I hate to wake you up to say goodbye....

For the last seven days, C and I have been playing host to the most delightful Austrian family. These are the same guys who pretty much single-handedly organised our wedding in Vienna a couple of years ago, so it's really been the very least that we can do to put them up for a few days and to spend some time showing them around our country. Actually, it's been a real pleasure having them around - it's hard not to have a ten year old boy and an (almost) twelve year old girl around the place and not have it brighten your day. Not ones as well behaved and charming as these two, anyway....

They arrived 11 days ago, but spent the first few days of their holiday in London, doing stuff like looking at the Tower of London, riding around on an open-topped bus and things like that. I went down to join them on Thursday last week, and we spent the afternoon in the Science Museum at the Wallace and Gromit exhibition they've got on at the moment (the highlight of which was when we spent a good half an hour making plasticine models of a Frankengromit and a punk rock guitar playing pinocchio). We then all got the train back to Nottingham and spent a couple of days doing things like pottering around town (Susie and Lilli were very taken with the shopping in town, which is apparently quite different to the kind of thing that they get in Vienna), trying out archery at the Robin Hood Festival in Sherwood Forest and learning some circus skills and watching the fireworks at the Riverside Festival.



I spent the weekend in Birmingham watching the Edgbaston Test Match, but Pauli is very keen on sport generally and was very keen to learn as much about cricket as he possibly could. On Friday morning, I spent the hour or so before play started trying to explain the basics of the game, and then when England took two wickets with the first two balls of the day, I spent much of the rest of the day trying to explain that it wasn't always like this, and usually you have to wait a lot longer to see anything happen. There's not much cricket in Austria, I shouldn't think (actually, it seems that there is), but I think the bug took hold and I did everything I could to help it take hold by sending Pauli home with a real cricket ball, which he thought was the coolest thing in the world ever.

On Tuesday morning, the six of us piled into my dad's stylish Hyundai Trajet and drove up to York. We'd borrowed it for this very purpose, so that we could all travel together in the one car. I spent much of my childhood sitting in the back of a Fiat Strada, shoulder-to-shoulder with my two brothers, being driven the long miles to visit my grandparents in South Wales or in Plymouth. Quite why my dad waited until we'd all left home before he buys a people-carrier, I really have no idea. Still, it was undeniably useful. In York we walked along the walls, had a quick look at the King's Manor where I studied for my Masters degree, and wandered around York Minster. There is a lot of monumental architecture in Vienna, of course, but much of it is from the Baroque period. York Minster is in the gothic style and as a Protestant Church is quite a lot more austere.



I regret the fact that the Church have felt the need to put in turnstiles and to charge £6 per person for admission... as I looked at the people in their baseball caps and eating their ice creams, I couldn't help but worry that the admission fee encourages people to treat this magnificent building in the same way as they do any other tourist attraction... but it remains the most splendid, light and airy building, and it always manages to lift my spirits. I'm not in the slightest bit religious, but I am a historian, and I am always moved by the thought of the sheer effort involved in putting these buildings together. I hate that Nottingham has nothing like it.



After admiring the street theatre next to the Shambles, we hopped back into the Trajet and headed up to Durham. As well as being a charming town with another magnificent cathedral, our trump card here was that we were going to be spending the night in an actual, honest-to-goodness Castle. The rooms of University College Durham might not be much to write home about, but the building itself, especially when seen through the eyes of a ten year old, is splendid: all crenelations, wonky staircases and creaky doors.



I prefer York Minster, but even I had to admit that Durham Cathedral isn't too bad - and has the enormous benefit of not being as overrun with tourists as York.



Those Prince-Bishops really knew where to build a church, eh?

A short stop at the seaside to have a paddle in the North Sea, and we were back to Nottingham and then on to Luton airport this morning to send them home.



I'll miss them. Of all the things we've done together over the last week, I think the ones that the kids will remember the most will be the simplest: playing football in the park, leaving their bedroom doors ajar in the hope that the cat will pay them a visit in the night, teaching me German, learning English tongue-twisters ("Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper...."), playing Guitar Hero (they're from a very musical family, so it wasn't long before Pauli was playing "Strutter" on hard with his eyes shut.... literally) and having a ride in my mini. The two kids think we're the coolest people they know, which perhaps tells you a lot more about Vienna than it does about how cool we are, but it's a lovely thought. It's been a great week and, whilst it's nice to have the house back to ourselves, it definitely feels a touch empty tonight.



It was a touch like living with the von Trapp family at times though, and they serenaded us at dinner last night with a version of "Leaving on a Jet Plane", led by 12 year-old Lilli on guitar. Not a dry eye in the house.

Come back soon please.

rocky mountain high....

Hello. Sadly, I have to report that we are now back from Canada.

What a country, eh? Beautiful scenery, the friendliest locals, stunning wildlife (as well as the elk, moose, caribou, long-horned mountain sheep, mountain goats and the like that we actually saw, we saw lynx tracks and heard some great stories about the Banff wolf pack and about a 200lb cougar called Doug. Oh, and we saw a Grizzly bear just emerging from hibernation). We ate magnificent steaks (on what seemed like a twice daily basis - I think I've currently got the shakes because of my withdrawal symptoms from all that Alberta beef); we drank decent beer (Molson Canadian was alright, but I was more taken by Molson's Rickard's Honey Brown Ale, and by several beers from smaller breweries Big Rock Traditional Ale, Keith's Pale Ale, Grizzly Paw Pilsner and Grumpy Bear Honey Wheat); we marvelled at the seemingly endless ice hockey on the telly and at how all of the radio stations seem to be stuck in a 1980s time warp..... oh, and we did some skiing too.



We skiied 8 days out of 9 in the end: our ski pass enabled us to pick up the shuttle bus outside our hotel to Norquay, Sunshine Village, Lake Louise, but we also took a trip out on our last day to try out Kicking Horse in British Columbia. It's quite late in the season by European standards, but the season in Canada stretches into May, and we enjoyed some pretty good conditions, with lots of powder still to be found, especially in the back bowls at Lake Louise and on the top at Sunshine. Skiing in Canada is different to skiing in Europe. In the Alps, the majority of the runs are well above the treeline and the resorts themselves are heavily exploited and developed. In Canada, skiing is still very much an off-season activity, and some of the resorts are based in National Parks, so the slopes are much, much quieter, and the development is much less intrusive. It's a proper wilderness here, and it's not at all uncommon to see more squirrels than people on the piste, and we saw lynx tracks underneath the ski lifts and at the Wolverine Quad chair in Sunshine, there was a sign warning skiiers that a cougar had been sighted in the area..... you don't get that in Val D'Isere, that's for sure. The runs themselves are long and tree-lined, and the plan of the resorts is much more open-plan than in Europe, with far less of a concept of piste and off-piste skiing. At Kicking Horse, for example, it is possible to easily ski around between marked runs and to make your own way through the trees and down through the gullies and cornices. It's brilliant.

Even in April though, it can still get pretty damn cold on the slopes, and any exposed flesh soon starts to burn.... we just missed out on a cold snap that sent temperatures (before wind-chill) down to about -30C, but it was still -10C and colder. The Canadians laughed at all these soft Europeans moaning about the cold, but wrapping up warm was very much the order of the day.



...although I'm not sure that it's really necessary to look quite as much like a Mighty Morphing Power Ranger on the piste.



It wasn't all about the skiing though, and we did take the opportunity to go out to Spray Lake to spend a couple of very happy hours dog sledding. C. and I had a sledge and six huskys all to ourselves and although I'm pretty sure they knew the way, it was a real thrill to be in command of a team of dogs running though the snow in such a beautiful environment.



And Canada is a beautiful country. Calgary isn't much to look at, sure, but as you get out into the Banff National Park itself (now that's an unfortunate acronym to see on bumper stickers....) the scenery becomes simply stunning. It's a 40 minute bus ride from Banff to Lake Louise, but I can honestly say that it was a real highlight every time: the route runs along the Trans-Canada highway, and goes past Castle Mountain, with the forest hugging the side of the road and the possibility of wildlife sightings all the way. Unlike the French Alps, there's not a concrete appartment building to be seen anywhere. Such buildings as there are seem to all have been sensitively built from timber.



They've even got a mountain that looks a bit like Snoopy asleep on the top of his kennel.



I heart Canada, and I heart Canadians.

I'm more than a little sorry to be home at the moment. It's mild and green and spring-like in Nottingham at the moment, but I'm missing the Rockies.

We had a lovely time and I definitely want to go back in the summer sometime soon.

More pictures here.

**sigh**.

Oh. Quick question for you: who would you say is the most famous Canadian? I maintained that if you asked a Canadian, lots of them would say Wayne Gretzky, but none of my companions seemed to know who he was and felt that people would say Celine Dion or Bryan Adams or somebody. After consultation with our waitress one night, we settled on MacGyver (although I'm not convinced that he's Canadian, and Richard Dean Anderson is an American). It's a bit like the famous Belgians game, this..... with lots of famous Americans actually turning out to be Canadian: William Shatner, Jim Carrey, Mike Myers, Pamela Anderson, Keanu Reeves, Neil Young, Leonard Cohen, Alanis Morissette, Bryan Adams, Joni Mitchell, Sealion, Avril Lavigne.... For me (and for most of the Canadians I asked) it was still the Great One though.....

Great holiday. I'll try not to go on about it.

blame Canada....

As my very favourite Canadian might say, it's Adiós, muchachos from me for a few days as we head off to Banff with some friends to do a spot of skiing at Lake Louise, Sunshine and Norquay. Conditions look good, with plenty of lovely powder still coming down, so fingers crossed it should be a pleasant break. One of the beauties of a holiday in the Canadian Rockies is that we're not just going to be skiing but will also likely include hot springs, husky sledding, snow shoeing, a bit of hockey, lots of delicious Alberta beef and, hopefully, loads of Roots fleeces. Should be good. I'm looking forward to it.

Given the events of a few days ago, you'll be pleased to note that we already ski wearing helmets. I imagine that a few more people will be now, not that I imagine it would have made very much difference to an innocuous seeming tumble like that on a nursery slope.

Anyway. Back in ten days or so. Have fun, y'all and see you on the other side.

I'm gonna sticker my helmet, I reckon. I've some leftovers from my Guitar Hero box. A nice skull and crossbones, some flames and a bit of lightning? Rock on......

Laters.

snow (hey oh)

Right. That's pretty much your lot. After I finish work tomorrow, I'll be heading down to Gatwick to stay with some friends before heading over to the airport early on Saturday morning to catch a flight that will ultimately take us to Val D'Isere. The snow forecast is looking very good, and conditions are apparently already excellent, so fingers crossed we'll get some quality skiing done next week.

Fresh air, good company, a spot of sunshine and a little exercise. Perfect.

Not that skiing is just about the actual skiing, of course.



I like to sample the odd vin chaud.

Just to help keep warm, you understand.



....and perhaps a pression or two.



... and the occasional snifter now and again can't do too much harm either, right?

I do quite a lot of eating too.

Frankly it's amazing I actually get any skiing done at all.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pack. I'm a nervous packer, and this may take some time, and I won't stop worrying about it until I get into the car.

Have a good week....

your lovely head...

It doesn't seem quite so remarkable now that everyone wears them, but sometime around the early 1990s, I remember being struck how everybody on 'Neighbours' wore a helmet when they rode their bicycle. Thinking about it now, it was probably something that the producers of the programme made conspicuous entirely on purpose, as Australia was the first country in the world to impose uniform national mandatory bicycle helmet legislation, beginning in 1990. What self-respecting family-orientated cul-de-sac based soap opera wouldn't want to be encouraging its nation's children to ride safely?

Nearly thirty years later and still Britain has no equivalent law, and back then I had probably never seen such a thing being worn by a normal person before (if you can call Toadfish Rebecchi a normal person). Nowadays though, even though we're not obliged to wear them, it is far more likely that you will see a cyclist wearing a helmet than you are to see one without. I think I bought my first helmet because it was a pre-condition for competing in a triathlon I had entered, but I certainly wouldn't get on my bike without it now.

I mention all this because I have just bought myself a ski helmet. I go skiing every year, and it's something that has been nagging at me for a little while. If I won't get on my bike without a helmet, why am I happy to hurl myself down a mountain at speeds in excess of 30mph wearing only a beanie?



Although a helmet is obviously not a guarantee of safety, the statistics make for interesting reading:

"44% of skiers currently wear a helmet and 42% are intending to wear one the next time they visit the slopes. One reason for this growth is that out of 84,200 winter sports injuries recorded last season, 17,500 were head related. It is believed that out of those 17,500, 7,700 injuries and 11 deaths could have been avoided if they had been wearing a helmet."

To be honest, I value my brain quite a lot. Certainly enough to spend a few quid on a helmet. Did I really want to wait until I had an accident before I took the plunge? Surely every single person who skis has seen the dreadful sight of someone being taken down the mountain headfirst in a stretcher? Forget the stats: intuitively, do you reckon that it's better if you hit your head with or without a helmet? I realise it's better not to hit your head at all, but even the best skiier in the world can't do anything about someone crashing into them from behind, can they? Everyone falls over. Everyone. You might think that snow is a soft landing, but most pistes are packed pretty hard, and there are always things like trees, rocks and barriers that you could run into. Perhaps I'm getting old, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought that I should get myself a helmet.

Of course, given that I have a massive head, my next problem was to find a helmet that fitted me properly. I did a bit of research so that I had a reasonable grasp of what I should be looking for, and on Saturday, having taken the precaution of ringing ahead to make sure they had my likely size, we made the trip over to the Tamworth Snow Dome to have a look in our nearest decent skiing shop. No can do. Didn't fit. So I trooped back to Nottingham and ended up buying the first helmet I'd tried on the week before: The Red Hi-Fi. Obviously, it makes me look silly. And between now and the first day I wear it on the slopes, I'm going to be fretting if it fits me properly. I'm wearing it now to see if can tell.

So far so good.

It's quite warm, worn indoors with the heating on, anyway. No, please don't come round and look through the living room window. I know it looks ridiculous.

Reading this though, I'm fairly sure I've done the right thing. About wearing it on the mountain, that is, not on the sofa.

no sleep till brooklyn....

When it comes to holidays, I'm a great believer in serendipity. I'll probably buy a guidebook, but that's about it. I'll have a vague idea of the sorts of things that I might want to see, but I probably won't even open the book until I get onto the plane, never mind do something rash like actually plan an itinerary.

This trip was no different. I wanted to go to New York, and that was almost as much as I knew. I perhaps had some vague ideas about going to the Metropolitan Museum and the Museum of Modern Art, maybe having a hot dog and doing a bit of shopping, and I had a few restaurant recommendations (thanks for that Bob), but beyond that, I was really just happy to be going away for a few days to such an interesting city.

I like to wander and to see what turns up. Luckily, it turns out that this approach works really well for New York. We must have walked for miles and miles every day we were there. It only costs $2 to ride on the subway, but whenever it was practical, we walked. There's nothing better for getting a proper feel for a place than by walking through it. We were staying in a hotel about five blocks up from Times Square and about three blocks down from Central Park, but we walked through as many different neighbourhoods as we could: Greenwich Village, Chelsea, the Meatpacking District, the Financial District, Flatiron, Hell's Kitchen, Lower Manhattan, Upper East Side.... each with their own distinctive feel. We didn't manage to get up beyond Central Park and into the Bronx, and I know there's plenty of stuff we didn't see (next time, eh?), but we did manage to get around quite a lot of Manhattan in the four days we were there.

One of the best pieces of advice I was given before I left (thank you Sarah) was, whatever else I did, to make sure I got off Manhattan Island. We spent about ten seconds on Staten Island as we disembarked from the ferry and got straight back on, but I'm not sure that really counts.... but as a result of that advice, we did make the effort to get out to Brooklyn, and after an unpromising start, had the best time of the days we were there.

The walk across the bridge is fantastic, of course... but instead of turning on our heels and coming straight back to enjoy the views of Manhattan again, we pushed on into Brooklyn. For an hour or so, things did not look at all promising. Once we'd got past the oasis of the Brooklyn Bridge Park, we found ourselves walking through an industrial desert alongside a nest of ring roads pushing on to the tunnels and bridges. We perservered, and then found ourselves in neighbourhood that seemed to consist of nothing but fried chicken outlets and places to get your hair braided in the senegalese style. New York is of course an incredibly multicultural city, but this was the first time in my wandering that I felt it would be a really, really bad idea to get the guidebook out for a look, as I was standing out more than enough already. We nearly gave up there and then, but we pushed on looking for a subway or something, and gradually the neighbourhood changed. The fried chicken shops gave way to halal groceries and then, slowly but surely, little boutiques and bistros began to appear. We were heading into Boerum Hill. Driven on by my bladder and the distinct lack of public toilets in the city, we popped into a nice looking French restaurant to have a drink and to make use of the facilities. The barman - Bart - was friendly, and he mixed a mean cocktail, so we hung around for a bit. We then started talking to some middle-aged ladies who were having a drink whilst waiting for the last member of their dinner party to arrive. One of the ladies had been reading about malt whisky and was keen to try some (Bart had a good selection, including Laphroig, Lagavulin, Glenmorangie and Glenlivet). We chatted about different malts, how to drink them, moved on to discuss port and finally onto why we'd come over to Brooklyn. They were all astonished that we'd walked all the way from Manhattan, as though it was a hundred miles away, but were all Brooklynites and were really keen that we make the most of our time over the East River.

I don't even really know how it happened, but before long, the maitre d' had got involved in the discussion, and they all agreed that we should go to a tiny little restaurant just around the corner that had just been voted the best pizza place in New York City - quite an accolade. We weren't even sure we were staying for dinner, but the maitre d' was persistent to the extent that he even rang them up and booked us a table..... he ran his own restaurant, but felt that if we only stayed in Brooklyn for one meal, then we should go to the pizza place. We stayed long enough to have another drink and to pick up recommendations on the best possible place to buy a bottle of wine to take to the (bring your own) restaurant, and then we went out to find this other restaurant. The pizza restaurant - Lucali - was amazing. It's tucked away in a residential area of Brooklyn, and consists of nothing much more than a front room with an open kitchen area with a wood-fired oven at the back. You don't get much of a choice: calzone or pizza. You choose from a list of about 5 ingredients, and that's it. No starters. No pudding. Just plain and simple pizza. We shared a calzone, stuffed with fresh basil and some delicious, light ricotta. It wasn't at all expensive, but it felt like we were being included in a great local secret - there were people waiting outside the door the whole time we were there. It was a lovely meal, but the thing that I will really remember about it is the kindness of the Brooklyn locals that we met in that first restaurant who had been so friendly and welcoming. The ladies at that first bar told me that the French restaurant - Jolie - was their favourite in Brooklyn. We didn't eat there, so I can't comment, but the people we met there were brilliant, and Bart makes a mean cocktail.... so if you are around Brooklyn, do go and see them and thank them for me.

One of the restaurant recommendations I had before leaving was from a colleague who suggested that the River Cafe in Brooklyn was the best restaurant in the world with the best view in the world. Not cheap, with a meal for two likely to top $300, but apparently worth every cent. Perhaps it is the best restaurant in the world, but I'd like to think that the $20-odd we paid for that calzone and for that experience simply cannot be beaten.

I'm telling you, serendipity: it's the future.

don't stand in the doorway, don't block up the hall...

I think it's fair to say that New York is fairly pleased about the results of the recent presidential election. It's a Democratic stronghold anyway, of course, but if the number of Barack Obama t-shirts, posters and button badges on sale are anything to go by, then the Empire State is very taken with the man who stands to become the 44th President of the United States of America. Or they could just be really astute traders and know where the market is at the moment. Most likely it's a combination of the two, but I got a real sense of a genuine optimism on the air, even in cynical old Gotham itself.

America is at a crossroads.

...which is why I very much liked this particular piece of vandalism/street art (*delete as appropriate) on a pedestrian crossing on the corner of President Street in Brooklyn. I love the image of the green man, the symbol of motion and of progress, marching forwards whilst holding an Obama placard. The placement on this particular street is, of course, perfect.

After eight years of immobility, America may be about to "walk" forwards again.

we'll have the life we knew we would....

So, anyway. Where was I?

Ah yes, Bath.


The Angels climb Jacob's Ladder on the front of Bath Abbey

We spent Friday night at the wedding venue. The place itself was nice enough, nestled alongside a pretty river and basking in the autumnal sunshine, but the room was little more than something you might find at a university hall of residence, with a posh sink built on. For £90, I was expecting something a little nicer, to be honest. Still, I tried to make up some of our losses for the night by making damn sure that we took both packets of rolos, all of the shortbread biscuits, the mini packet of fruit pastilles and all of the teabags and sachets of coffee. That little haul probably recouped - what - a couple of quid back? Way to stick it to The Man, eh?

We said our farewells to the wedding party (with an unusually warm hug from my dad, showing that that rioja the night before had been an excellent investment) and headed off into Bath and the rather more luxurious accommodation that would be lying in wait for us there. First things first, though, and we made a small detour to Shepton Mallet to pay our respects to the Mulberry Factory Outlet. Now, I can generally take or leave these things. I had an idle hope that I might finally find the decent leather belt that I have been seeking for the best part of two years, but I wasn't expecting to come out with hundred of pounds worth of leather goods..... and we didn't. C. already has a rather nice Mulberry bag, and she supplemented this with nice cardigan for the office, but otherwise I wasn't that impressed. The menswear in particular looked like an Italian designers interpretation of "Classic English Design", but had unwisely decided to add little extras like a real fur lined hood. Not good. I picked up a basic wallet, but otherwise spent the rest of our time there marvelling at the people shopping there. Now, as I was soon to discover, Bath is posh. In fact, I've rarely been to a town more full of toffs... many of them a little bit dirty and disheveled and driving the kind of antique Volvos that only the truly wealthy own. If the area is posh, imagine the kind of people that find their way to the Mulberry factory outlet. If Bath is posh, then the clientele at Mulberry are quintessence of posh. From the awful, floppy-haired public schoolboys with their Paris Hilton-alike girlfriends, to the more mature ladies with headscarves and their outsized designer sunglasses. Awful, and actually fairly rude. As I'm sure you know, posh people have no understanding of body space rules and will think nothing of pretty much walking through you on their way to a bargain handbag.

We stowed our meagre bag of purchases in the car, tickled the friendly cat in the car park, and then made our merry way to our hotel just outside the town centre in Bath. Now, this was more like it. My initial search for a room had revealed that Bath was busy that weekend and that most of the mid-range, reasonable hotels were completely full. Essentially, we used this as a shameless excuse to book ourselves into a 5 star spa hotel just outside the town centre. It was a little more than I would usually pay for a room, but what the hell, C can afford it.....

It looked promising as we pulled through the gates and into the wooded driveway, and I wasn't at all surprised to see a concierge and several porters, all suited and booted and desperate to try and prise my bags from my hand. We were served by the Reception Manager at the check-in desk, and were looking forward to checking out our room.

"Oh, this seems to be a twin room."
The Reception Manager bit his lip for a moment before continuing. "No problem."
He continued tapping away on his computer for a moment and then rather apologetically informed us that he had found us another room, but it wouldn't be ready for us to use until 3pm. Not a problem for us, as we were popping into town anyway.
"I've put you in the Imperial Suites".

Whatever. I didn't think anything more of it until we returned to the hotel later on in the afternoon to make use of the spa facilities before dinner. We were shown to our rooms by one of the porters. Yes, rooms. The suite we had been put in was probably bigger than the entire ground floor plan of my house. We had two huge flatscreen tvs, a lounge, a massive bathroom and a comfortably spacious bedroom with an enormous bed.
"Would you like champagne and canapes?"
Er... yes?
"I'll have your butler bring them through for you."

Our butler?

Yes, that's right: we had a butler.

Now this is living.

Did I mention the butler?

To be honest, I had absolutely no idea of the etiquette involved here. Does one tip, or is that vulgar? What does he do, exactly? If it rains, would he walk beside me, holding an umbrella over my head?

As it turns out, what he mostly does is be available at our beck and call for the duration of our stay. If we should so desire to beck and call him... which as it turns out, we didn't really, although he did book us a cab.

I had a private education, but even that proved inadequate training for what to expect. That afternoon, I was sat in the jacuzzi at the hotel spa, just relaxing, when the butler came in with another member of staff, he was clearly a man on a mission, and he knocked at a closed door and patiently waited for it to open. He stood there for a while, and it suddenly dawned on me that he was trying to catch my eye. I looked up, and he sort of nodded/half-bowed to me. From my position, wearing only a pair of trunks and sitting up to my neck in warm, bubbling water, I could only really nod back. This seemed to satisfy him, and he went about his business.

What a job. He must spend almost every day of his working life trying to explain to idiots like me what a butler actually does and what we can ask him to do to make our stay more comfortable.

Bath itself is a beautiful town, in fact, it's a UNESCO world heritage site, and is stuffed to the gills with interesting things to look at: there's beautiful Georgian architecture everywhere, a beautiful airy Abbey, lovely parks, a couple of nice bridges, a top class rugby team and lots and lots of shops. You know you're in posh town when you see that almost all of the sports shops in the town centre sell things like hockey sticks, squash rackets and rugby shirts, and there's a distinct absence of those awful pile it high, sell it cheap polyester leisureware shops that have slowly taken over the rest of the country. Only to be expected in a town like this where the rugby club is very much the modern heartbeat of the city, with the ground right next to the river in the town centre. I celebrated this by buying myself a pair of proper cotton rugby shorts. The pair I have are now some ten years old and rather the worse for wear, but I hadn't been able to replace them. Proper town. Proper sport shops.

As you might expect from a town this splendid, the city centre thronged with tourists. Unlike other towns like this - York, for one - Bath has managed to stay just the right side of twee. They're clearly proud of all of their heritage, but not so much that they feel the need to sell lots of tea towels and doilies displaying it. Instead, alongside your normal high street shops, there's a pleasing selection of smaller boutiques and street stands. I didn't really buy anything (I'm not sure the new Kings of Leon album counts), but C. bought herself a nice basque style t-shirt (curses. it's a man's t-shirt and I was rather hoping it would fit me...) and also a rather natty Luis Trenker Gatsby cap. Actually, I was quite struck by how much of a Swiss / Austrian alpine connection Bath seemed to have: as well as a Luis Trenker boutique (with a very boozy and cheerfully over-familiar lady behind the counter), there was a strudel cafe and a shop where you could buy lederhosen and cuckoo clocks and things like that. Weird, and not the first thing that springs to mind when I think of Bath.



I know that my love of monumental architecture probably renders this a redundant statement, but I was quite taken with the Abbey. It's not the most beautiful building to look at on the outside, but it has the most enormous windows that mean that the interior is extremely airy. Perhaps it needed to be: in the middle ages, the Abbey was famous for not having enough burial space for all of the dead, and graves that should have been left sealed for longer were frequently opened to squeeze more bodies in. The result? A distinct and lingering smell of decaying flesh. Nice, eh? One legacy of this is that almost every available surface in the Abbey interior is covered by a memorial plaque of one kind or another. Well, I find this kind of thing interesting anyway.



Beautiful vaulting too.

The one thing that will stay with me above all the others about the Abbey is the sculpture of Jacob's ladder that adorns the facade on the West End. As you can see from the pictures above, this consists of a ladder (one on either side of the main door), with angels climbing up and down. The thing that absolutely makes this for me is the fact that the angels descending are coming down head first, and they look incredibly sinister, bringing to mind Bram Stoker's description of Dracula scuttling head first down the walls of his castle.... not the image that the sculptor had in mind, I shouldn't wonder. I marvelled at it all the way through the delicious bagel that I had for my lunch on sunday. I've never had a better bagel, actually, and it was perhaps even a little tiny bit better than the delicious traditional pasty I had for my lunch in more or less the same spot on Saturday. I do like my food, you know. I never quite got round to a Sally Lunn though, although the fudge isn't much to write home about.... and I could also have comfortably done without those tone-deaf posh idiots with the out-of-tune guitars whining along to "Hey There Delilah" and "Scar Tissue" as I tried to enjoy a coffee in the beautiful sunshine. Pah! (actually, they were so dreadful that they were almost entertaining... every note they missed brought those of us sat outside Ben's Cookies closer together as we winced at each other).

There seemed to be lots of nice looking restaurants, but a spot of internet searching a couple of weeks before had led us to try an Italian place called Aqua. Mmm. Simple and delicious. I started with a beef carpaccio, moved onto some linguine with clams, mussels and chili, and finished with some ice cream and a fragrant dessert wine. All very reasonably priced and expertly served... although I do think that perhaps I should have tipped the girl on the table just next to ours, as she provided such good entertainment value throughout the meal.

"Did you have a scallop in that starter?"
"No?"
"Neither did I. That's not a prawn either, it's a langoustine."
"So what?"
"Get me a menu. The menu says it's prawn with scallops. That was definitely white fish, and white fish is cheaper than scallops."
"Right"
"We should say something, except we've undermined our position by eating the whole lot. Maybe we should still let them know that we're onto them... Order another bottle of wine will you, and get me a menu..."

....and so on, for the entire meal. She was absolutely determined to complain, or at least to not enjoy herself on her meal out with her poor, poor boyfriend. I thought she was hysterical.

So, a nice comfortable night's sleep, a run alongside the canal through the rolling mist, and then back home... although not before C. insisted that we wait at the main reception desk after checking out so that she could have a word with the Reception Manager. As we'd been checking out, we'd seen a couple of people complaining. Both had the demeanor or people who were moaning without much cause, and one appeared to be agitated because he had made a mistake over his ability to pay the bill with -- oh the shame! -- Tescos Clubcard Vouchers. This man rudely insisted that the reception manager, who had done absolutely nothing wrong, write him a letter so that he could try and claim his money back. We waited until this letter had been produced, before C. was able to tell this man how much she had enjoyed her stay and how the hotel staff had done absolutely everything they could to make our stay as comfortable as possible. Apparently she's stayed in three other hotels in this chain, one in Moscow and one somewhere else glamorous sounding (tough life, eh? This was my first), but in her opinion, this one had been by far the best. I think she made the poor man's day. That's my girl. Lovely hotel though. You'd need £600 to stay in our suite (apparently! I know!), but if luxury is what you're after.... A good weekend.

Enough about Bath already. What is this? Some kind of personal journal?

the warmth of your hand and a cold grey sky...

Sometimes, the best breaks of all are those where you do very little at all. Vienna is a wonderful city with a fantastic history and heritage, but I've just spent a very restful few days pottering about doing nothing very much in the company of a delightful Viennese family.

As well as wandering about, it's true that we did go to the Tutankhamun exhibition and the Haus des Meeres (a saltwater aquarium in the amazing setting of an old flak tower (one of several) that the Nazis built in the middle of Vienna).



I'm sure that both are wonderful attractions in their own right, but somehow seeing them through the eyes of a ten year old girl and an eight year old boy made them both that much more interesting. It was also kind of nice to be in the company of someone who understands that every set of stairs we come across in the course of our wanderings is something that should not simply be seen as a means of ascent or descent (as C. - bless her - tends to see them), but rather sees them for what they really are: an opportunity for a race.

It was a nice couple of days. I have eaten cake, schnitzel, chocolate, soup made from wild garlic freshly picked from the Vienna woods and goulash. I have drunk several local beers, some local wine and a drop or two of Talisker. I introduced an Austrian who had barely heard of the game to the full glory of the Six Nations (he loved it, he tells me) and also to the Manic Street Preachers. I also went to a jazz club and watched some improvisational jazz inspired by German philosophy and modern protest politics.... but more on Gilad Atzmon and the Oriental House Ensemble tomorrow, I think.

Mmmm. Nice.

We also came home to a nice note from the nice Cat Patrol people who have been popping round to look after the cat whilst we've been away:

"Minou has been a joy to look after. She has been here every morning and evening and has enjoyed her treats. Hope you had a great time."

A visit to the LB/Hen household reveals that they leave similar notes for everyone... but I do like to think that Minou may have another fan....

Bloody hell though. Easyjet aren't much fun though, are they? Would it kill them to print seat numbers on the tickets? Would it be too much to expect my fellow passengers not to push and shove?

Gah.

Still, in addition to the usual pile of Viennese chocolate, C. has brought back some new recipes, a guglhupf mould, some ground poppy seeds (for cake) and some sweet paprika (for goulash). That sounds promising, eh?

A good break with some good friends.

let your body move to the music...

Competing in the "Dance Like Your Dad" round of the pub quiz whilst on holiday, 23rd January 2008 in Sestriere. The picture shows the initial elimination round. The "best" three dancers from here went into a final dance-off - in which the other two contestants blatantly tried to steal my moves, but like all the great innovators, I'd already moved on from breakdancing and was striking out boldly into catalogue model vogueing...

There are a couple of things to note here:

1. My dad does not, in point of fact, dance anything like this

2. Although we won the overall quiz, I didn't actually win the round....

3.....but I was robbed.

And check out the muscle definition on those arms!

I'm so proud....

I leaned on the wall and the wall leaned away...

The bobsleigh events at the 2006 Winter Olympics took place at the Cesana Pariol venue, just around the corner from Sestriere in the village of Sansicario. The track there measures 1435 metres and has 19 curves and a vertical drop of 114 metres. A 4 man bobsleigh here is capable of reaching speeds in excess of 130km/hr and the passengers can experience up to 4Gs of pressure as they hurtle round the bends to the bottom. The gold medal winners in the Men's four man bobsleigh at the 2006 games were Germany. Their fastest time down the track was 54.80s.

The track was built especially for the 2006 games, and as you can imagine, now that the games are over, the organisers are keen to try to get some payback on that investment (it costs about a million Euros to keep the track frozen during the season, even this high up in the mountains). As a result, if you are so inclined, it is possible to pay to team up with a driver from the Italian national team and take a ride down the track in a four man bobsleigh.

And so I did.


The team huddle: l-r, Keith, Drives, Ian, me

The talk on the bus prior to arrival at the track was pretty scary, so when we actually arrived at the top, I was keen not to do any hanging around and volunteered to be in the first run. I signed a disclaimer, and before I really knew what I was doing, I was wearing a helmet, putting on a compression belt ("to hold your spine in place against the G force") and was being introduced to my driver.

"If your helmet bangs against the side of the bob, don't worry: this is normal. Try to sit up straight and look out for the corners as they come up."

Then, with a final word that the person sitting directly behind him should make every effort not to touch him (who wants to have their driver knocked out when he's trying to steer your sled down a tube of ice at 130km/hr?), we were seated in the bob. I was in position four, and with three hefty lads in front of me, it was a real squeeze to get in. I struggled to get my hands far enough down the sides to be able to grasp the cable that was supposed to help me stay inside the sled, and I had the ridge at the back of the bob digging into the small of my back. On top of that, I immediately began to get cramp down my legs from the forced position. Oh well, this wouldn't take long. With the gentlest of push starts from a couple of guys at the top (as opposed to the sprint starts that the Olympic teams have), we were off.

The first of the 19 corners didn't seem too bad, although even at this pace, the force of the turn was enough to push my helmet against the side of the bob as we first climbed into the corner and then again as we came out the other side.

We began to pick up speed.

I'd been told to try and hold my breath or to breath in as we approached the corners - the air in my lungs would help hold my body upright. The simple truth was that, even as early as the second corner, I really couldn't hold myself up high enough to see round the three guys in front of me and to pick out the corners. Frankly I'm amazed the driver could see them coming. Each one came and went in a flash; each one hurled my head violently one way and then the other, smashing my helmet with increasing force into the sides of the sled. My forearms, braced against the edges of the bob, soon began to feel the pressure too as we were thrown from side to side. I could feel the back of the sled digging into my spine, and -- alarmingly -- I could even start to feel myself rising slightly off my seat.

I hung on a bit tighter.

We flew down the track, faster and faster and faster. I began to become disorientated as we went through bend after bend with increasing speed and my head smashed from side to side. The pressure on me increased, and I could feel my head being forced down towards my lap and I was struggling to breathe. We shot through a chicane and BANGBANGBANGBANG went my head against the sled. We must have been at maximum velocity now, around 130km/hr and with about 4Gs of force pushing down against my body.


...and it looked a little something like this

And then just as I thought I couldn't take any more, it was all over. We came out of the slightly covered track and into the open of a gently inclined run-off. The sense of exhilaration was immense. I struggled out of the bob and found that I wasn't quite in control of myself and my legs had turned to jelly. I had to be helped off the track and out of my helmet, but I couldn't stop grinning. We had a team photo taken with the driver and checked out our time: 1m 02.24s. A little over 62 seconds. Seven seconds slower than the Olympic gold medal winning time in the same track, but without the benefit of a running start and without the need for any lycra.

That was probably the most brutal 62 seconds of my life and I felt like I had been beaten up. Apparently I had the worst deal sitting on the back seat, but my head ached, my neck hurt, my arms hurt, I had a huge bruise on the small of my back..... but my God, it was worth every penny. I was never really scared at any point in the ride, I was just in total awe of the forces that I was experiencing and the speeds that I was travelling at. Quite how anyone is able to concentrate enough under those kinds of forces to think about steering and braking, or how they are able to react fast enough to do either at those speeds is completely beyond me. All I could do was clench my teeth, and at one point let out a scream of pure exhilaration.

What a rush.

It probably sounds terrible, and it certainly wasn't easy, but what an incredible experience. I'd do it again tomorrow if I could, and if you ever get the chance, then have a go. Seriously.

Brilliant.

Compared to that, going down the Olympic Men's Downhill course on skis was a relatively sedate affair....

So, skeleton or luge next year, do you think?

cold as ice...

Well, I'm back and I'm knackered... but I suppose the main thing is that all limbs are intact and it was a fantastic week skiing in the sun.

When I've got a bit more energy, I'll regale you with stories of how I went down an Olympic Bobsleigh run in a 4 man bob at about 89% gold medal winning pace (possibly the most brutal 62.24 seconds of my life), how I watched Inter Milan playing Juventus at the San Siro Stadium, how I successfully navigated the black run that hosted the 2006 Olympic downhill skiing events (or perhaps more pertinently, how I survived the actually-much-harder-than-the-run drag lift that takes you up to the top of the piste). If you're really lucky I'll tell you all about how we won a pub quiz thanks in part to C's cocktail making / drinking abilities and to my glorious triumph in the "Dance Like Your Dad" round.... (although, sadly, the photos from this triumph are on someone else's camera at the moment, so you will be spared the pictorial evidence).

I'll also be able to share photos with you that are almost identical in every respect to the photos that I take every year when we go skiing...La Rosiere in 2007, Courchevel 1650 in 2006, Courchevel 1850 in 2005 (but hey, different coat then)... i.e. some snowy mountains, me in sunglasses and the same jacket standing a little awkwardly on a pair of skis or with a cup of vin chaud in hand.....

Bet you can't wait, eh?

Anyway. How are you?

I check out passport photos...

and.... breathe.

It turns out that the dash down to Peterborough to get a new passport wasn't all that stressful at all. I'd spent much of Friday worrying about whether I had all the relevant bits and pieces. I couldn't imagine anything worse than driving down to Peterborough and being turned away without my passport. I discovered to my horror that in the photos I was planning to use, the ones I had taken for my Glastonbury pre-registration thing the other day, I was wearing a hoodie. I ummed and ahhed for a bit, and then had some more taken. It wasn't just that I was worried that they would reject the photos because the hood was partially obscuring my neck or something... did I really want that as the photo that will follow me around for the next ten years? Probably not.... Also to be on the safe side, I got that upstanding pillar of the local community, Lord Bargain, to witness that it was indeed me in the photos. You only have to do this if you have significantly changed from the photo in your current passport... but I've lost a lot of weight and a fair bit of hair in the last ten years, so I thought it was probably better to be safe than sorry.

My appointment was at ten and I arrived early enough to scout out the Passport Agency and to head back into the market to buy a paper and to have a breakfast baguette and an expresso from the greasy spoon. It was delicious too - all greasy and smothered in brown sauce. I gobbled it down and headed over to the big glass-fronted building over the road from the market. As you might expect, there are quite a lot of quietly desperate looking people hanging around at the Passport Office on a Saturday morning. The first thing that you have to do is to join the queue to be processed by reception, where they check that you have an appointment and they make sure that your passport photos are of the required standard. The guy just in front of me walked up to the desk and handed over four pictures of his kid. The receptionist put them into some sort of "ready reckoner" type affair and looked back up at the guy:

"The eyes aren't in the band"
"What do you mean?"
"I can't accept these photos as the child is sitting too low and the eyes aren't in the middle of the picture. You'll need to get some more photos done."
"But I've driven down from Burton"
"Have you not brought your child with you?"
"No, I brought the photos. Are they definitely not good enough?"
"No. We can't accept them. Were you wanting the passport today?"
"Yes. We're leaving tomorrow."
"If you want the passport today, it needs to be processed before 11am."

Burton is at least an hour away from Peterborough. There was no way this guy was going to be able to do it, and he walked away a defeated man to see if he could work miracles with his phone. Before you feel too sorry for him though, apparently the reason he was in Peterborough today was that he had tried to get the passport done at the London office on Friday and had been rejected because his photos weren't right. Nothing like learning from your mistakes, eh?

Ten minutes later, I had been processed and was just queuing up at the cashier's desk to pay. There were two guys just in front of me and we were on the home straight now. The first guy turns back and says to us:
"Until I have that thing in my hand, I'm not going to believe that everything has worked out"
I smiled, but the other guy shrugged. "You've done the difficult bit. The only way I won't be walking out of here with my passport is if a bomb goes off or something".
At this point he was called up to the cashier and he swaggered over to the counter.
"Can I pay by cheque?"
"Yes. Have you got your cheque guarantee card?"
"Do I need it.....?"

It's not really a happy place, and the air is permeated by the faintest smell of desperation. Mind you, it turns out that the other bloke in the cashier's queue was there for the same reason as me - his passport expires in less than six months and he's travelling on Thursday. I told him that I had found myself in the same boat.
"Oh yes? Are you going anywhere nice?"
"Ecuador"
"Oh really? My wife is from Ecuador!"
We then had a quick conversation about what a lovely country it is and how I really needed to do this and to do that and to eat this and to drink that.... small world, eh? (he was also from Nottingham).

I had been completely processed by 10:15 and set out into the town to kill the four hours before my passport was ready to be picked up. I wandered around browsing camping shops and looking at rucksacks and gaiters and the like, as well as discovering that the local MINI garage had a display model in the shopping centre that I killed 15 minutes having a little play around in before wandering up to have a look at the cathedral. I don't really know why, but I'd never really thought of Peterborough as being the kind of town to have a cathedral at all. Well, they do, and it's a really nice one.

It can date its foundation back as far as 655 AD, is probably the finest Norman cathedral in Britain and can boast things as splendid as a painted wooden ceiling in the nave that dates back to 1230, a thirteenth century west front that has been described as "The most magnificent portico in Europe" and also houses the tomb of Catherine of Aragon and the original resting place of Mary Queen of Scots.

It was quietly and modestly very impressive indeed, and I was reminded all over again how calming I find monumental architecture like this (Nottingham has none). I was in the cathedral when I received the call to go and pick up my passport. I actually stayed on for another 15 minutes just enjoying my surroundings before heading off to collect my passport.

When I picked up my new passport, I saw it had this symbol on the front



It's a biometric passport - it has a little RFID chip in it, and as I discovered from the little machine you can have a play with in the Passport Agency, when it is scanned, it calls up my photo and details from some kind of central database. I understand that when I pass through the USA on my way to Ecuador in March, I will have my fingerprints taken and my retina scanned. I can only assume that this information will probably be added to my database entry, and *pop*, there go my civil liberties.

I don't remember being asked about this.

Anyway. At least I had my passport. I got back to the car, let out a big sigh of relief and started the engine. As I looked into the rearview mirror before reversing, I noticed that my face was covered in odd blotches. I had a closer look.

Ah. Dried brown sauce.

I'm so smooth.

our time is running out....

It only really dawned on me yesterday quite how little time I have until we leave for Ecuador. We fly out on the morning of Friday 2nd March. That’s only a touch over two weeks away. C. is away this weekend, so we’ve only really got one weekend together to pull everything together and to buy all the bits and bobs we’ll be needing for the trip.

Just looking down the list we’ve been given, this doesn’t look like an entirely trivial task: alongside the every day items like clothes, walking shoes, insect repellent, sun cream, hat, sleeping bag and head torch are such delights as gaiters, 1 litre nalgene water bottles, a breathable waterproof jacket / trouser set, a poncho…. They’re all items that should be fairly easy to get hold of, but I’m still slightly nervous about quite how little time I have to get it together.

I’ve also had to get on the phone to the nurse to arrange for the anti-malarial drugs. This isn’t as straightforward as it sounds because there are a number of different drugs, each with its own set of benefits and side effects. We are going to be dipping in and out of malarial zones whilst we're away, so I had to decide if I wanted to take the drugs on a start / stop basis or if I just wanted to take them continually for three weeks (plus the run-off period). In the end, the fact that I have been told that the combination of malaria and the WTs would be absolutely knockout, I opted to play it safe and I’ll be on Malarone for 4 weeks. Expensive, but also the most effective anti-malarial prophylaxis available. I hear that weird dreams are a common side-effect, but given that last night I dreamt that a celebrity hairdresser gave me a cut that involved long hair stuck straight upwards all around the crown of my head with a shaven bit in the middle dyed purple, I think I’m having enough weird dreams already....

As I was thinking about all the things I needed to get done, my mind turned to my passport. I may be able to get many things when I'm actually in Ecuador, but a passport is the one thing you have to make damn sure that you remember. I’ve had mine for ages, and I knew full well that it expires at some point in September this year. It has long been at the back of my mind to check what Ecuador’s requirements are for entry, as I had a feeling that some countries need you to have a minimum of six months to run.... Sure enough, Ecuador is one of those countries (well, I read that it was, rang the Ecuadorian consulate to confirm this, and they didn’t seem sure. I decided that on the whole it was a chance that I couldn’t afford to take). Whoops. The postal application process for a new passport takes three weeks that I don’t have and involves sending off my current passport. This leaves me with little alternative but to apply in person, so this Saturday, I will be making an unscheduled trip to the UK Passport Office in Peterborough to get my passport renewed in person. I had to make an appointment and everything!

Well, at least it will be done then, eh?

deep beneath the cover of another perfect wonder....

Hello there. Well, we're safely back from the Alps and all our limbs appear to still be intact. They're a bit sore, but on the last count, they were all still there and were (just about) functioning as intended. I know that this is important at the best of times, but as we leave for Ecuador in about three weeks, it's something that I'm particularly grateful for this time around.

There's been a lot of talk this year about how bad the snow has been in Europe this year - poor in the sense that they just don't seem to have had any at all. When your main industry is skiing, that's quite a problem.

So what was the weather like?



Um.... in a word.... snowy.



But you know what? Snowy is alright by me.

The first day there was gloriously sunny and warm. The sun's pleasant enough, but as the temperature stays above freezing for most of the day, it's not ideal for snow. The conditions on the slope were initially pretty reasonable, but as the day wore on the snow got softer and softer, and the skiing wasn't much fun.

I wasn't too upset then when the conditions closed in overnight and it started to snow. From there, it didn't really stop snowing for the rest of the week. The obvious upside of this is that the conditions were fantastic, but the downside is that it's very cold and visibility is sometimes very poor.

Oh well, you can't have everything.

Here are some photos (and you can find more here)



Apparently you burn off about 300 calories an hour when you go skiing..... not the way I ski you don't. Yeah, the snow is fun, but a skiing holiday for me is as much about the regular stops for coffee, hot chocolate and vin chaud.

And the food. Lots and lots and lots of food. French food is brilliant, of course, but from La Rosiere (where we were based) it is also quite easy to ski across the border and into Italy. We did this twice during the week, and both times we stopped in lovely restaurants and ate like kings.



I did some skiing too though.



And quite a lot of sitting on chair lifts - many of which are clearly designed for much smaller men than me.



I would never claim to be anything more than an intermediate skiier, but I am slowly getting better and (as long as the snow conditions are good) I can now fairly comfortably manage the odd black run.

C is generally much quicker down the slope than me, but -- much to her annoyance -- the instructor we hired for a couple of hours one afternoon was rather taken with the quality of my turns (this isn't quite as good as last year, when our instructor told her that she skiied "like a toad" but thought that I was a "natural technician"). I don't know if it's true, but I'll take the compliments where I can get them...



So yes. All in all it was a very pleasant week indeed. Great to be back and all that.



How are you?