I was going to try to avoid writing a blog entry about the absolute shitshow going on over here because of a little snow. I am so angry about it that I was afraid I would just rail on about the incompetence and the stupidity and the sheer needlessness of the whole mess. I wrote one last year, complaining about the large-scale chaos that resulted from a light dusting of snow, the Eurostar’s inopportune breakdown inside the Chunnel, and the hundreds of transport-related problems that were caused. What’s been happening at London’s airports – and travel hubs across the rest of Europe – over the past four days makes last year look like a minor traffic accident.
I just have one question: What the fuck? Seriously, I didn’t want to go there, but how is it possible that a little winter guarantee like snow can actually cause such extensive destruction?
Unless you are living under a rock somewhere (or perhaps a pile of unexpected snow) it is unlikely that this is news to you. Starting on Saturday 18 December, when eight inches (I know, child’s play) of snow descended on the UK, the island’s airports all but shut down. I was thrilled at first by the layer of white that cloaked my backyard, but when the winter wonderland threatened to thwart my holiday plans the real severity of the situation began to settle in.
Obviously I realize that this country is not used to the kind of snow that is experienced by Canada or by the Scandinavian countries, but there has to come a point (maybe after the second year of the same shit) that people have to stop making excuses and own up to the fact that something needs to change. For instance, Heathrow, which handled 66 million travelers in 2009, has 69 ice-clearing vehicles (they don’t say snowplow so I don’t know if the aforementioned “vehicles” really are that), less than twice the number that Oslo has, a country that handles a quarter of that passenger total and “suffers” 60 days of snow a year on average.
Heathrow is not the only casualty – there are delays and cancellations on a major scale across Europe, and flights grounded back in North America or other parts of the world – but Heathrow has been chosen as the face of the disaster and is taking the brunt of the bullying. Rightfully so. The airport, which is the second busiest in the world, has turned into a refugee camp for thousands of holiday travelers. London’s mayor, Boris Johnson, said aptly on the BBC: “It can’t be beyond the wit of man, surely, to find the shovels, the diggers, the snowplows or whatever it takes to clear the snow out from under the planes.”
Well, apparently Boris, it is.
Now I mentioned earlier that the UK ¬– and most of Europe – is not used to these types of winters. Fair enough. I just wonder how many more of these weather disasters the country is going to shrug and bear before actually just shutting up and doing something about it? The transport secretary has started proceedings that will see Britain consult with its chief scientific adviser to find out whether the blizzards that began last month, and the “worst cold snap” in two decades last winter, provide enough evidence for a “step change” that would justify increased spending on cold-weather gear. Let me just reiterate that one more time: Britain is asking the weather experts for a second opinion, just in case the past hellish four days are not evidence enough.
On a personal level I have spent the past couple of days with a serious nervy tummy, wondering whether I will make it home for Christmas. I am beyond lucky that my travel day does not include Heathrow, but I do have a KLM flight out of City Airport tomorrow morning that will take me through Amsterdam (Schipol) and then Toronto before I finally arrive in Ottawa. Despite “disruptions” still reported at City this evening, I am starting to feel almost positive about my day of traveling. As long as the “light snow shower” that is called for tonight and tomorrow stays as light as possible.
Some of my friends have not been so lucky. Michelle was meant to fly to Montreal on Sunday but her flight was canceled and she was re-booked on a flight this coming Thursday, five days on. Lexie and her mother Christiane, who are supposed to be spending Christmas in London, changed their travel plans after their first flight was canceled and, after a disastrous Monday morning at Pearson airport, have given up completely. Tomorrow I will (hopefully!) fly from City, my roommate Lauren is flying from Gatwick, and my friend Nat is flying from Heathrow. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for us!
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Thursday, 9 December 2010
Finding Football
There is an old saying: "Football is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans, and rugby is a hooligans’ game played by gentlemen". Having been to two rugby games since I moved here and now two football games in the past month, I can whole-heartedly agree with this. Football players (and their fans) are a special breed of human – but I kind of like it.
I was very spoiled for my first live football game ever. My magazine (www.employeebenefits.co.uk) is doing an employer profile for our January issue on the Manchester City Football Club and the interviewee graciously offered two tickets to a match. I was already going to be up in Manchester for a conference so my friend Nicola, who was conducting the interview, invited me to be her plus-one. Despite having grown up in the UK, she had also never attended a match. The much-hyped Manchester derby (MCFC versus Manchester United) is not a bad place to loose your football virginity.
Amped up by the excitement that had been gripping the city leading up to the big match, we visited the MCFC gift shop for some blue scarves, gloves (it was freezing!) and other paraphernalia. Also, since it was our first time and we played dumb, we managed to carry pints of beer into the stadium seats, which some rather discouraged male fans pointed out was against the rules.
The atmosphere was tangible, blue-clad fans filled the stadium, singing ‘Blue Moon’ and shouting hilarious obscenities in thick northern accents at the Man U players. About 1,000 fans of the visiting team were segregated from the rest of the enormous stadium, framed by riot police in fluorescent yellow in case things got too rowdy.
Unfortunately, they didn’t. The match was kind of boring and ended in a draw, nil-nil. The fans pouring out of the stadium did not incite brawls with one another, just begrudgingly wandered back into the city centre. I have to say, I was a little bit disappointed.
For all those Man U fans who find it questionable that I would so suddenly become a Manchester City fan, the reason is three-fold. For starters, MCFC were our hosts to a free football match. Enough said. Secondly, my cousin Colin – a Mancusian since his days as a university student in the city more than 20 years ago – is a serious fan and choosing Manchester United would be akin to betraying the family. And finally, since I live for metaphors, I have come to see the MCFC and Man U rivalry as somewhat similar to the relationship between the Ottawa Senators and Toronto Maple Leafs. At least before the team was bought by an Arab sheik and revived with lots of cash, MCFC was a true grassroots underdog up against the rich and powerful Man U. If those reasons don’t work for you, I also look much better in blue than I do in red.
Back in London, nearly a month later and about 15 degrees colder, I finally saw my local team play. Based on where I live in Islington I should, technically speaking, be an Arsenal fan. Or so I have been told. The ladies from my book club are fans and had an extra ticket for the quarter finals of the Carling Cup. Bundled up in my longjohns and big red riding hood coat – conveniently colour-coordinated to support the Red Army – I sat 20 rows up from the pitch and thoroughly enjoyed a much more thrilling match than the Manchester derby. Arsenal won 2-0 and advanced to the next round.
Though it did not include an actual football game, last week I attended a conference at the Chelsea Football Club. Between presentations on pensions, employment tribunals and sustainable businesses, I got to walk around the perimeter of the stadium. It was a cold and empty pitch but it was pretty cool nonetheless – I mean, Didier Drogba plays there.
The sport will never replace hockey for me but I am starting to realize that I do enjoy it. The players are cute, the fans are fun and the atmosphere is a thrill to be a part of.
I was very spoiled for my first live football game ever. My magazine (www.employeebenefits.co.uk) is doing an employer profile for our January issue on the Manchester City Football Club and the interviewee graciously offered two tickets to a match. I was already going to be up in Manchester for a conference so my friend Nicola, who was conducting the interview, invited me to be her plus-one. Despite having grown up in the UK, she had also never attended a match. The much-hyped Manchester derby (MCFC versus Manchester United) is not a bad place to loose your football virginity.
Amped up by the excitement that had been gripping the city leading up to the big match, we visited the MCFC gift shop for some blue scarves, gloves (it was freezing!) and other paraphernalia. Also, since it was our first time and we played dumb, we managed to carry pints of beer into the stadium seats, which some rather discouraged male fans pointed out was against the rules.
The atmosphere was tangible, blue-clad fans filled the stadium, singing ‘Blue Moon’ and shouting hilarious obscenities in thick northern accents at the Man U players. About 1,000 fans of the visiting team were segregated from the rest of the enormous stadium, framed by riot police in fluorescent yellow in case things got too rowdy.
Unfortunately, they didn’t. The match was kind of boring and ended in a draw, nil-nil. The fans pouring out of the stadium did not incite brawls with one another, just begrudgingly wandered back into the city centre. I have to say, I was a little bit disappointed.
For all those Man U fans who find it questionable that I would so suddenly become a Manchester City fan, the reason is three-fold. For starters, MCFC were our hosts to a free football match. Enough said. Secondly, my cousin Colin – a Mancusian since his days as a university student in the city more than 20 years ago – is a serious fan and choosing Manchester United would be akin to betraying the family. And finally, since I live for metaphors, I have come to see the MCFC and Man U rivalry as somewhat similar to the relationship between the Ottawa Senators and Toronto Maple Leafs. At least before the team was bought by an Arab sheik and revived with lots of cash, MCFC was a true grassroots underdog up against the rich and powerful Man U. If those reasons don’t work for you, I also look much better in blue than I do in red.
Back in London, nearly a month later and about 15 degrees colder, I finally saw my local team play. Based on where I live in Islington I should, technically speaking, be an Arsenal fan. Or so I have been told. The ladies from my book club are fans and had an extra ticket for the quarter finals of the Carling Cup. Bundled up in my longjohns and big red riding hood coat – conveniently colour-coordinated to support the Red Army – I sat 20 rows up from the pitch and thoroughly enjoyed a much more thrilling match than the Manchester derby. Arsenal won 2-0 and advanced to the next round.
Though it did not include an actual football game, last week I attended a conference at the Chelsea Football Club. Between presentations on pensions, employment tribunals and sustainable businesses, I got to walk around the perimeter of the stadium. It was a cold and empty pitch but it was pretty cool nonetheless – I mean, Didier Drogba plays there.
The sport will never replace hockey for me but I am starting to realize that I do enjoy it. The players are cute, the fans are fun and the atmosphere is a thrill to be a part of.
Monday, 15 November 2010
Trains Through the English Countryside in Autumn
I have spent a lot of time on trains this week and I can say, irrevocably, that there is no better way to see the changing colours of an English autumn. If I was in Canada right now I would have probably spent some time hiking in the Gatineau amid red, gold and cinnamon leaves, their bruised bodies crunching under my soles. I tell my British friends about this famous Canadian landscape and tell them there is no better place to see the seasonal change. But a mid-November train ride up north might have proved me wrong.
I am sitting on a Tuesday morning train from London Euston to Manchester Piccadilly – a work journey for a three-day conference in my second favourite English city. I am supposed to be finishing up a feature for our December issue but I cannot seem to tear my eyes away from the countryside outside my window. The rolling hills are tarnished a faded green, spotted with the fluffy white bodies of countless sheep. All this standard scenery is visible through the last leaves of autumn, clutching in bright ambers and coppers to their summer branches.
This is not to say that London is not performing in the dramatic colour change as well. It is a very green city and thus has become a very orange, yellow and red city over the past two months. My backyard has a solid carpet of damp fallen leaves and the naked branches above are saluting the coming of winter. But there is something about the vast spaces of the English countryside that is just so much more aesthetic and idealistic.
Two weeks ago I also got an eyeful of the autumnal change as I drove up to Oxfordshire with my cousin Pearl. From the throes of Saturday morning traffic on the M40 I admired the valleys lit up like fire in the sun’s spotlight. We spent a night in Benson at my cousin Mary’s new house, unpacking glassware, putting up curtains, constructing Ikea cabinets and hanging pictures. The open concept kitchen and living space is almost ceiling to floor windows, so the colours outside reflected through the sunlight as we completed our chores. One afternoon I accompanied Mary to the Red House, where she has lived for the past 40 years, and spent some time wandering the gardens for perhaps the last time, breathing in the crisp autumn air and soaking up the millions of colours around me.
It is three days now since I began this entry and I can report that Manchester was colourful too. Staying in Castlefield – where Manchester was born as a Roman city – I got a front row seat to the weaving canals that are autumnally littered with the descended leaves. The burgundeys and gingers that were still clinging bravely to branches were a stark contrast to the metallic bridges and railways that intimate Manchester’s industrial past.
Two days later – and on the third of six trains before I would be back in London – it was clear that, while the countryside of Oxfordshire and the train journey up north to Manchester were colourful canvases of the season, there is nothing to compare to the landscapes of Yorkshire.
I had already gathered evidence of this when I came up north in May. The rainy season had brought with it a descending cloak of mist over the rolling Yorkshire hills, as well as a spring renewal that dyed the green valleys a fluorescent hue. Despite an inability to actually see too far in front of my face, it was picturesque and echoed the wholly romantic visions that I came to love from novels like ‘Wuthering Heights’.
This second journey to Yorkshire – and more specifically, my cousin Clair’s house in the pictorial village of Knaresborough – was thankfully void of rain. (I did enjoy the aftermath of the downpours in May and the clinging mist across the Dales and Moors but dampness in November in Britain means a chill in your bones that you just cannot shake.) It was very cold up north – much colder than I had expected – so the lack of rain was very welcome.
On Sunday we went to the town centre for the annual Remembrance Day ceremony where I was treated to my favourite Knaresborough view, framed with the oranges and crimsons of the season. From the foot of the war memorial and the ruins of Knaresborough Castle you can look out over the River Nidd as it winds along the riverbank and under the picturesque viaduct. The colours of autumn were lit up as a border to this stunning view. There could be no better scene to finish up the weekend up north.
Now I am on the last leg of my journey back to London. Unfortunately, it is late on Sunday night and, the gold and orange countryside is now just a pitch-black canvas sporadically spotted with lights. Despite feeling disappointed not to have witnessed the changing of seasons in my beloved Ontario for the second year in a row, the scenery I was treated to in Oxfordshire, Manchester and Yorkshire more than made up for it this year.
I am sitting on a Tuesday morning train from London Euston to Manchester Piccadilly – a work journey for a three-day conference in my second favourite English city. I am supposed to be finishing up a feature for our December issue but I cannot seem to tear my eyes away from the countryside outside my window. The rolling hills are tarnished a faded green, spotted with the fluffy white bodies of countless sheep. All this standard scenery is visible through the last leaves of autumn, clutching in bright ambers and coppers to their summer branches.
This is not to say that London is not performing in the dramatic colour change as well. It is a very green city and thus has become a very orange, yellow and red city over the past two months. My backyard has a solid carpet of damp fallen leaves and the naked branches above are saluting the coming of winter. But there is something about the vast spaces of the English countryside that is just so much more aesthetic and idealistic.
Two weeks ago I also got an eyeful of the autumnal change as I drove up to Oxfordshire with my cousin Pearl. From the throes of Saturday morning traffic on the M40 I admired the valleys lit up like fire in the sun’s spotlight. We spent a night in Benson at my cousin Mary’s new house, unpacking glassware, putting up curtains, constructing Ikea cabinets and hanging pictures. The open concept kitchen and living space is almost ceiling to floor windows, so the colours outside reflected through the sunlight as we completed our chores. One afternoon I accompanied Mary to the Red House, where she has lived for the past 40 years, and spent some time wandering the gardens for perhaps the last time, breathing in the crisp autumn air and soaking up the millions of colours around me.
It is three days now since I began this entry and I can report that Manchester was colourful too. Staying in Castlefield – where Manchester was born as a Roman city – I got a front row seat to the weaving canals that are autumnally littered with the descended leaves. The burgundeys and gingers that were still clinging bravely to branches were a stark contrast to the metallic bridges and railways that intimate Manchester’s industrial past.
Two days later – and on the third of six trains before I would be back in London – it was clear that, while the countryside of Oxfordshire and the train journey up north to Manchester were colourful canvases of the season, there is nothing to compare to the landscapes of Yorkshire.
I had already gathered evidence of this when I came up north in May. The rainy season had brought with it a descending cloak of mist over the rolling Yorkshire hills, as well as a spring renewal that dyed the green valleys a fluorescent hue. Despite an inability to actually see too far in front of my face, it was picturesque and echoed the wholly romantic visions that I came to love from novels like ‘Wuthering Heights’.
This second journey to Yorkshire – and more specifically, my cousin Clair’s house in the pictorial village of Knaresborough – was thankfully void of rain. (I did enjoy the aftermath of the downpours in May and the clinging mist across the Dales and Moors but dampness in November in Britain means a chill in your bones that you just cannot shake.) It was very cold up north – much colder than I had expected – so the lack of rain was very welcome.
On Sunday we went to the town centre for the annual Remembrance Day ceremony where I was treated to my favourite Knaresborough view, framed with the oranges and crimsons of the season. From the foot of the war memorial and the ruins of Knaresborough Castle you can look out over the River Nidd as it winds along the riverbank and under the picturesque viaduct. The colours of autumn were lit up as a border to this stunning view. There could be no better scene to finish up the weekend up north.
Now I am on the last leg of my journey back to London. Unfortunately, it is late on Sunday night and, the gold and orange countryside is now just a pitch-black canvas sporadically spotted with lights. Despite feeling disappointed not to have witnessed the changing of seasons in my beloved Ontario for the second year in a row, the scenery I was treated to in Oxfordshire, Manchester and Yorkshire more than made up for it this year.
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
Belle Paris
I could probably split this blog up into any number of categories – landmarks, art galleries, food, wine – and spread it out through weekly installments for the next few months. Paris is indisputably the most tourist-visited city in the world and there is a lot to justify this, from the art, the history, the parks and the architecture. Its landmarks – le Tour Eiffel, Notre Dame Cathedral, L’Arc de Triomphe and Basilica Sacre Coeur – are among the most recognizable in the world.
But this is meant to be a blog about London so I will keep to the most important parts of Paris: the espressos, the red wine and the decadent, decadent food.
Some context first: I caught the Eurostar from St. Pancras after work on Thursday 21 October. Two hours later I was at Paris de Nord. The day turned out to be fitting on two fronts. For one, my very first glimpse of Paris was on the very same day in 2004 while backpacking with my sister, and Paul moved to the city on the same day in 2009.
Paul is a friend from Queen’s who made a similar life change to mine last autumn – we both followed our dreams to the Continent. Mine was to be a journalist in London and his was to be a chef in Paris. He has spent the last year working in a Michelin-star restaurant near L’Arc de Triomphe. But, luckily for me, he quit his job recently in anticipation of a move home to Toronto, so I had a well-versed, French-fluent tour guide to take me around.
We spent three days and nights in and around the standard Paris destinations – le Tour Eiffel, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre, Musee L’Orangerie, the Seine, Jardin des Tuilleries, Montmartre and Basilica Sacre Coeur, Musee Dali, L’Ile de la Cite, le Marais and Places des Vosges, Musee Rodin, Jardin Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the Pantheon and the Latin Quarter, and L’Arc de Triomphe.
I have been to Paris before and have also been to most of the above landmarks, parks and galleries. This Paris visit was unique, however, because I got to have Paul take me around to the cobbled streets, cafes, restaurants, and arrondisements that he has come to love over the past year. And introduce me to the best croissants, espresso alongees, wines, and food that I have ever had.
It strikes me that French food is not necessarily any more elaborate or complicated than the food produced by any other nation. So why is it quite rightly the most unbelievable, delicious and mind-blowing cuisine in the world? I think it is because they do simple things very, very well. Every single bite of every single thing I tried was quite literally a life-changing experience. And it was just cheese, bread, wine and meat. I am not exaggerating.
First of all, only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. (That’s an Oscar Wilde quote that he likely coined while he was living in Paris – he now resides eternally in Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, close to Proust and Jim Morrison.) Paul and I avoided this adage each morning, sitting outside with croissants, pain chocolat and pain raisin, along with an espresso noire (for Paul) and espresso alongee (for me).
Breakfast (and this is not in any way a complaint) took the same form every morning. But lunch and dinner came in a variety of delicious entrees and plats, some of the most adventurous meals I have ever eaten. Over three days I ate: escargots, boeuf tartare, bone marrow, confit de canard, baguettes, cheeses, a poached egg in blue cheese (maybe the best thing I have ever put in my mouth), a crepe, a croque madame, and a hot dog wrapped with a baguette and melted cheese.
As much as I like to think I have a way with words, I don’t think I can aptly describe the way I felt in tasting each of these delicacies. I think I murmured “Oh my god” every time I tasted anything which is trite and what I say when words just won’t cut it. But I will do my best to explain how I felt at each of the meals I mentioned, even though I don’t believe I can do the actual experience any justice at all.
Paul took me out on Friday night in Chatelet to a typical French restaurant. For appetizers, I chose (or was coaxed into ordering) 12 snails and Paul had the bone marrow. First of all, I believe that when people describe food as orgasmic they are referring to a glob of bone marrow on a piece of toasted baguette. Seriously, I can’t think of much in life that is better than this. Then there were my escargots, which were challenging to evacuate from their shells – an activity level much like eating lobster – but I surprised myself by thoroughly enjoying their little curled bodies soaked in butter, garlic and parsley. The main course for me was raw beef – boeuf tartare – and it was sublime. Tender like sushi but more fulfilling, if that makes sense. Paul had l’ongler of pig, if I remember correctly, but I think he was jealous of my choice.
So the next day he remedied that at lunch by ordering the tartare himself. I had confit de canard (duck), which was blissful, but neither could compare to the appetizers that we chose. I am still not completely sure what the proper name of it was, but imagine a poached egg settled into a melted pot of blue cheese. Then pierce the egg and, as the yolk mixes with the cheese, scoop it up with pieces of baguette. Again, to quote a very wise man, this is the stuff that dreams are make of. The meal had other elements too – a delicious vin en pot, capped off with an espresso alongee – but I have still been thinking about that poached egg and blue cheese ever since I consumed it.
Other titillating delicacies, and perhaps simpler, were a croque madame and a crepe. A croque madame, compared to a croque monsieur, is a toasted cheese and ham sandwich with a fried egg on top (the monsieur has no egg, so just use the ova to differentiate). Simple but delicious. The crepe was something I was on the lookout for all weekend and finally discovered outside Gare de Nord while waiting for my train home. I had cheese and egg. Again, so simple yet so unbelievable mind-blowing. The taste carried me all the way back to London.
Paul also took me to the marche at La Motte Piquette Grenelle on Sunday morning, where every cheese, bread, fruit, vegetable, seafood and meat you can imagine stretches the length of two metro stops. As you might have seen in my Facebook photos, I captured the early lives of figs, artichokes, oranges, cow tongues, mussels, baguettes, croissants, cheeses of all kinds, chickens, tomatoes and fish. While Borough Market by London Bridge in London is a much more posh Sunday food market, this Parisian marche was more fluid and simple and real.
I hope that everything above does some justice to how I feel about my trip to Paris. If you know me, you know it is not hard to please me – especially when it comes to food and wine. And the food and wine and history and art and experiences that I consumed during my three days in Paris have been both simple and complex. I can still taste the bone marrow, the escargots, the tartare and the poached egg in blue cheese. I do love London, don’t get me wrong, but I came back thinking that if I could write in French I would be in Paris.
But this is meant to be a blog about London so I will keep to the most important parts of Paris: the espressos, the red wine and the decadent, decadent food.
Some context first: I caught the Eurostar from St. Pancras after work on Thursday 21 October. Two hours later I was at Paris de Nord. The day turned out to be fitting on two fronts. For one, my very first glimpse of Paris was on the very same day in 2004 while backpacking with my sister, and Paul moved to the city on the same day in 2009.
Paul is a friend from Queen’s who made a similar life change to mine last autumn – we both followed our dreams to the Continent. Mine was to be a journalist in London and his was to be a chef in Paris. He has spent the last year working in a Michelin-star restaurant near L’Arc de Triomphe. But, luckily for me, he quit his job recently in anticipation of a move home to Toronto, so I had a well-versed, French-fluent tour guide to take me around.
We spent three days and nights in and around the standard Paris destinations – le Tour Eiffel, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre, Musee L’Orangerie, the Seine, Jardin des Tuilleries, Montmartre and Basilica Sacre Coeur, Musee Dali, L’Ile de la Cite, le Marais and Places des Vosges, Musee Rodin, Jardin Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the Pantheon and the Latin Quarter, and L’Arc de Triomphe.
I have been to Paris before and have also been to most of the above landmarks, parks and galleries. This Paris visit was unique, however, because I got to have Paul take me around to the cobbled streets, cafes, restaurants, and arrondisements that he has come to love over the past year. And introduce me to the best croissants, espresso alongees, wines, and food that I have ever had.
It strikes me that French food is not necessarily any more elaborate or complicated than the food produced by any other nation. So why is it quite rightly the most unbelievable, delicious and mind-blowing cuisine in the world? I think it is because they do simple things very, very well. Every single bite of every single thing I tried was quite literally a life-changing experience. And it was just cheese, bread, wine and meat. I am not exaggerating.
First of all, only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. (That’s an Oscar Wilde quote that he likely coined while he was living in Paris – he now resides eternally in Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, close to Proust and Jim Morrison.) Paul and I avoided this adage each morning, sitting outside with croissants, pain chocolat and pain raisin, along with an espresso noire (for Paul) and espresso alongee (for me).
Breakfast (and this is not in any way a complaint) took the same form every morning. But lunch and dinner came in a variety of delicious entrees and plats, some of the most adventurous meals I have ever eaten. Over three days I ate: escargots, boeuf tartare, bone marrow, confit de canard, baguettes, cheeses, a poached egg in blue cheese (maybe the best thing I have ever put in my mouth), a crepe, a croque madame, and a hot dog wrapped with a baguette and melted cheese.
As much as I like to think I have a way with words, I don’t think I can aptly describe the way I felt in tasting each of these delicacies. I think I murmured “Oh my god” every time I tasted anything which is trite and what I say when words just won’t cut it. But I will do my best to explain how I felt at each of the meals I mentioned, even though I don’t believe I can do the actual experience any justice at all.
Paul took me out on Friday night in Chatelet to a typical French restaurant. For appetizers, I chose (or was coaxed into ordering) 12 snails and Paul had the bone marrow. First of all, I believe that when people describe food as orgasmic they are referring to a glob of bone marrow on a piece of toasted baguette. Seriously, I can’t think of much in life that is better than this. Then there were my escargots, which were challenging to evacuate from their shells – an activity level much like eating lobster – but I surprised myself by thoroughly enjoying their little curled bodies soaked in butter, garlic and parsley. The main course for me was raw beef – boeuf tartare – and it was sublime. Tender like sushi but more fulfilling, if that makes sense. Paul had l’ongler of pig, if I remember correctly, but I think he was jealous of my choice.
So the next day he remedied that at lunch by ordering the tartare himself. I had confit de canard (duck), which was blissful, but neither could compare to the appetizers that we chose. I am still not completely sure what the proper name of it was, but imagine a poached egg settled into a melted pot of blue cheese. Then pierce the egg and, as the yolk mixes with the cheese, scoop it up with pieces of baguette. Again, to quote a very wise man, this is the stuff that dreams are make of. The meal had other elements too – a delicious vin en pot, capped off with an espresso alongee – but I have still been thinking about that poached egg and blue cheese ever since I consumed it.
Other titillating delicacies, and perhaps simpler, were a croque madame and a crepe. A croque madame, compared to a croque monsieur, is a toasted cheese and ham sandwich with a fried egg on top (the monsieur has no egg, so just use the ova to differentiate). Simple but delicious. The crepe was something I was on the lookout for all weekend and finally discovered outside Gare de Nord while waiting for my train home. I had cheese and egg. Again, so simple yet so unbelievable mind-blowing. The taste carried me all the way back to London.
Paul also took me to the marche at La Motte Piquette Grenelle on Sunday morning, where every cheese, bread, fruit, vegetable, seafood and meat you can imagine stretches the length of two metro stops. As you might have seen in my Facebook photos, I captured the early lives of figs, artichokes, oranges, cow tongues, mussels, baguettes, croissants, cheeses of all kinds, chickens, tomatoes and fish. While Borough Market by London Bridge in London is a much more posh Sunday food market, this Parisian marche was more fluid and simple and real.
I hope that everything above does some justice to how I feel about my trip to Paris. If you know me, you know it is not hard to please me – especially when it comes to food and wine. And the food and wine and history and art and experiences that I consumed during my three days in Paris have been both simple and complex. I can still taste the bone marrow, the escargots, the tartare and the poached egg in blue cheese. I do love London, don’t get me wrong, but I came back thinking that if I could write in French I would be in Paris.
Sunday, 17 October 2010
Work Perks
I apologize for the large gap since my last blog entry. Summer ended rather insistently, swinging into a very hectic September, and it has been non-stop ever since. Besides all sorts of fun activities outside the office – markets, a rugby game, high tea, a day at the amusement park, a housewarming party at the new flat and decadent dinners out – I have also got to take advantage of some amazing work-related London experiences as well.
Though it wasn’t the hat-donning Royal Ascot, I spent my first day at the races – and confirmed my suspicion that I could easily slip into a serious gambling addiction. It was race day at Ascot and I got to join my editor Debi and my deputy editor Debbie in a box. We were hosted by NorthingateArinso, an HR services provider, for a day of free-flowing wine, a lovely country lunch, and seven races. I was shown the ropes on the first race, where I put £5 each way on a horse named Tazahum. The “each way” bet means your horse can either win or place and you still make your money back and then some. Tazahum came in a respectable second place and, as the bookie counted back my bet and change, I was hooked.
After this promising start I stuck with conservative betting, placing £2 each way on two horses per race. In the 2nd, 4th and 7th races I randomly picked the winners – Electric Waves, Vulcanite and Humidor. I just liked their names. In all but one other race I picked the second place winners, and finished the day £35 richer than when I started. On a gambling and wine-fueled high, I cruised into my Saturday night.
During this past week I was treated to a couple of other work events that also served as spectacular London experiences. On Wednesday, health insurer Aviva hosted a spa morning at the Park Lane InterContinental Hotel. Along with a few other female journalists I spent the morning getting pampered with a manicure, a 30-minute back massage and a refreshing steam that ended with a tropical shower. The absolutely blissful morning ended with canapés and champagne, before I returned to the office to chase my deadlines.
The next evening I attended a party hosted by New Look Business Solutions, as they were pushing their new motivation and incentive vouchers. We congregated at their offices for a presentation, some autumn/winter clothes browsing, along with some snacks and drinks. Then we were all given £50 New Look vouchers, herded onto buses and dropped off at one of their flagship stores to shop to our hearts’ content. Back on the buses with new sweaters, boots, tights and handbags, we were told that we were being taken to a spectacular venue for dinner and drinks. Driving through the City, I was convinced we were en route to the Gherkin, but then the bus pulled up to the north side of Tower Bridge and we disembarked.
Next thing I knew we were packed into the lift of the Tower Bridge’s exhibition and soon soaring above the Thames in the high-level walkways. On the west walkway we enjoyed champagne and canapés, and then we were split into teams for the corporate games. On the east walkway we played a rifle range game, mini-putt, Wii tennis, foosball, car racing and horse racing. All the while we sipped champagne and gazed out across the stunning lit-up city as it borders the Thames.
So, yes, it was a really good week. All amazing experiences to add to all the other reasons that I love my job. In November, I will be heading up north to Manchester to cover the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development (CIPD) conference. Since we will be profiling the Manchester City Football Club in our December issue, I am also getting a free ticket to a Manchester United versus Manchester City match. Not too bad for my first-ever football game. I can hardly wait. But first I am back in the office tomorrow morning for news week as we chase news stories and wrap up the November issue.
Though it wasn’t the hat-donning Royal Ascot, I spent my first day at the races – and confirmed my suspicion that I could easily slip into a serious gambling addiction. It was race day at Ascot and I got to join my editor Debi and my deputy editor Debbie in a box. We were hosted by NorthingateArinso, an HR services provider, for a day of free-flowing wine, a lovely country lunch, and seven races. I was shown the ropes on the first race, where I put £5 each way on a horse named Tazahum. The “each way” bet means your horse can either win or place and you still make your money back and then some. Tazahum came in a respectable second place and, as the bookie counted back my bet and change, I was hooked.
After this promising start I stuck with conservative betting, placing £2 each way on two horses per race. In the 2nd, 4th and 7th races I randomly picked the winners – Electric Waves, Vulcanite and Humidor. I just liked their names. In all but one other race I picked the second place winners, and finished the day £35 richer than when I started. On a gambling and wine-fueled high, I cruised into my Saturday night.
During this past week I was treated to a couple of other work events that also served as spectacular London experiences. On Wednesday, health insurer Aviva hosted a spa morning at the Park Lane InterContinental Hotel. Along with a few other female journalists I spent the morning getting pampered with a manicure, a 30-minute back massage and a refreshing steam that ended with a tropical shower. The absolutely blissful morning ended with canapés and champagne, before I returned to the office to chase my deadlines.
The next evening I attended a party hosted by New Look Business Solutions, as they were pushing their new motivation and incentive vouchers. We congregated at their offices for a presentation, some autumn/winter clothes browsing, along with some snacks and drinks. Then we were all given £50 New Look vouchers, herded onto buses and dropped off at one of their flagship stores to shop to our hearts’ content. Back on the buses with new sweaters, boots, tights and handbags, we were told that we were being taken to a spectacular venue for dinner and drinks. Driving through the City, I was convinced we were en route to the Gherkin, but then the bus pulled up to the north side of Tower Bridge and we disembarked.
Next thing I knew we were packed into the lift of the Tower Bridge’s exhibition and soon soaring above the Thames in the high-level walkways. On the west walkway we enjoyed champagne and canapés, and then we were split into teams for the corporate games. On the east walkway we played a rifle range game, mini-putt, Wii tennis, foosball, car racing and horse racing. All the while we sipped champagne and gazed out across the stunning lit-up city as it borders the Thames.
So, yes, it was a really good week. All amazing experiences to add to all the other reasons that I love my job. In November, I will be heading up north to Manchester to cover the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development (CIPD) conference. Since we will be profiling the Manchester City Football Club in our December issue, I am also getting a free ticket to a Manchester United versus Manchester City match. Not too bad for my first-ever football game. I can hardly wait. But first I am back in the office tomorrow morning for news week as we chase news stories and wrap up the November issue.
Friday, 3 September 2010
Moving House
That is what they say over here – I’m moving house. I moved house this past weekend. The year-long tenancy agreement at 15A Ecclesbourne was coming up for either renewal or abandon, my flatmates Justin and Arthur had finished school and were moving on, so I decided to do the same. I was notified of all this rather late in the game so early August turned into a stressful scramble for accommodations.
Luckily for me, a fellow expat friend was also in the market for a new flat. Lauren’s rent was getting a severe bump come 1 September so we decided to live together. The prospect was exciting for me, since I had not lived with a girlfriend since the glory days of the Jenn/Leslie arrangement at Queen’s six years ago. As comfortable as my house was at 15A Ecclesbourne with the young lads, the chance to live with a great friend – and my surrogate twin in London at that – was an opportunity I could not pass up. The timing was perfect so we shook on it.
The London flat search, as I probably mentioned back when I moved here last year, is a tricky game. The market is dominated by the estate agent, a two-faced specimen who up-sells and racks in a truly obscene deposit that they have no intention of ever returning to you. But this is the game and you have to play it, so Lauren and I signed up with as many as we could along our high street and then started the flat visits.
Lauren took the brunt of this activity while I was up in Scotland but on my return we took it on full steam together with some viewings around Islington with the granddaddy of all estate agents, Foxtons. The three flats we saw were staggeringly disparate, the first a dump with stained walls and dirty carpets, the second a gorgeous family house with a backyard to die for, and the third a typical fourth-storey flat down Essex Road. When we learned that Foxtons takes a £350 admin fee we quickly decided none of these places were for us, despite the charming Leo who took us around in his mini coop.
Mid-week, midway through the month, Lauren had an appointment to see a flat that sounded too good to be true. It was a day-viewing because the place had just come on the market. Lauren arranged to work from home so she could be the first to see it and I waited by my mobile in anticipation as lunchtime neared. Basically, upon walking through the door, she knew this was it. She texted that it was amazing and was heading back to the estate agents to put in an offer. By 3pm the flat was ours.
Though our estate agents have already not been the easiest to deal with – the tenancy agreement has been printed off and signed four times now – we are happily ensconced in our new home. It is a truly adorable and large basement flat in a Georgian house right off Upper Street. We are both still in our beloved Angel neighbourhood, on our familiar tube and bus routes. We have large bedrooms, an expansive living and kitchen space, and a private backyard that, according to Dani, you could play a game of rounders in.
Within walking distance are the range of bars and restaurants along Upper Street, and we have already formed a first-name friendship with the landlord at our local, The Florence. Last night the adorable Ian brought us free wine and regaled us with stories of the band he plays bass for (we may or may not be going to their gig in a couple of weeks) and the organisation he is involved with that brings rugby to children in Africa.
If this set-up sounds too good to be true, you are probably right. I have been waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop. But so far it has been smooth sailing – besides the difficulty with the contract and the fact that, when the tenants above us are doing laundry, it sounds like a helicopter is taking off from the roof. There is also an abnormally sized cat that believes it owns the backyard but these are small sacrifices for a great roomie, amazing bed, outdoor space and a cozy local pub. I do hope this is the last time I have to move house for a while.
Luckily for me, a fellow expat friend was also in the market for a new flat. Lauren’s rent was getting a severe bump come 1 September so we decided to live together. The prospect was exciting for me, since I had not lived with a girlfriend since the glory days of the Jenn/Leslie arrangement at Queen’s six years ago. As comfortable as my house was at 15A Ecclesbourne with the young lads, the chance to live with a great friend – and my surrogate twin in London at that – was an opportunity I could not pass up. The timing was perfect so we shook on it.
The London flat search, as I probably mentioned back when I moved here last year, is a tricky game. The market is dominated by the estate agent, a two-faced specimen who up-sells and racks in a truly obscene deposit that they have no intention of ever returning to you. But this is the game and you have to play it, so Lauren and I signed up with as many as we could along our high street and then started the flat visits.
Lauren took the brunt of this activity while I was up in Scotland but on my return we took it on full steam together with some viewings around Islington with the granddaddy of all estate agents, Foxtons. The three flats we saw were staggeringly disparate, the first a dump with stained walls and dirty carpets, the second a gorgeous family house with a backyard to die for, and the third a typical fourth-storey flat down Essex Road. When we learned that Foxtons takes a £350 admin fee we quickly decided none of these places were for us, despite the charming Leo who took us around in his mini coop.
Mid-week, midway through the month, Lauren had an appointment to see a flat that sounded too good to be true. It was a day-viewing because the place had just come on the market. Lauren arranged to work from home so she could be the first to see it and I waited by my mobile in anticipation as lunchtime neared. Basically, upon walking through the door, she knew this was it. She texted that it was amazing and was heading back to the estate agents to put in an offer. By 3pm the flat was ours.
Though our estate agents have already not been the easiest to deal with – the tenancy agreement has been printed off and signed four times now – we are happily ensconced in our new home. It is a truly adorable and large basement flat in a Georgian house right off Upper Street. We are both still in our beloved Angel neighbourhood, on our familiar tube and bus routes. We have large bedrooms, an expansive living and kitchen space, and a private backyard that, according to Dani, you could play a game of rounders in.
Within walking distance are the range of bars and restaurants along Upper Street, and we have already formed a first-name friendship with the landlord at our local, The Florence. Last night the adorable Ian brought us free wine and regaled us with stories of the band he plays bass for (we may or may not be going to their gig in a couple of weeks) and the organisation he is involved with that brings rugby to children in Africa.
If this set-up sounds too good to be true, you are probably right. I have been waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop. But so far it has been smooth sailing – besides the difficulty with the contract and the fact that, when the tenants above us are doing laundry, it sounds like a helicopter is taking off from the roof. There is also an abnormally sized cat that believes it owns the backyard but these are small sacrifices for a great roomie, amazing bed, outdoor space and a cozy local pub. I do hope this is the last time I have to move house for a while.
Monday, 16 August 2010
The Isle of Tiree
I’m sure my Dad won’t mind me sharing an excerpt from an email he sent me while I was traveling around Europe in 2004. My Dad is a very talented writer, especially when conjuring up memories and transferring them onto paper. While my sister and I were traveling those six months through various destinations, we received emails from him that chronicled his first impressions, in 1972, of the places we were about to visit, whether it was communist Czechoslovakia, ancient Greece or beerhaus-ed Germany.
As we were approaching Scotland, he sent us an email that included some of what you will read below. It begins on a train from London’s Paddington station to Glasgow, where he was obeying his grandmother and getting in touch with Scottish relatives he had never met before.
“… The train was old and the compartments were wooden enclosures with sliding doors. We were fortunate to have one all to ourselves which allowed us to sleep on the bench seats. At dawn I awoke to the sound and rhythmic shaking of the train and gazed out the window. Gone was the flat English countryside with the old dingy brick buildings. Before me the upland hills filled the window, steep and lined with stone fences. I could not see the sky. I had to get close to the window to look up to see the tops of it. I felt that I had been transported into another world.
We were met in Glasgow by Uncle John Brown [Pearl and Mary’s father] who insisted that, the first thing the next day, we accompany him to some place called Tiree to close down their cottage. Connie [Pearl and Mary’s mother] had gone to Ottawa to visit grandmother so we were bachelor-ing it. He claimed he needed 'hunger-as-hunter' young men to eat the food there. He flew us both over and I assumed that, since it was the Highlands and Isles and that the flight was short, it was relatively inexpensive. Later, I found out quite the opposite. I had just encountered John's brand of Highland hospitality.
My first encounter with Uncle John in Tiree 'clashing-the-pan’ opened up a new world, and vocabulary, for me. Not just Scotland but his Scotland. He would talk about the past, his past, and what it was like. Both the information and context one cannot get from history books. I learned to better appreciate oral history - history that must be told by the people who lived it and that will die with them. I found out about my family, including my grandfather, someone who I never knew except through my grandmother. From John, and later Aunt Pearl, he became more alive to me; my grandmother made him seem god-like …
… I gazed down at the clouds over the Atlantic realizing that despite all the wonderful and wondrous experiences, it was the contact with the older Scottish relatives that was the most important to me. This surprised me because, at the onset of the trip, visiting them was a mild inconvenience to satisfy my grandmother. At the end, it was one of the highlights resulting in life-long relationships.”
The way that my Dad describes learning about his grandfather is exactly how I feel when Pearl talks about my great-grandmother Bessie. She died when I was still quite young, though I do remember her. But when I hear about various episodes from her visits back to her homeland over the years, I feel like I am getting to know her a little bit better. And that amazing Highland hospitality has been passed down through the generations as well.
I’m jealous that my Dad’s very first impressions of Scotland and Tiree were at the age of 22, when he could remember it, appreciate it and eloquently describe it. I don’t really have that first memory, since I was 16 months old when I first visited. From my visit as a four-year-old, I do remember John and Connie, and that familiar Tiree scent that combines heather, the sea, sheep shit and burning peat. Strangely, it still moves me every time. Until you have smelt it yourself, you can’t imagine the unique and blissful flavour of Tiree. I also remember Lochan Ban, as the cottage is known, though it has seen many renovations in the last 14 years since my last visit.
So Lyl and I embarked from Oban on a four-hour ferry ride through the straight between the Isle of Mull and the mainland, joining rain and bumpy waters as we dropped passengers off at the small (population 65) island of Coll before docking in Scarinish, the port town of Tiree (population 700). Four (Pearl, Molly, Colin and Naomi) family members greeted us at the rainy dock, while 21 more (from London, Oxfordshire, Manchester, Yorkshire and even Norway) were back at the cottage, preparing a curry feast and a proper Scottish ceilidh (kay-lee).
We would all be living between three cottages for the next few days, a somewhat regular family reunion that Lyl and I were able to be a part of this year. While Tiree maintains the Scottish tradition of offering up a lot of rain, it is also known as the sunniest spot in the UK because of vast beaches all along its perimeter and westerly-facing views out to the sea. Also known for its windiness – it hosts surfers, kite-sailors, kite-boarders and even an international wind-surfing competition every year – the gusts can mean that the weather can change dramatically in a manner of minutes.
During our three days there we saw it all: downpours, clear blue skies, gusting winds and t-shirt weather. We spent our days hiking up Ben Hough, accompanying the kids to the beach for boogie-boarding, learning how to kite, painting finger and toenails, reading in the sunroom, drinking pints of Tennants and drams of whiskey, and spending the evenings with a family ceilidh band that had a changing cast of talented musicians.
It was a truly memorable visit, one that I could appreciate that much more because of both my previous summers here and because I am at an age now that contributes to experiencing family and places from my own perspective. I did yearn to have my parents there with me, because I know how much Tiree means to them as well, but it was enlightening to familiarize myself with the Isle with as few preconceived versions of visits to draw from.
I am grateful that the family let us gate-crash for those three days and allowed us to be a part of the reunion, sampling that Highland hospitality that my Dad described in his letters. I hope this is not the only Tiree visit I fit in while I’m living in the UK. Back in the city and back at work already more than a week, I am still craving that heathered, sea-strong Tiree scent.
As we were approaching Scotland, he sent us an email that included some of what you will read below. It begins on a train from London’s Paddington station to Glasgow, where he was obeying his grandmother and getting in touch with Scottish relatives he had never met before.
“… The train was old and the compartments were wooden enclosures with sliding doors. We were fortunate to have one all to ourselves which allowed us to sleep on the bench seats. At dawn I awoke to the sound and rhythmic shaking of the train and gazed out the window. Gone was the flat English countryside with the old dingy brick buildings. Before me the upland hills filled the window, steep and lined with stone fences. I could not see the sky. I had to get close to the window to look up to see the tops of it. I felt that I had been transported into another world.
We were met in Glasgow by Uncle John Brown [Pearl and Mary’s father] who insisted that, the first thing the next day, we accompany him to some place called Tiree to close down their cottage. Connie [Pearl and Mary’s mother] had gone to Ottawa to visit grandmother so we were bachelor-ing it. He claimed he needed 'hunger-as-hunter' young men to eat the food there. He flew us both over and I assumed that, since it was the Highlands and Isles and that the flight was short, it was relatively inexpensive. Later, I found out quite the opposite. I had just encountered John's brand of Highland hospitality.
My first encounter with Uncle John in Tiree 'clashing-the-pan’ opened up a new world, and vocabulary, for me. Not just Scotland but his Scotland. He would talk about the past, his past, and what it was like. Both the information and context one cannot get from history books. I learned to better appreciate oral history - history that must be told by the people who lived it and that will die with them. I found out about my family, including my grandfather, someone who I never knew except through my grandmother. From John, and later Aunt Pearl, he became more alive to me; my grandmother made him seem god-like …
… I gazed down at the clouds over the Atlantic realizing that despite all the wonderful and wondrous experiences, it was the contact with the older Scottish relatives that was the most important to me. This surprised me because, at the onset of the trip, visiting them was a mild inconvenience to satisfy my grandmother. At the end, it was one of the highlights resulting in life-long relationships.”
The way that my Dad describes learning about his grandfather is exactly how I feel when Pearl talks about my great-grandmother Bessie. She died when I was still quite young, though I do remember her. But when I hear about various episodes from her visits back to her homeland over the years, I feel like I am getting to know her a little bit better. And that amazing Highland hospitality has been passed down through the generations as well.
I’m jealous that my Dad’s very first impressions of Scotland and Tiree were at the age of 22, when he could remember it, appreciate it and eloquently describe it. I don’t really have that first memory, since I was 16 months old when I first visited. From my visit as a four-year-old, I do remember John and Connie, and that familiar Tiree scent that combines heather, the sea, sheep shit and burning peat. Strangely, it still moves me every time. Until you have smelt it yourself, you can’t imagine the unique and blissful flavour of Tiree. I also remember Lochan Ban, as the cottage is known, though it has seen many renovations in the last 14 years since my last visit.
So Lyl and I embarked from Oban on a four-hour ferry ride through the straight between the Isle of Mull and the mainland, joining rain and bumpy waters as we dropped passengers off at the small (population 65) island of Coll before docking in Scarinish, the port town of Tiree (population 700). Four (Pearl, Molly, Colin and Naomi) family members greeted us at the rainy dock, while 21 more (from London, Oxfordshire, Manchester, Yorkshire and even Norway) were back at the cottage, preparing a curry feast and a proper Scottish ceilidh (kay-lee).
We would all be living between three cottages for the next few days, a somewhat regular family reunion that Lyl and I were able to be a part of this year. While Tiree maintains the Scottish tradition of offering up a lot of rain, it is also known as the sunniest spot in the UK because of vast beaches all along its perimeter and westerly-facing views out to the sea. Also known for its windiness – it hosts surfers, kite-sailors, kite-boarders and even an international wind-surfing competition every year – the gusts can mean that the weather can change dramatically in a manner of minutes.
During our three days there we saw it all: downpours, clear blue skies, gusting winds and t-shirt weather. We spent our days hiking up Ben Hough, accompanying the kids to the beach for boogie-boarding, learning how to kite, painting finger and toenails, reading in the sunroom, drinking pints of Tennants and drams of whiskey, and spending the evenings with a family ceilidh band that had a changing cast of talented musicians.
It was a truly memorable visit, one that I could appreciate that much more because of both my previous summers here and because I am at an age now that contributes to experiencing family and places from my own perspective. I did yearn to have my parents there with me, because I know how much Tiree means to them as well, but it was enlightening to familiarize myself with the Isle with as few preconceived versions of visits to draw from.
I am grateful that the family let us gate-crash for those three days and allowed us to be a part of the reunion, sampling that Highland hospitality that my Dad described in his letters. I hope this is not the only Tiree visit I fit in while I’m living in the UK. Back in the city and back at work already more than a week, I am still craving that heathered, sea-strong Tiree scent.
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