessly birthday crashing since 2021</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We all know this guy in Hackney, the one who spots you out and about and wants to talk to you all day when you're trying to have a quiet one. BUT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FRENCH COUNTRYSIDE? ET TU, LEON?!</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And so...our picnic, at long last: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://media3.giphy.com/media/VWBgujdCt9mirsPYv0/giphy.gif?cid=790b7611077e0c6feffe464b744c6a3dbf26478aefb852fb&rid=giphy.gif&ct=g" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" src="https://media3.giphy.com/media/VWBgujdCt9mirsPYv0/giphy.gif?cid=790b7611077e0c6feffe464b744c6a3dbf26478aefb852fb&rid=giphy.gif&ct=g" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Not even a little sorry.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Needless to say, by the time we were done, the sun was setting and we were stuffed, so our plans to bbq over the fire pit were scuppered, but on the bright side: one more evening in which we get to celebrate is in store! </div><div><br /></div><div>40: already taking its sweet time, guess I'm in for it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-75738058256597445532019-08-08T11:12:00.001+01:002019-08-08T11:17:03.578+01:00ShowdownSo there I was. Trapped in my own back garden. By a pigeon.<br />
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This stand-off was inevitable, I think. Two pigeons have recently roosted in our plum tree and the past week has been a cacophony of thrashing/fighting/feather-flying drama in the branches. Apparently now, though, there has been a winner. And the loser has come to skulk around our garden, seemingly incapable of flying (did the winner nip his wing?), where he now hops/runs/flaps around at ground level, larger than life in our tiny square of astroturf, our two raised beds.<br />
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I, however, did not realise we had taken on this garden tenant when I went out this morning to re-pot some succulents, or I might have -- perhaps -- shut the kitchen door behind me. But no. No, I was innocent, naive -- arrogant, even -- when I came out to our little outdoor table, holding my potted plant, ready for some wholesome morning activity. But then (how quickly everything changes) the bush next to me violently juddered and out shot this pigeon, clearly startled (weren't we both) by my sudden appearance so close to him. He immediately flapped - dare I say sprinted? - in the opposite direction of me, a clear and present threat - he obviously knows I ate squab in St Emilion - which unfortunately meant heading straight down our steps and INTO OUR FLAT. I <i>swear</i> he knew exactly where he was going. He went in with PURPOSE, like he LIVED there, had ALWAYS lived there, WOULD always live there.<br />
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In the meantime, me, in the garden, turning the air blue.<br />
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He ran through the mud room all the way to the kitchen doorway then stopped, presumably checking out the room, measuring it to see if it'd suit his needs.<br />
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I didn't move, lest I encourage him further in.<br />
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He sat. Right there on the step, pretty as you please.<br />
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He listened to the Throwback Thursday playlist -- still playing in the house, harkening back to a more innocent time, aka, an hour ago -- enjoying Hanson, Christina, Mariah, as he settled down, lower, fatter, making himself comfortable. One flap away from so many, many breakable things.<br />
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Me, trapped in the garden. No way of entering my own house, now protected, as it was, by this feathery grey security guard.<br />
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As I mentally ran through my options - namely, that I had none, and may as well hand over the keys - I heard the clatter of dishes through the open window of the neighbours' flat upstairs. THAT'S IT. MY NEIGHBOURS. (Different neighbours to the Australian ones I called for help so many moons ago, when we caught a baby mouse scrabbling in a sink and neither Al nor I could bring ourselves to touch it, and thought, 'Aussies can handle animals' - and sure enough, Sam had him cupped in his palm and outside in no time, justifying our 911.) (But now we have another animal problem, and a whole new neighbour.)<br />
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I shouted - not their names, because I'd forgotten them - but the names of the neighbours next door, hoping they were close enough. And sure enough, two heads popped out above me.<br />
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Me: I NEED YOUR HELP. WE HAVE A PIGEON.<br />
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Them: ON IT.<br />
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I gave them the keycode to the lock-box on our front door, and within minutes, the guy had let himself in and headed for the kitchen, there to shoo the bird out.<br />
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The bird was not interested. NOW he's brave, hey. Got a whole doorway, better than a bush, and all the Backstreet a young paloma could ask for.<br />
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It wasn't until the neighbour got within a foot that he was like, 'Alright, alright, I'm going,' and cool as a cucumber, he just sauntered back out -- shatting in our mud room on his way, flipping us the proverbial bird, quite literally -- and hopped back into his bush.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p-lDt057Lbg/XUvwunkxZfI/AAAAAAAA-sQ/yS9QNritGOELjlWdRGqRLUIQfpWTdL65ACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_5086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p-lDt057Lbg/XUvwunkxZfI/AAAAAAAA-sQ/yS9QNritGOELjlWdRGqRLUIQfpWTdL65ACLcBGAs/s400/IMG_5086.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">LIKE I CAN'T SEE YOU.</span></div>
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I guess I should name him now.Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-63994595123861307952019-04-15T22:10:00.002+01:002019-04-15T23:09:46.181+01:00This weekend: we hiked the ChilternsIt all started Friday afternoon, when I took a train to Marlow, the Best Kept Village in Buckinghamshire:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-omNa9vrfW8k/XLTYf1q6MEI/AAAAAAAA-S4/MdgaRUaINgcKWEBYJNm7ejDvkXe-ogc7QCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-omNa9vrfW8k/XLTYf1q6MEI/AAAAAAAA-S4/MdgaRUaINgcKWEBYJNm7ejDvkXe-ogc7QCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1617.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Just in case you doubted.</div>
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I must confess, while I hadn't yet been to any other villages in Buckinghamshire, I could see it. It had everything one could want in a village:<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jf3pzWujHm0/XLTYhCHnHUI/AAAAAAAA-TA/SOVJVg1G89ws_MTJ6gL_ojG-egxi0EzeQCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1620.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jf3pzWujHm0/XLTYhCHnHUI/AAAAAAAA-TA/SOVJVg1G89ws_MTJ6gL_ojG-egxi0EzeQCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1620.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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A church on the Thames, next to the rowing club</div>
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A suspension bridge, natch</div>
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And the first pub in England with two Michelin stars: the Hand and Flowers. It's this that brought me here, where I had a table booked for lunch.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WPB1Loeo9xY/XLTaA42nDPI/AAAAAAAA-TY/i5L1d3lUySMlcph9bzTvgOfGO7bUF_PfQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WPB1Loeo9xY/XLTaA42nDPI/AAAAAAAA-TY/i5L1d3lUySMlcph9bzTvgOfGO7bUF_PfQCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_1413.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8bQYqRrkXsU/XLTaAtPojxI/AAAAAAAA-TU/WNNMevMDPts94r5wZ-aeI2WA50-lRCQvACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1421.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8bQYqRrkXsU/XLTaAtPojxI/AAAAAAAA-TU/WNNMevMDPts94r5wZ-aeI2WA50-lRCQvACLcBGAs/s320/IMG_1421.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Lovage soup with Bramley apple, smoked eel, pickled garlic, and ham & cheese tortellini // Essex lamb 'bun' with sweetbreads and salsa verde. Everything was gorgeous and balanced and I enjoyed every bite.</div>
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It was after this filling meal that it was time to start Friday's hike: Marlow to the village of Skirmett, where Al would be meeting me after work. We were staying in a quintessential, ancient pub-inn called The Frog (get it! The Frog at Skirmett!). I had a hiking trail map the size of a single bed sheet to guide me there, and I set out with energy and confidence.</div>
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I immediately and successfully found the start of the footpath I was looking for; my heart soared. So far, so good! This map is the BEST.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WaxJBGkJs6w/XLTbYFSRtlI/AAAAAAAA-Ts/2J8B6abIHwIDOV0-GyYV74CFw-jD8BYrACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WaxJBGkJs6w/XLTbYFSRtlI/AAAAAAAA-Ts/2J8B6abIHwIDOV0-GyYV74CFw-jD8BYrACK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1430.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It's a single lane! I can't get lost here!</div>
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<img border="0" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-muzo2ZKRHso/XLTcFC7jPnI/AAAAAAAA-UM/P2dRlImDkjc18vIM024oeFOMbVPJyr-4ACK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1435.jpg" width="480" /></div>
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Or here! </div>
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<img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tqf8V6BIl0g/XLTcFH8PGSI/AAAAAAAA-UQ/-n8jYY-1Hj4jQO84c5q5BQaPOxRryEqzQCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1439.jpg" width="640" /></div>
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Oh man, it's just too easy.</div>
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<img border="0" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hMlNy6RXc0U/XLTcEv7NWvI/AAAAAAAA-UA/hnUGGRjGz1sIJsiqTrU_JcsFaQY2KURogCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1444.jpg" width="480" /></div>
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Now I'm practically skipping. I'll get to Skirmett in no time!</div>
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And then . . . I hit a forest. </div>
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<img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xcIMFaBDbY8/XLTcFhOLdGI/AAAAAAAA-UY/nUH880Z9xl43nlTKwGOFm6Rl9tobXtOSACK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1447.jpg" width="480" /></div>
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But that's okay! The path is still VERY clearly defined. No forks, junctions, or anything that could possibly indicate a turning or change of direction. Just keep following the trail, you're fiiiine.</div>
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Then, I get to this, the first of several IMPENETRABLE SIGNPOSTS:</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UvaA2RXE4I8/XLTcDHJQy2I/AAAAAAAA-T4/7FmqOJioJQ0bFBa_eGgszAUcNubcDabSgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1455.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UvaA2RXE4I8/XLTcDHJQy2I/AAAAAAAA-T4/7FmqOJioJQ0bFBa_eGgszAUcNubcDabSgCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1455.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Uh.</div>
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I soon spot a father with his two kids. He's wearing a sweater tied over his shoulders and his eyeglasses are bright blue plastic. Right away I knew he was the right man to ask. </div>
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Me, unfolding parachute-sized map: Excuse me, can you tell me where I am on this? I'm trying to get here. (I helpfully point.)</div>
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Him: Oh yes! You're in this forest. (Points with vigour at a green blob much farther south than the one I had expected.) Did you know that these ravines you see everywhere are trenches from 1914 and 15, where they trained soldiers before they went off to war? (Kids start to wander off as he gets rolling.) </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wezhpHmpCGU/XLTd657686I/AAAAAAAA-U8/Fhu1M0QHZyApT73WHAdBYHblhv9SqFGKgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1459.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wezhpHmpCGU/XLTd657686I/AAAAAAAA-U8/Fhu1M0QHZyApT73WHAdBYHblhv9SqFGKgCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1459.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Aforementioned trenches, actually pretty cool</span></div>
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Me: So, um, if I want to get here (pointing to green blob farther north and west), what path should I take? </div>
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Him: You see that hill through the trees?: </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kfAVyLm5NxU/XLTdqh92efI/AAAAAAAA-Uw/9MO-czrBMw0VWbRxGqpICNeFk4OlK6PAQCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1460.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kfAVyLm5NxU/XLTdqh92efI/AAAAAAAA-Uw/9MO-czrBMw0VWbRxGqpICNeFk4OlK6PAQCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1460.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Me: . . . Yes. </div>
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Him: You want to go down that valley and up over that hill and down the other side. You're in luck, we're heading that way ourselves! But we don't have to walk together if you don't want to. </div>
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Me: Um. (fingers earbuds dangling from my neck)</div>
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Him: We'll see you on the trail, then!</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7iYrb2S9ywg/XLTfpm52NSI/AAAAAAAA-VI/68AF3r6HkFQi3Yy59jAnm8hMXk4-hPfxACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1471.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7iYrb2S9ywg/XLTfpm52NSI/AAAAAAAA-VI/68AF3r6HkFQi3Yy59jAnm8hMXk4-hPfxACK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1471.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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And so we happily leap-frogged paths for the next hour, with a chat at each intersection. I learned why mother sheep holler so much (a lamb-call-and-response system) and which birds of prey could be found in the woods we traversed. The last I saw him was when he took a break with his kids on a pile of logs, thermoses in hand, pouring out tea. 'See you down the lane!' I called, waving. 'Try to spot the deer!' he called back. </div>
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I never saw the family again, and immediately got lost.</div>
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I went up hills . . . </div>
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. . . and down hills.</div>
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Across fields . . . </div>
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. . . and over stiles. </div>
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And then finally, I reached a road that I recognised on the map. That road led to a new footpath, next to a small parish, where yet another another kindly man emerged to show me on the map that I was in the home stretch. ('You're staying at the Frog in Skirmett?? Get it?? It's Kermit!') It's the first time in my two and a half hours that I'd encountered anyone who'd even HEARD of Skirmett.<br />
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I enter one last portal-path, a blissfully straight shot, much like how my journey began, so many innocent hours ago:</div>
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When I pop out the other side, my destination is in sight at last: the Best Kept Hamlet in Buckinghamshire:<br />
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I crossed that field at a near-skip, youguys. I was THRILLED. Also chilled to my <i>bones</i>. It was getting late, and cold. And that pub had a roaring fire, and local cask ales, and my cosy little room was tucked away upstairs, and I was happy.</div>
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The next day, I'm with Alan, and we're going to DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN. This time, though, the hike was three miles instead of six, and would take us through two villages, which turned out to be VERY convenient to keeping us on track. </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oObacrnXNlQ/XLTj_VOL7vI/AAAAAAAA-Wc/8nNRRFhWMVwGprj6W92pNh-vTob_EFFPgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1553.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oObacrnXNlQ/XLTj_VOL7vI/AAAAAAAA-Wc/8nNRRFhWMVwGprj6W92pNh-vTob_EFFPgCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1553.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This wood was in full spring bloom, not a trench in sight.</div>
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It didn't take long before we crested a hill and saw the first village - Fingest! - at our feet. We bounced straight down, buoyant with flawless navigation.</div>
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Looks like a Fingest, doesn't it?</div>
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Once we passed the church, Fingest was done, and we joined the footpath once again. The guide we carried reassured us that we'd be gratified to see the windmill from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at the top of the hill before dropping into the next village, but it was so high up and hidden by the owner's foliage, we could barely see the top.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8sSAbp_r9Fw/XLTmxc60LUI/AAAAAAAA-W8/v_G-WDFYzTwlqWui6DjbpPU2MPveRZiNwCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1577.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8sSAbp_r9Fw/XLTmxc60LUI/AAAAAAAA-W8/v_G-WDFYzTwlqWui6DjbpPU2MPveRZiNwCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1577.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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COOL VIEW, TOTALLY WORTH THAT STRAIGHT VERTICAL CLIMB.</div>
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But then we see Turville, the last village, at our feet, and once again we sail down the hill. Fun fact about Turville: it's where the BBC filmed a show called The Vicar of Dibley.</div>
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Obviously a comedy.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NCJ7doYiEUQ/XLTnOxWzy4I/AAAAAAAA-XI/Hf-XYJ8eMVoRtYzFBpxpKpOFIuu8wTXAgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1607.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NCJ7doYiEUQ/XLTnOxWzy4I/AAAAAAAA-XI/Hf-XYJ8eMVoRtYzFBpxpKpOFIuu8wTXAgCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1607.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The windmill shows off from literally every other vantage point other than the one that directly passes next to it.</div>
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Then that night, we head back into Marlow, where we stayed in a delightful guest house, the Glade End, and ate at another Tom Kerridge pub, the Coach, more casual but no less delightful. </div>
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And then we come to Sunday, our last day of hiking before we head back to London. </div>
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And within minutes, we take the wrong path going the wrong direction.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4bAiDSTG8CU/XLTpgVaRu3I/AAAAAAAA-X4/6KcmnE4DLFYTrbJLDkND05qqyELxOhX7gCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1614.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4bAiDSTG8CU/XLTpgVaRu3I/AAAAAAAA-X4/6KcmnE4DLFYTrbJLDkND05qqyELxOhX7gCK4BGAYYCw/s640/IMG_1614.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It's like a gift. Or a curse, specifically brought on by the entrance into a forest. </div>
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But then we spot two bounding, friendly dogs, followed by two bounding, friendly ladies, and they immediately guide us not only on to the right path, but advised us to take a fun little detour: </div>
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RIGHT ON TO THE GROUNDS OF CHEQUERS. </div>
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That's right. A footpath sensibly goes right across it. It was just us, a wood, a field, and a million security cameras.</div>
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After this relaxing, random jaunt, we headed back toward the villages our guide actually wanted us to go to, where we encountered thatched-roof cottages and ponies at every turn. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XUjSnbouj9g/XLTq_9D7YzI/AAAAAAAA-Yc/n5kc4CnWvD4Tcqa0ZCDxsKv0ZoHPksnCACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1760.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XUjSnbouj9g/XLTq_9D7YzI/AAAAAAAA-Yc/n5kc4CnWvD4Tcqa0ZCDxsKv0ZoHPksnCACK4BGAYYCw/s320/IMG_1760.jpg" width="320" /></a> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gxzWrmRtWiE/XLTrAAeKczI/AAAAAAAA-Yk/OEwgY9ViZQg1uTaXB39P2RGjPDVp3EjyACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1763.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gxzWrmRtWiE/XLTrAAeKczI/AAAAAAAA-Yk/OEwgY9ViZQg1uTaXB39P2RGjPDVp3EjyACK4BGAYYCw/s320/IMG_1763.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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So picturesque I wanted to punch myself. Also, both of these ponies were very . . . assertive, in their attentions. The black one kept butting us while the blond one tried to eat my jacket. We couldn't climb the stile out of that field fast enough. </div>
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Climbed a hill, saw a landscape, futilely tried to take a photo to capture it.</div>
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And then, exhausted but exhilarated, we headed back to London. </div>
<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-2694273241441935952019-01-31T14:10:00.000+00:002019-01-31T14:11:43.484+00:00Day 31: we slideRemember that day we went <a href="http://www.todayiwrotenothing.com/2019/01/day-6-we-climb.html" target="_blank">rock-climbing</a> and met friends at the pub after? These same friends had many great ideas for Tryanuary, one of which was <a href="http://www.todayiwrotenothing.com/2019/01/day-13-we-trampoline.html" target="_blank">trampolining</a>, one of the biggest wins of this month of new things. The other idea I did today: <a href="http://arcelormittalorbit.com/" target="_blank">the AcelorMittal Orbit slide</a>. It seemed fitting when I booked it: the whole metaphor of ending a month of blogging on a rush, sliding into home, etc., etc. [insert fitting clichés here].<br />
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Plus as a local, I got a whole pound off the ticket price! Bonus.<br />
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I must confess in advance that I thought I <i>knew</i> what part of this hot-mess-of-an-Olympic-viewing-platform was the slide. It's obviously the wide silver bit, right?<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1zte8Jmh1LY/XFLv0pIqE7I/AAAAAAAA-GM/uZEFMXWey0kK2zDm6Y10rq0QkaTvluNRwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_9798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1zte8Jmh1LY/XFLv0pIqE7I/AAAAAAAA-GM/uZEFMXWey0kK2zDm6Y10rq0QkaTvluNRwCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_9798.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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That looks fun!</div>
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But as I'm approaching, far closer than I've ever been before, I clock something: some sort of HVAC tube slinking down the back? What IS that? </div>
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I get closer. My heart sinks as I realise: THAT'S THE MOTHER FLIPPING SLIDE: </div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cK3-Za9F3DA/XFLv3cY6loI/AAAAAAAA-G0/sv662mi4x1U_gTtNz1-DtJ_g3Mr1ksL5QCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_9828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cK3-Za9F3DA/XFLv3cY6loI/AAAAAAAA-G0/sv662mi4x1U_gTtNz1-DtJ_g3Mr1ksL5QCEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_9828.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Yes, that thing held up by cables, that looks like the back of my computer station.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oS30vBbvnik/XFLv2n9AXJI/AAAAAAAA-G4/wcLOQfQcWAMYDnOZI7x3z_8DD3AwICofQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_9807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oS30vBbvnik/XFLv2n9AXJI/AAAAAAAA-G4/wcLOQfQcWAMYDnOZI7x3z_8DD3AwICofQCEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_9807.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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HOLY MOTHER OF NOOOOOOOPE. WHAT HAVE I DONE.</div>
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It's not improved by the lift up, peppered full of delightful facts like 'The ArcelorMittal Orbit is taller than the Statue of Liberty!' and 'The slide is the longest and tallest tunnel slide in the world'. That's when I tried to stop the elevator. This isn't happening.</div>
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When we get to the top, I see this pic they've got on display. My early, flopping fear crystallises:</div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JW81ocgT1Mg/XFLv4_UGDpI/AAAAAAAA-G8/LyrHK3ocrck68CmZO2Bn9d1nlPJuSbVNgCEwYBhgL/s1600/orbit%2Bsack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="1052" height="512" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JW81ocgT1Mg/XFLv4_UGDpI/AAAAAAAA-G8/LyrHK3ocrck68CmZO2Bn9d1nlPJuSbVNgCEwYBhgL/s640/orbit%2Bsack.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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YOUGUYS THEY PUT YOU IN A POTATO SACK TO GO DOWN. AND A HELMET. AND ARM GUARDS. AND THAT TUBE IS VERTICAL.</div>
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You don't understand what all this communicates to me in the course of the three seconds it took me to digest it. Unfathomable speed. Speed that would burn bare arms if they touched the side. And most importantly: UNCONTROLLABLE speed. </div>
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Y'all, I purposefully wore my boots with the rubber soles this morning thinking I could use my heels to slow my descent. </div>
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MORE FOOL ME NOW PUT THESE IN A SACK. </div>
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I'm in a state of panic as the helmet gets strapped on and the arm pads get pulled on over my wool coat. OVER MY WOOL COAT. You know, because NO PART OF YOU CAN TOUCH THE SLIDE ON THE WAY DOWN, NOT EVEN YOUR COAT.</div>
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Then they lay you down on a giant, body-length pad with the pouch at the bottom (to conveniently collect your organs?) and give you a rope to hold onto that's attached to the foot pouch, and show you how to position your head (lifted, so as to see your death coming more clearly). This (not my pic, they wouldn't allow mobile phones on the slide, another red flag) is what it looks like:</div>
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'Don't let go the handle!' they say. 'Just relax your shoulders!' they say. 'Why are you crying?' they say. </div>
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As they pried my fingers off the top of the slide, they reassured me: the drop you see ahead of you, that looks so vertical you can't see the bottom of it, that's the steepest one and then it's just straight relaxation all the way to the bottom. 15mph of sheer relaxation. THEY ARE LYING TO YOU. There were MANY drops that left my stomach behind and not a few instances in which I was whipped so far around the sides that I thought I'd do a full circuit around the top. The tunnel itself alternated between having a clear plastic top - in theory to see the view, but in reality to see the blur - or being entrenched in total darkness. I preferred the dark every time. The void is the safe place. The windows always seemed to coincide with a mad drop-spin combo. When you see the light growing ahead, BE AFRAID. BE VERY AFRAID. </div>
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I should've seen it all coming when I saw this quote by the slide's designer in the ticket lobby:</div>
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Madness, Carsten. Just madness.</div>
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Oh, but the views from the top! Not at all too high! </div>
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I'm lying to you as much as an Orbit Operator lies to its sliders. </div>
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Review: I survived. I didn't wet myself. And there was a moment, about halfway through, where I stopped swearing, and did indeed relax my shoulders. And then I sailed.</div>
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However, this is the future distance between me and the Orbit.</div>
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Mije, the jerk who suggested this, at least had the integrity to do it with me. The nail in the coffin of our friendship occurred when, while waiting for him at the bottom, I heard him inside, WHOOPING. </div>
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It's been a wild ride, trying something new for 31 straight days. Lessons learned: new things can be AWESOME. Also terrible. And next year, we're doing this in February instead. </div>
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Thanks to all who read along, and if I do any other firsts this year (the list of things to try has only grown), I'll definitely share it here. </div>
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Big hugs and lots of love,</div>
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Essss</div>
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Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-2214041340382042862019-01-30T17:43:00.002+00:002019-01-30T17:49:47.481+00:00Day 30: we boxI just got my butt kicked for an hour and a half. Quite literally, kicked.<br />
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Here is one of the many things I learned today: boxing is a TON of leg-work. I honestly had no idea. I thought it was just a bunch of bouncing around and jabbing. Turns out I was very, very wrong. I spent half of our session unsuccessfully blocking kicks from this guy:<br />
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Mike, our trainer, was so fast that when I'd throw out my (shin-padded) leg to block one kick, he'd instantly bounce to the other leg and WHACK! WHACK WHACK WHACK! It's like I was moving in slow motion. It was also a comedy when he was teaching me the various kicks. The high kicks were the worst. I don't know if you know this about me, but the highest my leg goes is roughly knee-height. It's just wonderful how flexible I am. Every time he'd encourage me to kick his side or his stomach, I'd futilely swing my leg up as high as I could and smack him in the thigh. At one point he grabbed my foot and lifted it to the right height and while I was windmilling, he told me, 'You have to open your hips.' OPEN MY HIPS. I gathered as much dignity and balance as I could while having my leg hoisted in the air and angled to the side like he indicated to get my shin facing the right way. 'You have to open your hips!' he repeated. I protested: 'I am!' 'No, like THIS' and before I could blink, he twisted my entire leg and I nearly face-planted on the mat. 'Like THAT,' he said with satisfaction.</div>
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It wasn't much better when I sparred with Nigel, the friend who brought me. He's a member of the boxing gym, fights in actual matches, and is clearly a madman. He was so good that he could block all my kicks without even breaking eye contact. He also had to keep reminding me to keep my gloves up; if I were in a real match, I would've been punched in the face every six seconds. </div>
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I limped all the way home. </div>
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Much to Mike's glee.</div>
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I'm almost sad that tomorrow we end this month of torture. </div>
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Cheers,</div>
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-83632602631439572952019-01-29T18:13:00.001+00:002019-01-29T18:13:53.943+00:00Day 29: we tartareSo today WAS going to be Curtain-Hemming Day (the great idea of Lisa), until I realised that I'd have to extract the ladder from the garden shed to get them down and I happen to be terrified of ladders. Luckily for me, I did some design research that told me pooling-curtain lengths are ALL the rage, so I've decided to embrace the look and remove 'hemming curtains' from my to-do list entirely. So the end result was the same: I got to take it off the list! Lisa, you're brilliant.<br />
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In its place, something else I've been wanting to do: make steak tartare.<br />
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I love raw food in any of its forms - carpaccio, ceviche, tartare, sashimi - there's not a version I don't enjoy (well, maybe not <a href="https://medium.com/ikechans-japanese-food/torisashi-632192cb8e7b" target="_blank">Torisashi</a>, though *technically* I haven't tried it yet, and maybe it's amazing?? If you've had it, lmk). But while I feel comfortable messing about with <a href="http://www.todayiwrotenothing.com/2019/01/day-3-we-cure.html" target="_blank">raw fish</a>, for some reason it didn't occur to me I could also mess about with raw beef. That is, until our neighbour in France invited us over for lunch last time we were there, and made it for us. It was so good and as he pointed out, so simple; I made a mental note to try it myself.<br />
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Today is that day.<br />
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First things first: I needed the right butcher. If one is going to eat raw, uncooked beef, it's got to be <i>fresh</i>. So I took a left at the bottom of our street instead of a right and headed for the fanciest part of our neighbourhood: Victoria Park Village.<br />
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They don't let you forget it's a village, either.</div>
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So much twee, so little money under the mattress. It's why I usually go right.</div>
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And then we get to my butcher of choice: <a href="https://thegingerpig.co.uk/" target="_blank">Ginger Pig</a>, with its ethical animal husbandry and best sausage roll in London. This is where to go to get a cut of meat good enough to eat raw: </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Church spire, unstripped bikes, fancy doggo - check, check, check. I jangle the coins in my pocket so everyone knows I belong. </span></div>
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They dry-age most of their beef so I had to tell them I was tartaring it and they picked out the perfect cut for me: </div>
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One of each. </div>
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Then I took home my beautiful fillet tail and gazed at it lovingly for a no doubt hazardous length of time: </div>
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Who wouldn't want to cram this raw straight into their mouth? </div>
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But no, that's not how it's done. It must be cHopPeD first, because we are not a dOg. I used <a href="https://www.bbc.com/food/recipes/steaktartare_88981" target="_blank">Nigella's recipe</a> - mostly so that I had an excuse to look at her like I did at this meat - and it. was. great. I'd probably use slightly less gherkin next time (I suspect our pickles are larger than the ones she was suggesting), but that's the only thing I'd change. It was exactly what I wanted: </div>
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That yolk on top - *kisses tips of fingers* - could watch it cascade over my beef all day. </div>
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Uh. </div>
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Happy Tartare Tuesday!</div>
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Cheers,</div>
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Essss</div>
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-62803661555334168182019-01-28T21:50:00.000+00:002019-01-28T21:50:00.179+00:00Day 28: we reflectThe gunmen entered his flat. They were going door to door, pulling the Tutsi out, and shooting them in the street. The killers saw his football pictures; he was a famous footballer, despite his youth. He was spared. He flees to a teammate's, who, with the help of the Red Cross, gets him out.<br />
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This survivor, 25 years later, of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda, told his tale tonight at the British Library. Eric Murangwa says of being a refugee, a survivor: 'You cannot be unknown.'<br />
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We heard tonight not only from the Rwandan goalkeeper, but also from the Polish filmmaker of <i>Birds Are Singing in Kingali</i> - Joanna Kos-Krauze - and David Belton, who produced the film <i>Shooting Dogs</i> and authored <i>When the Hills Ask for Your Blood</i>.<br />
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It was a powerful night, reflecting on the numbers - one million killed in one hundred days - on the heels of Holocaust Memorial Day.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I also enjoyed the Cats Through Literature exhibit, but that's a talk for another day.</span></div>
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Big love to you and yours,</div>
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Esss</div>
<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-50553190733507605652019-01-27T20:22:00.000+00:002019-01-27T20:22:08.928+00:00Day 27: we cichétiOh heavens, we are full. Our last day in Venice and I am pretty sure we are made of pasta and wine now. Our last day we spent local, enjoying a slow walk along the canal and the beauty of the cichéti culture. It started with a stop at a local <a href="http://www.sullalunavenezia.it/" target="_blank">bookstore + bistrot,</a> where we enjoyed a slice of focaccia pizza and their family-made prosecco, before moving on to our favourite bacaros Mezzopieno and Vino Vero. <div>
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Cichéti culture is great; like the pintxos of San Sebastian: you can eat lovely niblets on the cheap while getting your fill of vini. </div>
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Back to London tomorrow - wish us luck on our morning water-taxi back to the airport!</div>
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Cheers,</div>
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Esssss </div>
Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-62235241061217737392019-01-26T17:37:00.000+00:002019-01-26T17:37:52.440+00:00Day 26: we gondolaI mean, we HAVE to. It's VENICE. Who cares if it's The Most Touristy Thing a Person Can Do and it costs an arm and a leg and your gondolier will be on WhatsApp the entire time? YOU'RE IN A BOAT THAT LOOKS LIKE AN ELFIN SHOE.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iQYvGeIO97g/XEySXgAVM6I/AAAAAAAA-Ck/F5Qb5vDEpGoR95r3rEg5Fyg__6hlmHGuACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_9540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iQYvGeIO97g/XEySXgAVM6I/AAAAAAAA-Ck/F5Qb5vDEpGoR95r3rEg5Fyg__6hlmHGuACLcBGAs/s640/IMG_9540.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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What's not to like?? </div>
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Our gondolier was this charming chap, Marco, who regaled us with An Abridged History of Venice, whistled some jaunty tunes, and texted on his mobile phone during the duration of our canal cruise:<br />
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The boat ahead of us can't possibly be having as good of a time.</div>
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Then we headed home at the most beautiful time of day - twilight, aka 'The Gloaming.' Pink and orange and coral suffuses the air and it's just so . . . MAGICAL. </div>
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We're staying in Cannaregio - which we chose because it's where the locals live and it's quiet/relatively tourist-free - but an unexpected side effect has been that the bacaros around here are hip AF, full of natural wine and genuinely good cichéti. Each night has consisted of a mini-crawl followed by pasta pasta pasta, and it's been <i>lovely</i>. </div>
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Speaking of, we're about to head out! Big love and see you tomorrow,</div>
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Esss</div>
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Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-35322954286173966582019-01-25T18:20:00.000+00:002019-01-25T18:20:24.144+00:00Day 25: we island-hopTwenty minutes before dinner youguys so let's DO this. Today we got a water-taxi pass and hopped all OVER the lagoon.<br />
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Check out our captain:<br />
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JK DOGS CAN'T DRIVE BOATS. Also, not the boat we actually took. A girl can dream, though.</div>
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Our first stop was Murano, the famous glass-blowing island. Every shop that lined the pavement was filled with glass figurines twinkling in the sunlight, full of exquisite - and kitsch - treasures.<br />
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Actual photo of the glass-blowing process, which looks . . . consensual. </div>
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Then we headed to Burano, the lace-weaving island, famous for its . . . lace.</div>
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Also its colourful homes. And risotto. THE RISOTTO. GO HERE FOR THIS IF NOTHING ELSE.</div>
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We were thankful again today for the quietness of January. The first ten minutes after getting off the boat we were in a small crush of tourists, but once we all stopped taking the same photo off the same bridge, everyone disappeared into the nooks and crannies of the island (or the risotto restaurants). </div>
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Me, running my album of ten-thousand-nearly-identical pics by Claire trying to decide which to post: 'What about this one?' 'UM YES, HIS SHIRT MATCHES THE BUILDING.' She's got an eye I appreciate.</div>
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The whole island honestly looks like a Disney film set. </div>
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Even the tourists look like hired extras.</div>
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Nonna!</div>
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Our last stop before returning home was Cemetery Island, which was exactly as it sounds: a cemetery on an island.</div>
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We saw this is in Sicily, too, and I really like the style. There's something so <i>bright</i> about it.</div>
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We had to leave before the sun went down. Mostly because that's when it closed, but also because that's when the dead start to rise and wander. </div>
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Why else would they close before dark? </div>
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We're home now and recharging phones and bodies, because tonight . . . we trattoria!<br />
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-32661183517746995292019-01-24T23:18:00.001+00:002019-01-24T23:18:19.181+00:00Day 24: we waterbus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
OMGYOUGUYS WE GOT TO VENICE THIS MORNING. </div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">It was definitely the first airport we've ever been to where you take a waterbus from the airport to the city centre; we were THRILLED by the concept. </span></div>
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Then we get to the terminal and we're greeted with this guy at the end of the dock:</div>
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Yeah, okay, that looks pretty bus-y, pretty capable of transporting a herd of humans.</div>
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But then . . . </div>
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Where are you going??</div>
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Slightly worrying, as at this point we were five minutes from the time-tabled departure. But no problem, this is Italy, time is loose here! Then this guy pulls up straight away. Relief!</div>
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A little smaller, but okay. Still sweet!</div>
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The line moves, we start to board. Except, instead of the boat above, we're immediately shuffled to the boat NEXT to the boat above, which was so small it wasn't even visible from the queue:</div>
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Tiny. Once we all piled on, it sat so low in the water you couldn't see the horizon out the windows. Very relaxing water movement, delightful choppiness. How alive we feel! Notably our stomachs!</div>
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Once we landed, though, we fell in love. </div>
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First of all, the city is full of old men who somehow look like proud penguins but are also immaculately dressed. Accompanying them are elderly woman wrapped in fur coats. One older gent spotted Sharona from across a bridge (Claire here; Sharona needed to put on her jim-jams so I took over blogging duties) and hustled right over, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He wasn't so easy to understand, but we surmised that his job was helping English and Americans in Venice with....things? Of some nature? That part wasn't clear, though he couldn't have been happier to discover that Rona hailed from California and Oklahoma. </div>
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Did we mention this city is extremely pretty? It was cold but cloudless, and there were a few hours there where we were even hot enough to unbutton our winter coats.</div>
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We also stopped every ten paces (by which I mean I slowed down and forced Sharona to stop, though she was remarkably patient about all the interruptions) to take photos of canals and gondolas and gondoliers and old-timey architecture and teal water (remind Sharona to tell you what "teal" translates to in Dutch). </div>
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Extra bonus of traveling in January: we got to waltz right in St. Mark's Basilica and stroll around the Doge's Palace without entering a thunderdome-style battle with all the other tourists. It was almost....quiet?<br />
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(After this picture we drank Martinis that were strong enough to fell a horse.)</div>
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And I'm back! (Grampa, Claire's totally lying about the martinis, don't listen to her.) Oh, and the word for teal in Dutch translates directly to - I learned this from Natalya - 'appleblueseagreen', which basically describes all of Venice.</div>
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Excited to see what day two has in store; looking forward to sharing more soon!</div>
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Cheers,</div>
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Esss and Ceebs</div>
<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-11771280164145771002019-01-23T17:01:00.000+00:002019-01-23T17:01:10.717+00:00Day 23: we gong-batheTONIGHT IS A FULL MOON YOUGUYS. So obviously this means: I must bathe in the gong.<br />
<br />What does that mean, exactly? I HAVE NO IDEA. But according to the website at <a href="https://www.sheslostcontrol.co.uk/shop/full-moon-gong-bath-liver-happy-life-leo">She's Lost Control</a>, I am going to 'Get [my]self comfy under the covers, relax and prepare for a meditative journey, connecting to yourself guided by the high vibrational frequencies of the Gongs. The air infused with essential oils and harnessing the energy of the Full Moon will help to guide you to clear blockages, releasing what is no longer serving you.' If this is anything like the crystal session I tried once, that means NAPPING. I really struggle to stay awake in warmly-lit spaces with pleasant aromas while lying with my eyes closed. Heck, who am I kidding - I struggle to stay away at the cinema. Dark rooms and I have an agreement. And regretfully, it does not include 'celebrating as the Moon moves into Leo'.<br /> <br />I hope the gongs can still do their magic while I'm unconscious.<br /> <br />I read on one website titled 'how to prepare for your gong bath' - spoiler alert: it doesn't tell you how to prepare for your gong bath - that it's so soothing/transformative because the human body is a zillion-percent water (look it up) and the vibrations from the gongs shake that up and make you feel nice and funny inside. I feel so hashtag/blessed already. That same website - for a spa in Arizona, natch - also said they got their gong set from monks who only forged under the light of the full moon and that even a passing cloud meant calling off their labour. So it took them roughly a decade to complete all seven bowls, and they are set to a 'lunar frequency' for that extra-moon-boost. <i>Science,</i> y'all. If this guru tonight doesn't have a similar set, I'm demanding a refund.<br /><br /> The worst part is, even if it does work - that is, even it is an effective hour of meditation that releases anxiety, soothes the spirit, calms the mind, etc. - I am following it by immediately getting on a train to the Gatwick Airport Travelodge, where I am sleeping tonight due to an early morning flight. Pretty sure by the time I get to the hotel at a cold, dark 10pm, the tension will be back up to my ears.<br /> <br /> Those gongs have their work cut out for them.<br /><br />
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Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-38223580226320660802019-01-22T20:31:00.002+00:002019-01-22T20:31:47.442+00:00Day 22: we do our citizenly dutyThis week I got a letter in the mail from Hackney council stating that NOBODY WAS REGISTERED TO VOTE AT OUR ADDRESS. Now, knowing for a fact that Al voted last time there was occasion, this was not an *entirely* correct missive, but it was enough for me to realise: I'M BRITISH NOW. I can vote!<br />
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So today I went to the government's website and registered.<br />
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I don't know when I'll get to use it, or if jury duty is a thing here and I've just opened myself up to *that* particular hazard, but I do know when I clicked 'submit application,' I felt a frisson of civic pleasure. Such power coursing through my fingertips.<br />
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The rest of the day was much less eventful: I worked for several hours, prepped dinner, did laundry, and ironed. The latter chore is a favourite: it's one of the few times I get to binge on TV without feeling guilty about all the other things I should be doing, like working, or reading a book, or completing one of the thousands of items on my to-do list titled 'impossible'.*<br />
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Now I'm waiting for Wolf to get home because I've got mackerel ready to grill and the marinade <a href="https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/borough-market-spiced-butterflied-mackerel-recipe-t6szmk7w5" target="_blank">looks and smells terrific</a>. I am so.hungry.<br />
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I hope you're all having a great day, and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!<br />
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Essss<br />
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*This list really does exist. It has things in it like 'make photo book of 2017 travel' (and now 2018 travel), or 'clean mildew off the outdoor palm' or 'pin up/hem bedroom curtains.' That last one has been on this list since we moved in and hung them, so roughly three and a half years now. That's why this list is called IMPOSSIBLE.Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-62500112963994047282019-01-21T22:59:00.000+00:002019-01-22T07:05:57.456+00:00Day 21: we HuguenotWELL ALRIGHT THEN.<br />
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Went to see Dennis Severs' house tonight! It's a period property that's been designed/maintained as a Huguenot silk weaver's home, spanning two hundred years, and in the evenings, full of candlelit magic.<br />
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This guy, working the door: 'Just normal times here.'</div>
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The best part - to be honest - were the wraiths haunting each floor. We knew the tour had to be conducted in silence - the better to hear the unearthly pattering of footsteps, the eerie whispers, that they carefully cultivated - but each floor's very-earthly attendants hovering over our shoulders made us jump/laugh in equal measure. </div>
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A lovely night in all; definitely recommend if you're in the area!</div>
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Love,</div>
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Essss </div>
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-45290740123889228832019-01-20T21:25:00.000+00:002019-01-20T21:25:34.679+00:00Day 20: we ice skateLOL JK I'm not insane. We *did* museum, however, and got to enjoy the works of Klimt and Schiele:<br />
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Klimt had some surprisingly soothing works, while Schiele - well, let's just say this is the only self-portrait he did they could safely put on a ticket. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">It also must be said: Klimt is no Bob Ross.</span></div>
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I didn't take pics of any of Schiele's works because there wasn't a single thing he created that would be suitable for a blog my mother reads, but I will say it was very . . . stimulating.</div>
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After the museum, we headed to the ice rink with all the intention in the world of giving it a go. Until we arrived, and saw the masses and masses of people, including a thousand little ones darting around like dervishes of destruction. And this guy:</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Yeah, I could see myself taking a turn about the rink with him.</span></div>
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Still, though, the setting was charming:</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Just a bunch of stalls selling giant heart cookies, spaetzl, sausage-ten-ways, and gluwein. You know the drill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Obligatory selfie.</span></div>
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Oh! Speaking of sausage-ten-ways, our local friend and host Thomas took us on a terrific tour of Vienna last night, including hitting a street stall where we ordered sausage stuffed with cheese, which it turns out is sausage living its best life:</div>
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We also visited a beautiful arcade - 'like Harry Potter', he tells us - </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> He wasn't wrong.</span></div>
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After enjoying a warm blueberry punch at the winter market, we headed back to the hotel via yet more precious lanes: </div>
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So much Harry Potter, really.</div>
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Now we're back home and it's time for our favourite late-night-nobody's-cooking tradition: filthy pizza from our local, eaten in bed while watching Netflix. It's good to be home.</div>
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-32811902169926449392019-01-19T16:52:00.000+00:002019-01-19T16:52:46.617+00:00Day 19: we marketFIFTEEN MINUTES TO BLOG before we head back out for the night. That means you are getting 80% pics, lo siento in advance.<br />
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First up: we went to the market!<br />
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It started off the usual market - mostly produce, the occasional butcher, cheesemonger, and spice merchant - and then we got to our goal: THE FLEA MARKET:</div>
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Row upon row of some truly terrific junk.</div>
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I was mildly surprised at how many men there were shopping, and not a little assertively. It was like they all had eBay businesses to support, and God protect the person getting between them and that broken hair dryer. Jostling, pushing to the front, there were several stalls - on the cheapest row of the market - where I couldn't even see the wares through the line of them leaning over, shoulder-to-shoulder. </div>
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Then we had the most glorious lunch at <a href="http://www.grace-restaurant.at/" target="_blank">Restaurant Grace</a>, recommended by Mast yesterday.<br />
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Local milk bread stuffed with jerusalem artichokes and chestnuts, served with a jerusalem artichoke flower emulsion, and chive cream, the classic Austrian dip.</div>
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Perigord truffle with egg (slow cooked Japanese-style), sesame, and mushroom</div>
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Smoked trout with crosne, medlar and peanut with shaved terragon.</div>
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Prawn with salsify (THOSE STICKS! but now . . . tasty??), coconut and basil</div>
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We shared the main (well, we shared it all, but this was the heftiest boy) - venison, red cabbage roll, with pine nut polenta and pickled cherry gravy. Fun fact: we were served by the owner, and she told us that her father and his friends hunt the meat they serve in the restaurant - including this venison! Talk about local sourcing! </div>
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We didn't have room for dessert - in fact, I don't know we're going to be eating dinner in an hour, I'm good to not eat again until tomorrow - but they brought us each a zwetschkenknodel, the famous Austrian plum dumpling. They hand-make these themselves, slow-cooking the plums until they're a beautifully condensed, sticky jam, and dust the dumplings in poppy seeds before drizzling on the cream.<br />
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It was so warming and comforting; just perfect in this winter weather.</div>
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Okay, time to get ready to go . . . to dinner. Oh God. </div>
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-42438741701773703582019-01-18T18:53:00.000+00:002019-01-18T18:54:49.564+00:00Day 18: we ViennaYou know you're low on content when you leave the country to get more.<br />
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Today: we head to Austria. Vienna's been on our city-break list for a while now, and it turns out you can get a flight for chips in January - because freezing, because madness - but it's no less flipping beautiful for not being able to feel your ears or nose. WHO NEEDS 'EM, EXTREMITIES. </div>
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It was exactly as I imagined: an entire city painted in pastels and so. clean. </div>
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The first thing I did after getting off the plane and checking into the hotel was head to my lunch reservation at <a href="http://www.mast.wine/home.html" target="_blank">Mast</a>. Google Maps showed it to be a brisk 30-minute walk along the river from the hotel, and in all my innocence, I thought, 'Oh, how nice! These bright blue skies, a straight path along the water, a lovely day for a riverwalk!' </div>
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NO. NO IT WAS NOT A LOVELY DAY FOR A RIVERWALK. </div>
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1. As cold as it was on the streets, it was ten times colder with the wind whipping off the water. I was a brittle zombie within seconds but determined. IT IS THE FASTEST WAY I'LL JUST SPEED UP AND WARM UP THAT WAY. The result? Sweating inside my coat while my agonised, frosty ears tried to extract themselves from my physical person. So comfortable, no mixed signals to my body here. This is definitely the right call.</div>
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2. Vienna's riverfront, while I'm sure picturesque in the summer - lined with bars and cafes as it was - is a winter-shuttered graffiti stretch in January. The only people on it were me and the street artists:</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Don't mind this guy, we've all got work to do. </span></div>
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Ten minutes along the blustery stretch, having passed two gents crafting away with their cans, a police van slowly crawls by. I stop to watch: will they shoo away the spray painters? Will there be running, chasing, shouting?</div>
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NOPE. The police didn't even pause and the graffiti artists kept up their work. It was a beautiful sight. They just businessmen doing they business.</div>
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Then I get to Mast, and - my soaking, defrosting person aside (who can stand winter temperature swings??) - it fulfilled every expectation I could've dreamed of. Even though I was technically there during the lunch session, it was late enough they had started dinner prep and they let me order off their evening tasting menu. </div>
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First course: carp brandade, potato, buttermilk</div>
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Now normally, this dish - sounding so close to fish pie, and with the presence of the Dread Potato - would've been an instant nooooope for me, but the server insisted - INSISTED, WITH SO MUCH HEART - that it was the best best best. I mean, she LOVED it, youguys. With such pure-hearted enthusiasm, as though she could not possibly imagine a human on the face of the earth who could not also love this. And if there's one thing I can't resist, it's a server who really, genuinely adores a dish and wants you to adore it, too. I buckled, and I'm so glad I did. The sourness of the buttermilk, in contrast with the richness of the carp-and-potato-mash, combined with some sort of salty, crunchy element (what was it?? crispy shallots, maybe?) - OH Y'ALL. It was a delight. </div>
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The second course - greaves dumplings, with spinach, pig trotter stock and cockle - was a no-brainer for me: if there's one thing I love, it's dumplings, and I don't care what's in 'em. Greaves? Don't know what that is, don't care. IT'S IN A DUMPLING, I'll take it. </div>
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(Sidebar: I've since Googled it, and - in Austria, at least - it appears to be the bits leftover after you've rendered the fat from pork meat - aka crispy lardons. Which is exactly what it looked and tasted like, so NAILED IT.)</div>
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This was also stupid good, and I slurped the bowl dry. </div>
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This was all I had ordered at this point - after all, I gotta look good at my SIL's wedding celebration in SF next month, I'm tryna keep things reasonable - but after these, I couldn't resist going in for one more course. YOLO, Vienna-style. </div>
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Now at this point, I'm being served by the owner of the restaurant himself, because he's sharing the floor with the sweet server from course one. (This place is <i>small</i>. Did I mention that?) And the mains were so hard to choose between. I was vacillating between the veal tongue with horseradish bread sauce and parsley root, and a lamb belly with artichoke, oyster mushrooms and hollandaise (and tickled pink to see sturgeon with black salsify, <a href="https://www.todayiwrotenothing.com/2019/01/day-12-we-salsify.html" target="_blank">THOSE STICKS</a>, also listed). GUESS WHICH ONE I GOT: </div>
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NOT THE STICKS, OBVIOUSLY. I went for the veal tongue. He told me it was his favourite dish at the moment, and much like I capitulated with the carp brandade, I went for it. And lawwwwwd. He was right. That horseradish bread sauce was the perfect pairing with the richness of the meat; it just cut right through it, sassy as you please.</div>
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I left, approximately two hours later, sated and lazy and slow as pig trotter stock being poured from a jug onto a dumpling. </div>
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The perfect time to get lost in Vienna. </div>
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Which was exactly what I did. </div>
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Not <i>intentionally</i>, it must be confessed. This was not one of those romantic wanders, let's-see-where-the-lanes-go afternoons. It was me, trying to avoid the river path, while at the same time attempting to save my phone battery until I could get back to the hotel and charge it, and trying to get there by memorising the map's directions and shutting it off.</div>
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This was definitely a street I walked down. </div>
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None of it was helped by the fact there was a sweet church on every corner BEGGING for the use of just a *smidge* more of my phone's battery for a photo.</div>
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And then I'd try to cross a street, and WHAT IS THAT DOWN THERE. MUST GO DO A LOOK-SEE.</div>
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Long story short: the thirty-minute city-street walk home took me at least forty-five minutes - who am I kidding? An hour - what with detours, wrong turns, and enticingly dark alleys. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This one definitely held lively street urchins in Vienna of yester-year. </span></div>
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But now I sit, warmed up with a fully-charged phone in the hotel's cafe, working on this blog post before heading out for dinner (at <a href="https://www.mochi.at/" target="_blank">Mochi</a>, one of the many recommendations from Mast that we'll be taking this weekend).<br />
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Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, when Al joins me and we tackle a market, more food, and catch a local friend for a craft-beer pub crawl. Vienna, WHO KNEW.<br />
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Cheers,<br />
Esssss x<br />
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-21465416173120648442019-01-17T21:00:00.000+00:002019-01-17T21:02:13.298+00:00Day 17: we Kit HaringtonOMGYOUGUYS SO SORRY NO TIME TO BLOG TODAY GONNA HAVE TO KEEP THIS SNAPPY.<br />
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I SAW KIT HARINGTON. In a PLAY. We booked our tickets for obvious reasons, along with approximately 80% of the predominantly female audience:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">There was a collective sigh of panty-dropping when Jon Snow entered the stage.</span></div>
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But, funny enough, it was Johnny Flynn, the guy who played his brother (in Sam Shephard's True West) who stole the show. He was HYSTERICAL, had us genuinely laughing through the whole production. We had a really good time; the hours flew.</div>
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Also, LOOK HOW CLOSE OUR SEATS WERE. We were caressed by the cigarette smoke; teased by the smell of the toast, near enough to grab; blinded by the glistening sweat on Flynn's bare chest. </div>
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There was just so much to enjoy. </div>
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We left in high spirits from this night of unexpected comedy, and not a little dazzled by the whiteness of Kit Harington's legs. Would def recommend to anybody interested in seeing Jon Snow on this side of the wall. </div>
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Cheers,</div>
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-66354246994092761362019-01-16T17:29:00.001+00:002019-01-16T17:29:20.494+00:00Day 16: we art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
YOUGUYS remember last week, on <a href="https://www.todayiwrotenothing.com/2019/01/day-15-we-science.html" target="_blank">magic day</a>, when Di and I went to that amazing little taxidermy-and-plants cafe and found out they hosted art sessions every Wednesday? WELL WE WENT BACK WITH OUR FRIEND LOTTIE AND DID IT. </div>
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The instructor picked out a stuffed fox for us and then we went renegade and added in a cactus (me) and a horse skull (Di) to create this charming little desert tableaux:<br />
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Art is so RELAXING.</div>
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I tackled the cactus and the fox, with what I like to think was great success:</div>
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The cactus is the one on the left</div>
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Di, already a painter in possession of great talent and not a small affection for dead things, went for the horse skull and created a legitimately cool work that the instructor cooed over all session. I'm convinced this was the only reason she let us go over our hour, as no artist in their right mind would've wanted Di to quit in the middle of making this: </div>
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And Lottie, the bravest among us, went straight for that mad fox and created these gems:</div>
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I love the transition from Realistic Nocturnal Fox to straight up Crazy Like a Fox. Then, because Fox's myriad natures were well covered, she just whipped out Horse Skull like it wasn't a thing. Sure, Lottie, make it look easy, that's cool. </div>
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The class also came with endless cups of builder's tea, perfectly prepared. If you get to Still Life cafe for no other purpose, come for this tea. It's a POUND, you have no excuse. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Di took this pic of me last week but I'm pretending it was today because I can bend space and time in my own blog.</span></div>
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Cheers,</div>
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Essss </div>
<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-63516244109435656422019-01-15T22:03:00.002+00:002019-01-15T22:03:12.662+00:00Day 15: we scienceToday's first was VERY brainy of me: I went to a talk at the Royal Institution of Great Britain on 'Mental Health in a Digital Age.' I went with Nat and Nigel, who are of COURSE members and science nerds. This membership is the exact opposite of my own at the British Library. While they attend lectures with names like 'Why Space Itself is Quantum in Nature', I go to exhibits involving cats in books.<br />
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Tonight, though, we are all equally excited by the topic. We are ready to find out from leading experts in mental health and technology about how toxic our screentime is.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Science Lives Here, according to their motto. </span></div>
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The panel of experts takes the stage, and the first one, chair of the Royal College of GP's (that's a thing, right?) starts discussing the NHS mental health plan that just came out. We instantly thought, 'Oh dear, she's missed the whole point of the evening,' and also, 'Is she going to cover all 136 pages?'</div>
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Speaker 2 takes the stage, the Chief Technology Officer from the Wellcome Trust. He launches into their own research on how Data is Key to diagnosing and recovery with mental health issues. </div>
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This is when we realise: this is a talk on Mental HeathCARE in a Digital Age. The Ri has click-baited us! </div>
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Speaker 3 - our collective favourite - lives in Vienna and covered the economic cost of mental heathcare in Europe. I just made that sound awful. But it wasn't - she had this slideshow with some mental health tests, as an example of stuff they're rolling out in Austria right now, and it was <i>fascinating</i>. </div>
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Then they opened it up for questions and immediately an old man in the front row bolted up from his nap and shouted about how he cured his depression by cold water swimming and what's the data on THAT. Speaker 1 attempted to tell of a study involving the effectiveness of cold showers, to which he retorted: 'That's NOT the same thing as what I do.' </div>
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Hilarious stuff.</div>
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While not what we expected, it was still an interesting night. They had some wild stats about mental health - apparently 1 in 6 people in Europe have a mental health disorder (Speaker 1 threw out a 40% number for the UK) - and it costs the EU like a zillion dollars a year in care and loss of productivity. </div>
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I wonder if they've thought to drop everyone into bodies of cold water? </div>
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A second first happened on the way home: I accepted candy from a taxi driver! A packet of Haribo Starmix, which I've never had before. Two firsts! Who knew I could've skipped the lecture entirely and just jumped in the right Uber for today's content? </div>
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The night was a success all around. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a phone screen to get back to.</div>
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-87467296666083751322019-01-14T23:44:00.002+00:002019-01-15T00:00:11.369+00:00Day 14: we cribbageYou know what's fun? Thinking you're good at math for twenty-five some-odd years and then finding out: YOU CAN'T EVEN PLAY CRIBBAGE.<br />
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I thought it was a great idea when a good friend of mine suggested it as a first. After all, it had so many things going for it:</div>
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1. I could play it (relatively) concurrently with our Sci-Fi/Fantasy book club, which met tonight;</div>
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2. It involved cards! I love cards, ever since my mother encouraged my sister and I into Spades at age baby;</div>
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3. It involved multiples of fifteen!</div>
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In hindsight, number three is where I got confused. Fifteen is not five, and I approached this like dominoes. CRIBBAGE IS NOT DOMINOES, Y'ALL: </div>
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Nope. Instead of multiples of five, you get points in cribbage for multiples of 15, or 31, or doubles or runs. In short: <i>shenanigans</i>. </div>
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The only time I did relatively well was due to luck of the draw. I never counted more than two points myself, while my instructor - #BlessedKaitlyn - helped me with any multiples (cue her patient voice: 'No, that's SIX points, not two"). Needless to say: I was a natural in the first five minutes and a liability in the last.</div>
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So let me know if you want to play! Surely all competitors are as helpful as those I was taught by. </div>
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Big love,</div>
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Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8098814567120626928.post-59084603477970296742019-01-13T14:41:00.000+00:002019-01-13T14:41:18.628+00:00Day 13: we trampoline<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Well wasn't THIS just the best time ever: A TRAMPOLINE PARK. Didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this level of fun. </div>
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Sure, there were a million kids underfoot, but what did we expect going on a Sunday afternoon and not during one of their adults-only-DJ-and-cocktail nights? But it was WORTH it: I got to JUMP. On a series of trampolines. For SIXTY MINUTES. </div>
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Now this is my kind of workout. </div>
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It's Al's birthday today so it felt particularly fun celebrating like kids. He showed a real gift for the half pipe:</div>
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Then there was the 'ninja wall', a lattice of . . . elasticated duct tape? . . . to fall through. I mean, climb through. Very safe, definitely did this right:</div>
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The red squares you can see through it are the trampolines a few thousand feet down. </div>
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Then we headed to the foam pit, where a small person challenged me to a duel. This kid had been hustling the beam all day but I was feeling pretty good about my chances. After all, I'm a giant. I'm Goliath. I inched out - the beam rocked! Is it meant to do that?? - while he stood there at his end, calm as could be. Then, when I was a mere quarter of the way across, he flew out and David'd me soundly:</div>
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He had me on my back in that foam pit before I could even shout 'you little sh*t!' and celebrated by throwing his jousting baton on top of me. Well played, sir. Well played. </div>
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It was all around about the most fun ever and I will definitely be going back, though obviously on a grown-ups' night when people my own size can beat me soundly. </div>
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Happy Sunday, all! Hope yours is equally fun. </div>
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<br />Sharonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675372928913025661noreply@blogger.com0