FRIDAY 13TH

Boris won.  It was like coercive control, a narcissist at his best, watching him talking about 'now we must now heal the country', when he was instrumental in inflaming the divisions in the first place.  He will control the money, the freedom, the communication. It will all be manipulative lies, under the guise of the greater good.  The divisions were always there but he's made them bigger, nastier, more insidious and divisive, and all under a subtext of working to the people's mandate, so that when it all goes horribly wrong, he points back at the people and says 'well this is what you asked for', like a bullying husband who turns round to his bruised wife and says 'well you married me'.

MR BLUE SKIES. RICHARD LINDLEY

I attended the funeral of Richard Lindley MBE today.  I didn't know him very well, but I have known his wife Carole Stone for eighteen years, and any man who has the unconditional devoted love of someone like Carole must be special.  Richard was a journalist and reporter of the highest order.   A rare thing, those who spoke in St Martins in the Field, spoke of his gentleness, his integrity and his professionalism. He often had the chance to scoop a story, an image, but when he realised he was crossing a moral line, he stopped.  There were many stories from ex colleagues who revealed what a man he was.

The Reverent Dr Sam Wells, gave a careful, considered, powerful sermon on how journalism was an 'ism', a seeker of truth.  And that Richard was a seeker of truth, so rare these days, Dr Wells said, that he would be considered a prophet.  Journalism, he said, no longer existed.  It was merely marketing, puppetry at the hands of those who had the biggest off shore bank balance.  The journalists knew their strings were being pulled, just these days they didn't know by whom. Dr Wells quoted Aristotle who was always seeking truth, but that was in the time when religion wanted to prove the heretics wrong.  Not unlike politics really. And proof is frozen perception. And truth is one's own truth. Although as he pointed out, many in power have no idea what 'truth' is any more.   When that happens, the only thing for people to do is trust their gut instinct ignore the lies told by the politicians and media to realise the political system is broken as it continues to allow these people to rise to the top.  Not just in this profession but in everyone.  Rare is it that the cream rises to the top. It is 9/10 the shit.

Plato and Socrates weren't much better, categorising and arguing, making life about criticising and putting people into boxes, much as media has become today, and every establishment really. No room for compassion, compromise and certainly not something as progressive as unconditional love.

Michael Palin spoke eloquently of Richard being a marvellous neighbour and adding glamour to an area of London which had recently only just lost Lindsay de Paul.  And Roger Bolton, of ITN and This Week, spoke of Richard as a serious journalist who was always polite, but when he met Carole, he changed as a man. While his motto was always to ask the question 'why' (a favourite question of mine, although rarely gets asked and even rarer gets an answer), Carole was always 'why not'.

Carole read a letter which Richard had written to her on their wedding day, and put it in a sealed envelope, asking her to open it when he died.   She read it, through tears and everyone, hardened journalists and editors, broadcasters and writers, were sobbing. It was a love letter from the grave of someone who learnt to love by someone who knew how to love.  And Carole Stone knows how to love.To give. To be generous. Richard knew what good look liked when he saw it, and he kept to his word, as he wrote in the letter, 'I will always love you till the day I die. And beyond. For real love transcends death.'    And I knew he was there in that church.   As I walked to Trafalgar Square filled with Christmas markets selling rubbish, the National Gallery looking classic and classy, the bells of St Martins peeled out like a. wedding day service, and the sky shone bright blue on a day that was supposed to be grey and rain.   Richard had the bluest of eyes and I would tell he was looking down on us, and reminding us of the power of unconditional love.

ERUPTION IN New Zealand

I watched the news as most probably did and saw a real piece of news (as opposed to manufactured/fake/slanted/celeb/political) about the eruption of the volcano on White Island, a 'private' island off New Zealand.  It is dreadful and my heart goes out to those who have lost their loved ones, and those who are in hospital.

As it is a 'private' island my first question is, do the owners of the island get paid?  Who owns or wants to own an island with a live volcano on it?  Sounds a bit James Bond.  Were the tourists asked to sign away their lives before going on the trip, and who did the research into potential eruptions?  I remember walking around a live volcano in Ecuador as part of a tour with Explore.  There was a group of teenagers and their parents, in search of something that would make fourteen year olds go 'wow' and for an hour or so move away from the black mirror of their iPhones.  It worked.
So I understand the fascination of looking into the abyss of a live volcano.   The one I walked up and around didn't look harmless. It looked verdant with life and the birdlife are some of the most colourful and exotic in the world.  I remember at school learning about volcanoes in humanities, and getting top marks for learning by rote the different aspects of volcanoes, why they exist, and their history and our connection to them.  I was fascinated by the prehistoric nature of them, imagining dinosaurs emerging from their depths. When I went with my teenage son I realise as he looked, he was imagining the same.
I visited Naples a couple of years ago and am always amazed despite knowing Vesuvius is very much still bubbling under, why the Italians continue to build in the same stream of lava which destroyed in a blink, Pompeii.  Tourists are still able to walk amongst the streets, and see how the devastation was so quick, it left the shadows.  And yet the tourists still walk there in their droves each year, even in the searing heat of the midday sun in the summer.   We are an odd species, self sabotaging at every opportunity.  
Some of my yogi colleagues tell me the eruption is the earth telling us once more we need to treat our planet with more passion and compassion.  And that it is merely a reflection of how we are treating each other (which at the moment, is not very well).  Perception is all we have, and so many now project onto others perception which isn't accurate.  Proof is considered 'truth', but proof is merely frozen perception. Even scientific evidence, which is claimed as the ultimate frozen perception, is fragile - it is broken when the next scientific evidence comes along to disprove it. Replacing it with yet another frozen perception.

Sometimes it needs seismic activity to realise what is important.  And actually, what is important isn't very much. It is our health and those we love unconditionally. That's it.  If we have our health we are able to use our senses, and if we love unconditionally we are able to appreciate and be grateful for those senses.

LICENSED TO CHILL IN ESTORIL

Lisbon light has long been rated as something special. Allegedly a combination of refraction from the sea, the lack of pollution and the warm climate, as soon as you leave the airport, situated in the centre of the city, you will need the sunglasses.  Even on a grey late October day, as it was when I arrived, the light was crisp and clear as if gazing into an iceberg.  This brightness lifts the spirits, and combined with the positive ions from the sea, the friendly culture of the locals, it’s an ideal place for a retreat. Which is just as well, because half an hour’s drive along the coast is Palacio Estoril and wellness spa.

Fifty years ago the hotel, which was built in the 1930s, was well established amongst a select few, but then Bond, James Bond arrived, bringing with it a Hollywood spotlight of its own. In the Second World War, as Portugal was neutral, European Royals made it their home along with German and English spies who allegedly drank Vodka Martinis shaken not stirred in the bar.   I never rated George Lazenby as a Bond, but I really liked the film, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1968) in which he featured as the brief hiccup between Connery and Moore.   The first image which emerges after the opening credits of the film, is Palace Estoril; a five star, old style grand hotel, veined with symmetrical well-lit corridors, the elegant walls lined with photographs of famous guests (Princess Grace, Queen Elizabeth, Tony Blair, Diana Rigg and George..), mirrored and marble cocktail bar with muted velvet lighting and vault like ceilings with large buffet tables where breakfast is served without background music and fuss.  I admit, in design if not in energy, there is a touch of The Shining about it. The same doorman, Filippo, in grey gold braided tail-coat and peaked cap, still stands at the doors to greet guests as he did Bond, and is proud he appeared in the film and had a small speaking part (no credit, no payment, he tells me).    

The Palacio is situated five minutes (I timed it) walk from the beach, the train station and bus station into Lisbon, and three-minutes-drive from the prestigious Estoril golf course (I always noted a lot of men and women in red trousers in the early hours hovering at the door).  It is easy to walk on the sand beach or on the long esplanade where cyclists and runners stroll down to nearby Cascais.

Although one hotel, part of it was built later – the fifth floor and the style, design and energy of this floor is completely different to the lower floors, which although built earlier, appear more modern.  The fifth floor with the best views, of the coast, nearby gardens and casino, is darker and more formal.  By the pool there are split level rooms which are again totally different, looking out directly over the water and gardens.   It seems three hotels in one.  

When I researched my book HAVE TODDLER WILL TRAVEL (Hodder), I identified Portugal as being the top destination for families, and its still the case regardless of whether you have a child in tow or not.  They are a very friendly, giving, people pleasing, gracious, and kind nation, qualities which other neighbouring nations would do well to emulate (including our own).  Service is not treated as servile, it is an honour to serve. 

So in this bubble of light, graciousness and positive ions, it is an ideal location for a wellness retreat.   

Adjacent to the hotel is the Estoril wellness spa.  Taking up the top three floors of the building, the bottom two host the Banyan Tree spa, associated more with the Far East destinations of Thailand and Malaysia where it originated. There is a symbiosis between the two cultures, - Portuguese and Thai, as both have service innate to their culture and it shows.   

This year the centre won a prestigious Conde Nast Award for ‘targeted healing’, which appears rather obtuse until you look at the range of treatments on offer both at the Banyan and wellness centre.   You can visit on a yoga, detox, anti-ageing or more specifically medical spa package.   I admit, I have always been cautious of those spas offering ‘medical support’ having experienced some Northern European ideas of spa, and found them as clinical as disinfectant.  

This centre is different, largely due to the team of therapists and their skill in explaining the relevance and benefit of each therapy.  

There’s the conventional treatments.  The scrubs, full, back, and deep tissue massages offered by the Banyan Tree, with therapists from Thailand who push all the right points to de-stress you as soon as you enter the room.  The therapists are excellent.  

Move up to the wellness centre and there’s the water treatments. They don’t use the sea like they do in Southern France thalassotherapy centres, but use the local spring waters which are full of minerals and salt.  Here you can sample the thermal baths, with the steam rooms, sauna and hamman, or try out the hydrotherapy pool, either in a group class, with Aqua T’Ai Chi or with the therapist Paulo, who specialises is Watsu – which is shiatsu under water.   It is like going back to the womb, or outer space.  Which is the same difference really.  I would highly recommend it for people who are under pressure, stressed and have issues with letting go.   There is an element of trust, as you allow Paulo to lead you but the experienced has calmed even the most on edge CEO.  There are also various water baths and massages.  After you experience the Vichy Shower Massage you won’t want a conventional ‘dry land’ one after it.   Streamed with warm jets of water, you are massaged.  The only experience I could compare this to is if you are massaged by two people at the same time.  

Then there’s the scientific.  The centre analyses your blood, identifying what you are lacking and what you need to avoid anything from varicose veins to dementia.  The magnified images of the red and white blood cells and platelets are fascinating.  I’m going to have my blown up and put on the wall.  It looks like I’ve discovered a whole new universe, which I suppose in a way I have. 

The osteopath and physiotherapist offer that deep insight into the body, mind and emotions which you wish you could have every day, telling you why we need to relax the diaphragm, and the lasting impact being on the mobile too much has on body as well as the self esteem (which are closely connected). 

However it is the biofeedback consultation, which astronauts have before they are permitted to ‘fly’ which is most illuminating.  Bringing together science and the alternative, clients are hooked up to a computer and the vibrations are shown to reveal any physical, mental or emotional conditions which need to be addressed before you blast off into space.   

Up a level again, and you have the pilates, pilates reformer classes, the yoga classes, barre (ballet for sadists – ie ballet without free expression).  And the postural re-education classes, which for someone like me who teaches yoga, I found enlightening.  The class is designed to teach people how to breathe, not just when exercising but in life.  It should be mandatory pre yoga.  

I was pummelled, stretched, twisted, pulled, steamed, balanced, dunked in water, floated like a baby, was told I have issues with betrayal and abandonment, self-belief, apathy and power and that I am dehydrated (I have been dehydrated since I was 18, I should be a prune), I have no cellulite and need more B12.  But on the plus side, I am mentally, emotionally and physically fit, flexible, and fun, which is good to know.   

The organic café on the first floor is excellent. The Feeling Good juice (spinach, avocado, everything green basically, and sesame seed tuna personally recommended, but always try the soups.  The main hotel has a good healthy menu alternative showing if meals are without gluten, dairy or suitable for vegans, but do try out the brunch and lunch options at this wellness café.  The juices are well conceived and both vegetarian and no vege alternatives are not just healthy but genuinely delicious.  

With all that is on offer you may forget to pop outside, but please take a stroll along the promenade.  The sun usually shines in Estoril but even when it doesn’t, it is always warm and that light lifts the spirits. The walk to Cascais and back is the ultimate tonic each day, either to top or tail the treatments.   

I was so chilled after my four days at Palacio Estoril, I was even able to sleep for the three hour flight back on Ryanair. And I’ve never done that before. 

 

JERSEY GIRL

I broke my phone. As in I actively, with intent, broke my phone. Never one to do things by halves, in a fit of hormonal rage (yoga is not working), as ten consecutive very bad things had happened in a few days,  I smashed the mobile to the floor and then picked it up, realising the screen wasn't broken so I did it again until it was. Having paid out £65 and waited over a week to get back online again, I felt a menopausal break was needed and as The Atlantic Hotel in Jersey is listed as one of the three main hotel staycation breaks, I booked myself in for a couple of days of R and R.

   So early one Friday morning, train to Gatwick and half an hour to fifty minutes flight, depending on the wind, I found myself at Jersey airport. Wanting to buy all the anti-wrinkle creams and eyelash serums in the duty free book (I've reached that age), I arrived without any (they had run out - a lot my age obviously on the same flight), and asked directions as no taxis were available. I realised as I stepped off the plane, I have never visited Jersey, although I have Guernsey which, I remember was rather chippy about its big sister.

   Take the 22 bus to the Atlantic (not as I did, and took the advice of a lady who visits her son there and said I should get a bus to St Helier and then take the 22 from there).  It should take about ten minutes to reach the hotel. It took me over an hour.  Thank goodness my phone was still broken as I would have broken it again.  But it gave me an opportunity to see St Helier and also the narrow, charming roads along it. 

   Jersey is a tax haven for those who wish to 'avoid' rather 'evade' although this has always seemed semantic.  There was a huge glass, mirrored and steel Waitrose on one roundabout, which looked like the headquarters of a global bank, perhaps making some sort of social statement, looking decidedly incongruous amongst the housing - then we turned left down another narrow road, but this time there was the Atlantic Ocean to the right, appearing dramatically in between a series of huge mansions with their oversized lions and marbled pillars, and groomed gardens, palm trees and pampas grasses. 

   I couldn't smell the seaweed or the seaside but I could smell the salt in the air. A few more twists and turns past smaller seaside villas with names like Avoca and Butterweed, and franglais sounding street names -  half French half English - reminding me how close we are to the French coast, we arrived at the first harbour with small boats, none of them fishing, and no kiss me quick activities.  All very quietly buzzing, silver light bouncing off the boat hulls, in the late November afternoon. Then towards St Helier.  

   

Jersey, famous for its fragrant potatoes, its Durrell Zoo, its long eye-lashed cow (very jealous), is enchanting even in, and I would probably guess at, especially in, the winter months.  Fewer tourists, fewer cars, and more dramatic thanks to the Atlantic.  The hotel is allegedly one of the best in the UK for views of ocean storms.  It's difficult not to get stirred.

 Yes, the sky scraping banking headquarters, which has made a mini square mile of the shoreline capital of St Helier, casts a grubby shadow over what is otherwise an incredibly beautiful island, but as the chef at the Atlantic, the multi-award winning Will Holland told me as we walked one morning scavaging for seaweed to add to his phenomenal menu, "the real wealth of Jersey is the 45 mile coastline walk."    

   

The Atlantic Hotel is four star, but has the service and style of a five star hotel. Boutique in size, staff are efficient and elegant, the hotel, erect on a hill looking out over towards the ocean and lighthouse, makes clever use of space and light, feeling more like a stylish lighthouse on the inside. There's even a large pond which is half in half out of the reception area, with loads of gold fish and two very large koi karp which reminded me of the mystic and eccentric animals in the Studio Gibli enchanted film, Spirited Away. Their huge mouths coming to the surface as you walk by as if to whisper words of wisdom like 'don't eat the seabass'. One looks eerily like Michael Mcintyre.  

   

Talking of spirits, Paul 'Champagne' (not his real name just his bar-stage one), is the bar manager who makes up cocktails to compliment the pre and post, and sometimes during supper menus.  He did so while I was there, with a local gin, of which there are many. (I counted seven on their shelves alone, which allegedly originate from Jersey).  

   

Originally from Romania, Paul worked in London and Hambleton Hall but chose Jersey because of the Atlantic but also he is a keen photographer and 'there is so much to photograph in Jersey which is unique and exceptional' I grabbed at the chance'.   He is one of the many 'captain my captain' types at the Atlantic who are characters and have the substance to match.  Make time to chat to him pre and post supper.  He's very adept at mixing and inventing cocktails on the spot. 

     

The chef Will Holland, who has appeared and won the Great British Menu Challenge, produces food which is seasonal and local and clever, without being pretentious. I had seabass, although I'm attempting to go vegan (they have an excellent vegan menu), but it was worth it.  It was wonderful as was the service.  Faultless. There is an extensive wine list and excellent sommelier pairings. 

   

Will took me for a ten minute drive to the nearest beach to the hotel, where we picked some 'salty fingers', sea perselin and sea spinach, which he may or may not have used in the menu that evening. Slim and fit, he doesn't look like a chef, but has that obsessive passion which comes across in the way he talks about food, ingredients and his 'team' in the kitchen, which he says he sees a lot more of than his wife and three year old daughter. 'My team followed me here when I moved to the hotel, which is phenomenal.  Its good having a team who follow you wherever you go. It means there's a natural synergy which I feel makes creativity that much easier. And it’s an interesting, awesome place Jersey.  It doesn't seem like an island. It’s not small minded.  Perhaps having the ocean in front of us helps.'  We talked veganism 'It will be a fad', and nutrition 'It's a lifestyle not a diet.', although he admires Tom Kerridge and what he describes as a basically keto diet (no carbs and sugar and loads of protein and fat).  'Although I do eat carbs. They are petrol in the car.'

   

As for cars, although you can hire a car, Jersey is a walking island. Walk everywhere. There are no buses that go around the island - you need to hop off and on about three - but it is a wonderful place to coastal walk. So don't hire and with all that local gin, wonderful local wine, you'll probably need to go public transport or walk anyway.  On the longest day of the year hundreds come here to walk around the 45 miles, starting at dawn, some ending at dusk, to circumnavigate.   I managed five hours, but saw incredible wildlife.  It’s the sort of place to make you want to get a book and find out about birds. And Will said I could eat all the seaweed as long as it hasn't been out of the sea too long. 'Just follow the tide out.'  I also waited to clean it when back in my hotel room just in case some dogs had got there first. 

    

The hotel has a small gym, heated indoor and outdoor pool and a sauna for one (at a squeeze two) and a small gym where you can do yoga if you so wish, or a treadmill. The rooms are stylish, spacious, well thought out and the views of the Atlantic Ocean are exceptional. Surrounded by parklands and golf course, it’s easy to feel you could just stay and chill indoors, but whatever the weather, go outside and walk.     

   

The very clean beach (no litter - cleaned daily), with its surfers, dog walkers, horse riders and runners, is buzzing even on quiet days. There are even some early morning yogis tree posing.  Walking it will take you five to four hours to walk along the bay and back from the hotel.  For lunch or a snack stop off at La Braye (looks formica restaurant but excellent food with prices to match).  For something lighter, go to the Hideaway, a small box of a place for meat and vege burgers.  Excellent value and variety.  All the surfers I spoke to recommended it.  Faulkners Fisheries is at the other end of the bay, and proudly shows off a photo of the owner Sean with HRH Prince Charles and Camilla. But at £3 a pot for prawns in a one use plastic container, I personally preferred the Hideaway.  But the walk and view is priceless. If you can't walk back - take the No 22 bus back.  

    

Out of the hotel if you turn left, head towards Corbiere Point and the Corbiere lighthouse at low tide. Make your way through scrub and rugged wilderness which is more Poldark than Berjerac (Cornwall thing going on again). More animal magic came in the form of walking inches away from sleeping rabbits who knew I was there but didn't move.  One opened an eye, looked at me, then closed it again.  I eyeballed a red squirrel perching half way up a tree, expecting it to say 'when are you going to take the selfie' any moment.  It didn't and I didn't (mobile broken) but still very Spirited Away.  

   

I walked occasionally along the road, dodging another type of animal - the mamils (middle aged men in lycra) on their bikes, realising they could have been in their lycra the day before, just on their surf boards.  The MAMILS surf on Saturdays, cycle on Sundays here. 

   

Locals will talk to you about the 'Jersey way' as to their lifestyle, and they don't talk Brexit, although from the sound of it, what we should be asking for is the 'Jersey way' of Brexit, not the Canada one, but I digress. They pick and choose which laws they want to follow. 'We are part of Great Britain, not the United Kingdom.'   

   

Breakfast at the hotel is excellent. There's things like kippers and smoked haddock which I haven't seen on a menu for ages as well as the more traditional fayre.  They have buffet and full English (and vegan/vegetarian) if you wish, and locals out of season get a discount to eat and stay there, so you will meet a lot of locals if you go out of season too.  Talk to them.  You will quickly find out who are year round locals and who just stay for the requisite 30 days. 

    

I recommend visiting the Atlantic before it gets its Michelin Star because I am sure it will soon.  It is excellent value for a long weekend or midweek break and wonderful if you like those dramatic coastal walks.   I for one was completely Spirited Away by the Atlantic, its staff, and its rugged and enchanted coast. And don't forget to talk to the animals. Just not the two wheeled ones in lycra.

THREE WISE MEN AND A LADY..

I have been doing loads, but will tell anon, for now, this is what I did this week, in search of three (alternative) wise men....

Always been fasciated by the tree wise men, bringing their gold, frankincense and myrrh.   As I use frankincense oil every time I teach yoga now (myrrh actually isn't very nice smelling) I always feel oddly connected to these three bringing their gifts, following a star to find the ultimate one. And of course now, wonder why there wasn't a wise woman amongst them. Or indeed why it couldn't be lapis lazuli instead of gold.  So in timely fashion I went in search of my own three wise men.   The first I found (or rather invited to) the Bingham Hotel with me when I tried out their festive lunch which they have just introduced.  

Steve Thomas, who was the creative director of the design group Whitmore-Thomas, responsible for iconic projects as Big Biba, joined me for lunch this week at the Bingham Hotel.  At for £24 two courses, £28 three courses, it is very reasonable, with £15 for a wine pairing.  The halls are not decked with holly but cotton branches, which is a thread running through the decorations throughout the hotel.   Steve told me he was regularly the plus one with acclaimed food critic Fay Maschler and so took to the task of photographing the plates of food readily laid before us, during the lunch.  I am no Fay, but I loved the whole ambience of the place. 

The Bingham is managed by the excellent Sam Trinder who also is also the brains behind Bhuti, the yoga studio opposite on Richmond Hill. Entering the building, the tables for lunch are to the left by the bar. Sat by the Christmas tree - again with cotton theme ornaments, and by the window with the breath-taking views overlooking the river, and the hotels beautiful gardens, Steve all in black looking like some trendy Neru and me in off pink lace from Ab Fab shop Anna on the 'hill', I chose smoked beetroot with feta, caramelised orange, smoked almonds and roasted baby gem lettuce.  Steve chose the mackerel with chicory marmalade. Both beautifully presented but more importantly very 'subtle, complex flavours'. Beautifully composed Steve commented, to taste and to look at.



For main I had market fish - which was cod, very well cooked and a fish I would now not normally choose, Steve had the turkey because it was Christmas and as he commented 'it will be the only turkey I have this year which won't be dry'.  I wanted to look back through the way Maschler writes about places.  'She never gave bad reviews. She always said 'they may be having a bad day.  If I go back three times, and it is still bad, then I write a negative review, but in general if a restaurant gets a negative review, people don't remember the negative, they remember it was reviewed. And if it gets a very negative review, they are even more intrigued wanting to know if it was as bad as the writer suggested.'  I have eaten at the Bingham a few times during the year at events in the evening and during the day and it has always been excellent. 

Although there was sticky toffee pudding, white chocolate rice pudding, I opted for apple sorbet and Steve had the honey-topped truffled Brie, which, apparently was delicious. The Bingham has no parking but from the station is a pretty and quick walk through the high street, and you see the river.   Wonderful in the summer, this place is an exceptional choice for lunch during the festive season.  www.bingham.com. Be wise, find your way there. 

And then to the underground, to visit the Saatchi Gallery and the Tutankamun exhibition, the second wise man (boy actually, he was eight when he was made king).  I remember Tutankamun as a child, as my parents bought me a beautiful book with the young king's death mask on it, as the exhibition was in London that year, although they didn't actually take me to the exhibition itself.   This time, I was determined to go, and around Sloane Square tube, the lights are stunning, dripping from roof to pavement on Peter Jones, and the pedestrianised area around the shops around the gallery are exquisite. I usually think round there is overly priced and pretentious - or perhaps that is just the people, but at Christmas in the dark, you don't see the people, just the lights.   

 

I went in the evening and highly recommend you make your booking as late as possible (stays open till ten). There's an extra £15 charge for a virtual reality tour of being in a tomb and if you have children I recommend this, but otherwise the other exhibits are haunting, beautifully presented and fascinating.  If you have watched any of The Mummy films, they have filched so much of the information about the Book of the Dead and Ka and the Egyptians knew about their crystals.  There is haunting music played throughout and the descriptions of each trinket and statue, is as fascinating as the specimen itself.   If you are buying a souvenir, choose the £40 book over the £12 catalogue and the £60 Taschen coffee table.  It is worth every penny and a very sound memento for a must see during the festive season.  Go by yourself. If you are with someone you will talk too much and be asked loads of questions. Five halls to get through you need about an hour and half if by yourself if you don't do the virtual reality (do it), and three hours easily if you take someone else because you will discuss everything.  It's that sort of place.   Definitely a must do for the festive season.  (www.saatchigallery.com)

As for the last 'wise' man, well it has to be Scrooge himself.  My favourite interpretation has always been the actor Albert Finney who died this year alas.  He was the most poignant and studiedly pained portrayal of Scrooge.  A close second is the now annual performance at the Old Vic in Waterloo. Its as good to see it by yourself as with someone else.  This is an enchanting performance.  Not as many laughs as say the Pantomimes, but haunting and interactive nonetheless.  And although I believe a real life Scrooge would never under any circumstances change his ways no matter how many ghosts visited him at Christmas or any time actually, I like the idea and live in hope.  And (spoiler alert) you may come away with a couple of free satsumas.  Prices start at £24, and more readily available if there is just the one of you. 

(www.theoldvic.com)

Some Oz some Scotia. pix that couldn't fit into the space.

TWO HARBOURS IN ONE MONTH..ROCK

I didn't plan it this way.

Invited to cover the Vivid Festival, a winter festival for three weeks in Sydney, where the city lights up like a permanent firework, everything from the bridge to the iconic Sydney Opera House, a breathing canvas for the artists to create the most extraordinary, exhilarating storytelling.

It is quite simply, phenomenal. Like walking into a scene from Bladerunner.













Its a privilege to be invited to events such as this.  Most go to Australia during our winter months (understandable) but their Autumn turned out to be much better than our Summer.  accompanied by two of the most awesome journalists and a PR who rocked, we had a whistle stop tour of the cool Sydney, the outer suburbs of Redfearn and Chippingdale, which has been gentrified, and now home to the creatives, who do as they do, and turn everything in to a piece of art, until the bankers come along and make beige everything.  A guide from Culture Guides - Scot - was so cool.  The lights were turned off, but the colour still shone from every walkway.












Bondi Beach.  I stalked the surfers along the beach to get some 'board' shots.  And my surfing.  OK my jumping shots.



The food. Oh yes. They do gluten, lactose, sugar free.  But oh, the food.

What made it even more cool, it was my birthday the day we took the tour. The day started off in the air, literally, my head in the clouds, as I took a balloon ride over the vineyards of the Hunter Valley, with the roos bouncing underneath our shadow.   Mist rising over the lakes and yes it was very good being me.





The day before we had ridden on camels at dusk by Port Stephens, famed for its whales and dolphins and also Great Whites.  We saw whales and dolphins, but no sharks. It was not the season.   Then to the quad bikes, riding (fairly) fast over, up and down, the dunes, like a Lawrence of Arabia on speed.





We did the tour thing. The tourist thing. The walk over the bridge, but even that had an edge, with a psychedelic disco on top of the bridge, head banging to foo fighters, Pretender, testing the solidity of the build. The tour of the opera house, far more interesting than I could have imagined. The place has 1000 rooms, was built by a Dane who wasn't invited to the launch, and has self cleaning tiles. Those facts stick with you.  Or they do with me. I wish I had self cleaning tiles in my bathroom.









The Vivid Festival now in its 11th year, not only has lights and music but also talks from the good and great. I listened to a marine archeologist talk about her trips to the Titanic, and an astrophysicist talking about her finding a different type and class of star (one that prefers to be in a relationship but ultimately destroys everyone they touch - narcissist star??).   A mathematician that saves rats and mice but testing on computers rather than on animals, and a forensic scientist who works in a zoo who is fighting a war against wildlife crime, fastest growing type of crime in the world. All women in  the most male of all cultures - Australian.




Im not a wine person, but there were vineyards I did like - Tinkers - which was more like a pub in the Hunter Valley.  Try it out. They play brilliant music which helps the grapes go down smooth.




So that was Australia. Practically perfect in every way on every day.   Four Seasons, Chateau Elan and Ovolo in Wooloomooloo hotels.  All wonderful, stylish, distinct, recommended.






The pix say what the words don't.  I l-o-v-e-d everything about this trip. I spent my birthday in the company of strangers.  So many images, memories, so little space to put it in.



And then to Nova Scotia.  Didn't plan it that way. Just happened. One slap after another. I love Canada.   But ended up going to the second largest natural harbour in the world after..Sydney.   Must have a vibe about harbours.   Cooler, as in the weather, and I didn't have the two wonderful journalists with me.   One from MTV who is amazing, the other from Associated Press, who dislikes city types even more than I do, probably because he knows more about them than I do.





Toured the South Shore, which is more Celtic than Ireland and Scotland put together.






There's also a German tinge to the place, in places like Lunenburg on the coast, which is a fishing town (they have fish hanging from the lamp posts - not real ones but different types - a tad disconcerting but arty nonetheless).   There's distilleries and craft beer places all over the place, and lobster nets (lobsters are big in Nova Scotia - that eat it like tuna in sandwiches).  Lunenburg looks slightly spooky, unsurprising as lots of people have died there, and not returned from fishing trips. And the church burnt down in mysterious circumstances in 2011 on Halloween just before 9/11.  The port is wonderful, but chat to the locals. They are the real stars, telling you which generation they are of local. (My guide was 11th - the original immigrants had 11 sons).  The English don't come out of it well (lazy, hypocritical and dishonest). Nothing changes then.  Note the promises on this mustard.





The PR gave me a time scale which was impossible to keep, so I didn't.   I made the first port of call, literally in Lunenburg and the tour, but had to zip past phenomenal lakes and villages of Chester, Hubbards, and Mayhone Bay, and got up at six the next morning to make sure I missed nothing and could get lost and meander - which I did - both.  I then visited the National Park - Kej for short, where the original First Nation the Mi'kmac were based and treasured the land in a way we don't.  The more I travel and learn about wildlife the more I think the world would be far better if mankind disappeared. The animals would get on fine without us.  I helped build a kayak with Todd Labrador (fab name), well - I cut a few things and lifted a few things, and did a few yoga poses by the lake.  Lovely wonderful people again. The sort of people you want to hug.

The lobster below is asleep.





Then to Wolfville, where I met Bill, Glaswegian, who had moved here, over thirty years ago, and led me round the vineyards, one to Peter, who was from Nottingham and was a barrow boy, and now has a stunning vineyard, serving olives shipped in from Spain and a view to die for from his restaurant and a red phone box which offers free phone calls throughout North America.  He smiled a lot. So did Bill.   I liked Wolfville.



Then to the capital Halifax, which has seen the world's largest man made explosion outside Nagasake and Hiroshima.   French and English playing chicken in the harbour with ammunition ship. A bit like they are doing with Brexit. Who will give in first? No one, so everyone loses. When will we learn from history eh?  And the Titanic sank off Newfoundland and the bodies were brought to Halifax.  The funeral parlour was busy and the city is literally built on bodies.  Kept thinking of The Fog and Ghostbusters.  But Halifax is a liveable city. Its got culture, a great library - allegedly one of the best buildings in North America (best?) and a cannabis shop - a cross between an Apple store and tea shop - posh one. Very hygienic and fresh faced attendants help you decide if you would be better off with floral, earthy or citrus, snip, drink or smoke.  Relax or energise. You click the buttons and find what you need, want and can afford.  They should do this for marriage, relationships, having babies. Everything really. Very efficient.  I didn't partake.  I had to drive back to the airport later that day, having been on a happy hopper, one of those cars which goes on land and on sea.  It was fun. I ended up with a group of school children, which I enjoyed for the forty minutes.



Which harbour would I chose to live in?  Sydney.  But both have an insularity to them. One because its away from everything else geographically, the other because its, well, just insular.  But I loved the people. They were wonderful. Although they did ask me about 'Boris' as if I knew him personally.  He's an icon but they also think him a prat.  He won't find a safe harbour in Scotia or Sydney. 

Bud the Spud. Still there opposite the library in Halifax. Was there 18 years ago. I interviewed the original Bud. He served Clinton. Bill Clinton that is. Don't know if the wife does carbs.