(*I used Google Translate. My recollection of French barely extends beyond a poem we learnt in year 8 about a frog who fell from a ladder, so I really can’t claim to be a polyglot.)
Ask any woman aged between 35-45 from where her first impressions of Paris arose, and she may very well respond with, ‘Amelie’, the 2001 film starring Audrey Tautou in which a young French woman with a pronounced-bob hairdo breaks away from an isolated, sadness filled childhood in the countryside to the capital, where she works in a cafe and finds a calling bringing joy to others’ through the simple pleasures in life.
Her favourite simple pleasures include: plunging her hands into sacks of grain, tapping her spoon on a creme brulee, and skimming stones along the Canal St Martin. She considers the small things to be the big things, and takes masses of delight from them. And she’s quite right about that. And we could probably all do with being a bit more Amelie Poulain.
The film was an unparalleled success which provided many with a beautiful, romanticised insight into Parisian life that could not be learned from GCSE French classes and clichés about garlic and baguettes. As with any piece of art, it wasn’t to everyone’s tastes (a Lancastrian roommate at University was particularly unimpressed, handing the DVD back to me whilst muttering simply, “woman in it is serrrrrr fookin‘ annoyin‘” – poor ol’ critically acclaimed Audrey Tautou!), but in the quarter of a decade since it premiered, it has become one of the most renowned bits of cinema, and even led to an uptick in the number of baby girls being named after the leading character in the early ’00s.
It’s a film that once seen, stays with you. To the point where it’s hard to take a trip to Paris without seeing it through the eyes of Amelie, looking out for the tiny treasures, and yearning to float around the streets and parks of Montmartre as she did, in her uniquely whimsical way. Not here to tick off the famous landmarks, just here to simply feel all the simple feels. And eat all the delicious eats.
So, in the spirit of Amelie, I’ll write not an entire piece on everything that happened during a recent weekend away in Paris, but some of the small things that played a few notes within a beautiful piece:
A simple heart painted onto the street, on a bridge over Canal St Martin. Maybe the same one Amelie enjoyed skimming stones off of.
The perfectly imperfect choir rehearsals taking place in the church at Abbesses. The wrong notes. The stopping and starting over, again and again, until it works.
The way Paris makes you question if everything you see is an intentional piece of art. Along the Rue de Dunkerque, a lettuce had been dropped on the pavement outside the greengrocers, and I wondered for a good few minutes about what the meaning of that was. Lettuce be more grounded? Lettuce leaves in a hurry and stumbles? Or maybe it just fell during transit, and means absolutely sod all. Nah, that can’t be the case! This is Paris!
The repeated sound of the ‘Correct!’ notification on DuoLingo as a lady in the hostel dorm completes a French language challenge at midnight. This weird fusion of actuallythatsquiteannoyingbutIalsoquiteadmireit. Pa-baaa!
The sight of a man on a bicycle wearing headphones, holding the handlebar with one hand and swinging the other to the beat of whatever he’s listening to.
A big, grey cat sleeping in a living room window that overlooks the Rue de 3 Freres, to the delight of pedestrians walking by.
Amusingly titled food products in foreign supermarkets:
An American woman sat next to me in a cafe apologising to the waiter for how she’s “about to pronounce the words here‘”, which I think is very nice of her albeit unnecessary, until she goes on to absolutely butcher ‘Croque Monsieur’ to pieces, and a polite laughter among us – a group of strangers who’ll never see each other again – ensues. Croak Monjaw.
Walking alongside the River Seine in the sunshine. Watching a guy do backflips on a wall. And another listening to French hip hop, whilst a third is drawing a landscape in fine ink. So many individual stories unravelling alongside this impressive waterway.
Waiting staff who politely make you feel like an A* French student just because you said that the dish was, “delicieux”, aka one of the few bits of vocab you can remember: “Ohhhh your French, tres bonne!”, I mean it’s not really is it? I said one measly word. But thank you anyway, I’ll take it!
I have a really strict criteria when it comes to hotels. Since they’re not cheap, when the rare opportunity arises for me to stay in one, it absolutely has to be one of two things:
A little bit quirky
OR
Have lots of terrible reviews
I know it might seem like I’ve made a typo in the latter, but I mean every word. Unless I’m travelling with friends or family – when I’ll comply with more ‘normal’ choices – I’ll always choose budget and character, over nice, but expensive and boring.
I haven’t always felt this way, but then in 2017 I needed to book into a hotel opposite the train station in Stoke on Trent, and it changed everything. Say what you will about cleanliness and quality (neither of which that hotel particularly had), but I’ve never stayed in a hotel I’ve spoken about more. I can’t even remember most of the others. My stay at the North Stafford Hotel prompted much laughter, and conjured bizarre stories and anecdotes in abundance.
It also gave birth to a dream of visiting terribly rated hotels all over the country and writing a book about them, but I never pursued that dream due to both time and financial constraints. Now, a vast number of writers and YouTubers have beaten me to it, and probably do it better than I could anyway.
But there’s always been one hotel here in Kent that’s been on my list of places to experience before I die. Maybe it would be in poor taste to name it, so let’s just say I’ve been burstin to go ever since I found out it earned the grand title of the ‘UK’s worst hotel’. For several years running. Perfect.
I finally got to tick this item off my bucket list (no, not ‘sick bucket’!) in April 2025, when a Folkestone-based friend was having some birthday drinks. I could have found a way to get home that evening if I’d tried to, but I didn’t try. At all, in fact.
It was time.
Beautiful Folkestone, a town I always enjoy visiting
After a delicious lunch on the Harbour Arm and an hour reading my book on the dreamy seafront, I finally make my way to the hotel to check-in. The automatic door opens, so already my expectations have been exceeded.
“I like your green shoes, love!”
The group of men in the lobby start laughing. Maybe I should be offended, but I’m not. I’m too excited to be fulfilling a dream, and am eager to check-in. The service is friendly, professional, and hassle-free, and this would be the case in every encounter with staff during my stay. Before heading to my room, I take a little tour of the building. It’s everything I hoped it would be. Hypnotic carpets. Worn leather seats. Yellowing ceilings. I feel like I can still smell the many B&H’s that would have been smoked in these rooms in the 1980s, and strangely, I don’t actually dislike that fact.
The whole place brings back memories of some of the best nights out in my life. Only those who attended Lancaster University before 2010 will understand it when I say this is like Morecambe’s Premier Venue – the Carleton (R.I.P) – but for those who didn’t, the Carleton was basically like this, but with stickier floors, cheesy music, and people throwing up everywhere (not always me) after one too many of the venue’s signature cocktails, named ‘stiff’uns‘. Maybe that’s what happens to this place at night, too. That’s something I’ll have to find out next time.
I head to my room and elect to take the stairs over the elevator, on account of only being on the first floor. Room 151. If this was the North Stafford Hotel – which incidentally belongs to the same chain as this one – Room 151 would probably be between rooms 312 and 543 on floor 7, but here, the numbers do seem to run in a logical order. On my floor, at least.
Room 151 is in the very regal sounding ‘C Wing‘, although some odd kerning on the signage makes it read more like ‘C WIN G’. To get to C WIN G I must walk down a very long corridor. A very long corridor. One which I’m not sure even has an actual ending, and quite possibly doesn’t. I walk along and am enveloped by a smell that evokes memories of visiting my much missed grandmother in her care home shortly before she passed away. It’s both a comfort and a discomfort and it leads me to ruminate, but I’m quickly detracted by a piece of paper stuck to a door on which a note has been scrawled and highlighted with a blue Stabilo marker pen:
“KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING PLEASE“
I make a mental note to keep my door locked, and wonder what sort of commotion has been ensuing along this very long corridor recently.
I enter my room, and am pleasantly surprised. The reviews and articles I’d read had evoked visions of walking into some sort of bog with bricks for beds and stained underwear for curtains. Instead, I walk into a light, bright space which upon first inspection seems clean and tidy, although the artwork is a little terrifying:
Lute, or weapon?
My room is – unfortunately – on the wrong side of the building for a sea view. Instead, I am proffered stunning views of the car park, and the Sunshine Bar and Grill over the road. Still, it’s better than the view of vents and discarded Styrofoam containers I had at the North Stafford. Another thing I have here, which the North Stafford didn’t offer, is a full on ironing board and iron. Just in case I fancy straightening out any creases in my luggage whilst absorbing the beautiful panoramic:
I make myself a coffee and notice what appears to be Pot Noodle dust peppered around the spout of the kettle, but it’s nothing a little wipe can’t fix.
I’d been hoping to use my time pre-party to check out the sauna, but the swimming facilities were closed due to staff sickness, so I decide to have a bath instead. It’s during this initial venture into the bathroom that I discover the previous occupant has failed to flush the loo (I wonder if they had been burstin, and just forgotten to flush in the wake of overwhelming relief), and there is no sign that there has ever been any shower gel in the shower gel receptacle. I draw a bath anyway, and become perplexed at how the bath tap seems to activate the sink tap too. Multitasking! The running water alternates between trickles and full on downpours, but we get there eventually.
Bathed up and dressed, I decide to head down to the bar area for a coffee. And to be honest, it’s all absolutely fine. It’s busy – proving that even in spite of the reputation, the hotel remains popular – and I appreciate the range of dialects I can overhear. Scottish. Irish. American. I’m proud to live in a county so attractive to tourists. It makes me feel like I’m on holiday, too.
I choose the comfiest looking piece of worn furniture and am shortly joined by a noisy group next to me, where one lady in particular is enjoying herself and appears to be a little inebriated. She starts to empty the contents of her handbag all over the table. One of the items is some lipbalm:
“Sharon’s never seen me without my Carmex, and we’ve been friends for 20 years!“
She then cackles out an incredibly loud innuendo about the lipbalm that’s too filthy to put into print, and people turn to look for from whom that exclamation came from. She doesn’t care, she’s enjoying her own joke too much, and I actually quite admire the hubris. Good for her, I think to myself.
Coffee consumed, I decide to venture out in the sunshine to grab a sweet snack and test my theory that everybody always looks deadly serious when eating ice cream cones. I return a few pounds heavier, having witnessed no challenges to my hypothesis.
Back in my room, I make a phone-call, and whilst gazing ahead notice what appears to be a blob of snot affixed to the wall. Of everything I’ve experienced in this hotel so far, this is the one thing that crosses a line, and makes me physically gag. I reassure myself I’m only here for one night, and by the time I return from the party it’ll be hopefully too dark to see it. Or not. It’s pretty fudging massive, like it came out of the nostril of a hippo, or some other megafauna. It’ll probably even illuminate the room overnight with its green glow, I guess I’ll find out later.
A short while later my ‘neighbours’ arrive. I don’t see them, but I can definitely hear them:
“No,please don’t, you’ll set off the alarm. You’ll set off the alarm. YOU’LL SET OFF THE ALARM!”
“Oh, alright then, I won’t!”
Phew.
I then hear them comment on their impressions of their room. They, too, are in awe of the ironing board. They also rate the beds, and have an early start in the morning. A sheet of toilet paper dividing the rooms – like the one I found in the loo perhaps – would provide more sound insulation than the existing walls, I’m sure.
***************************************
I return from my evening out around 11.30pm and walk over a pile of crushed tortilla crisps that have integrated into the hypnotic carpet. No salsa. The bar is busy and full of life, and accents from all over the world. I love it. It feels like the entire planet has compressed itself into this little tatty cruise ship shaped building in East Kent, frozen in time since the ’80s. The nautical theme also makes it feel like the cross-channel ferries I used to take with my grandparents around the same time, watching the ashes from Nan’s fag drip down into an aluminium ashtray whilst nibbling on a Toblerone too big for my infant-sized mouth.
Back in the present, I hear only laughter, people conversing with strangers, others burstin into song, and the likes of ‘Time of my Life’ emanating from the ballroom. I see people smiling and enjoying themselves within the craziness of it all. I hear an American comment that life is not about money, but community, having fun, and eating tasty food. Last night, he ate the best prawns he’d ever had in his life. He “even took a photo.” I love him.
If this hotel is ‘bad’, then I’m not sure I really care about ‘good’.
Character over perfection, every single time. I’m burstin to tell you, that places like these are so much better than you think they’ll be, and they will almost always make you smile, and even laugh a bit. They’ll also save you a fair amount of money, so you can afford to come back again.
What would you do if you came across an injured goat on the side of a mountain? Who should you call? What if you don’t have signal, would you just have to leave it?
These were the questions I was pondering to myself one warm August morning earlier in the year whilst ascending the steep, slate inclines of the Dinorwic Slate Quarry in Llanberis, Snowdonia. The air was so still, so silent, that it greatly amplified the sound of a goat bleating coarsely from beyond.
So intrusive to the tranquility was the noise that my immediate thought was that the creature must be in distress, and maybe I could find it and provide some aid. I subsequently pondered over the questions above, and was concerned that I didn’t really know any of the answers.
It was whilst doing this I saw something that would put my mind at rest. On a not too distant peak, I was just about able to make out two fuzzy balls of copper bounding towards one another, bleating recognisable bleats. They had been using their vocals – which were now softening – to find each other, and it had worked. Mystery solved, and thank goodness, because I’m not sure I’d have known what to do if my initial concerns had been realised. I carried on with my walk to the summit.
The day had started off in a strange tone. Until this point, I had spent my Snowdonia trip in the company of loved ones and we had all had a lovely time, but first thing that morning they had returned home and I was suddenly alone. Alone time is never usually a problem for me. As an introverted-extrovert, my energy sources oscillate fairly evenly between company and lack thereof. I need them both at different times. Many of my favourite outdoor adventures have been the ones I’ve had by myself, exploring and getting lost in nature and my favourite music, but this morning, there was that subdued feeling similar to the one you might feel as you chuck bits of popped balloons and food waste into binbags following an enjoyable party, that missing people feeling.
I knew that the best way to respond to this would be to give myself a bit of a mission for the day ahead and I immediately knew what that mission would be – to find theAnglesey Barracks(which, confusingly, are not on Anglesey).
The Anglesey Barracks are a group of granite cottages that were built high in the Dinorwic slate quarry during the 1870’s to serve as homes for those working there, to save the daily commute. One need only look at what remains of them today to know that they didn’t boast the greatest of living standards, even in those more basic of days. Each cottage housed four workers across two small rooms: a communal kitchen space and a shared bedroom. At no point during their occupancy did they have access to electricity so the only source of heat was a fireplace fuelled by coal that they had had to lug up those testing terrains in all weathers. Water needed to be collected from streams, and lack of hygiene and sanitation was a big problem.
Use of the barracks for housing ceased in the late 1930’s for this reason, and since this time the buildings have been left and reclaimed by nature. It is this, combined with the history, that provides the mystical and intriguing aesthetic that makes them so popular with explorers, historians and photographers. Indeed, I had only come across their existence from an Instagram post, and then a framed photo on the wall in the cottage which we had just been staying in. Although the barracks themselves weren’t widely signposted I could tell from a bit of brief internet research of whereabouts they were, within walking distance from Llanberis, a place I knew fairly well.
I headed towards the Power Station and looked to my left for a footpath that would take me up towards the top of the quarry. It was pretty much where I expected it to be, and so began the steep incline to the top. The first fifteen minutes or so was all about big steps. The ones that make you feel like you’re doing a high-knees HIIT session on repeat. Although towards the end they were getting quite tiring, I also knew that big steps meant big heights, and big heights meant better views. I was excited to clear ‘tree level’ and to reach the steep dark-grey slate paths that wound round the side of the quarry peaks. I knew the barracks couldn’t be too far away, and persevered against the inclines, which were altogether more challenging in the August heat.
The barracks would have been easy to miss. The main footpath takes you only parallel to them for a few brief moments, and they are concealed by both a copse of trees and being lower down than the path itself, accessible by steps. I had reached a bend in the footpath and it was only from this that I noticed the neon jacket of a fellow explorer 140 degrees to my right, stood in the centre of the historic residential street.
The sights did not disappoint, feeling every bit as intriguing as they had seemed on screen, but looking most definitely smaller than what I had been expecting (and I certainly hadn’t expected them to be spacious). I carried on walking through ‘streets’ that would have once seen heavy footfall every day but today only had a couple of prints, those of neon jacket guy, and mine. It was humbling to observe.
There were more cottages around the corner. These ones seemed to have experienced an even greater reclamation from nature. Mossy green branches protruded out of what were once bedroom windows, roots had broken into the foundations leading to piles of collapsed slate everywhere, and there were certainly no roofs on any of them. The exposed remains of a lone cottage sat slightly closer to the edge of the ridge and afforded a great panoramic, the perfect place to eat my ham sandwich. I sat for a while looking out towards Yr Wyddfa and though from here I couldn’t see a single soul on the mountain I knew that up close it would be teeming with hundreds of hikers striving for the summit, like ants crawling an anthill. I gave myself time to absorb the moment. Yes, I was still feeling some dregs of loneliness, but what a stunning place to be (and what a fit sandwich to be eating too, I seem to recall that one was particularly good).
Fuelled up on protein, fibre and a rush of adrenaline from the views I continued my ascent up the winding slate path to the top of the quarry. It was during this stint that I heard the not-so-distressed goats, and also saw a few others, such as this pair, which studied me intensely as I approached:
I couldn’t get over the fact they had actual horns, just like the ones found in storybooks. Fittingly, they seemed to disappear the closer you got, leaving you wondering if they’d even be real or just an illusion catalysed by the drop in air pressure from the rising altitudes.
I eventually reached the quarry peak, which somehow reminded me of a cross between the surface of the moon and the American West, not that I know either of those well. There were clear signs of human activity, not least from signage warning of electrical currents, yet very few actual humans about. Everything about it felt other worldly, and I enjoyed wandering aimlessly for a while, in awe of the sheer size of the expanse.
A man-made pier-like structure led out to a viewpoint, at the end of which somebody had recently attached a bouquet of flowers in poignant memory of a loved one. This must have been a special place to the departed and as I once again took in the panoramic I could completely understand why. I admired the dedication of their loved one for keeping the bouquet so intact during what it is a steep and testing climb, and imagine it brought them some solace to place it there.
It’s hard not to fall massively in love with this part of the world. It’s not the best kept secret, but neither is it a full front-page spread. The perfect balance, maybe.
I looked down over the village of Llanberis, where I had checked into my bunkhouse a few hours previously, and was surprised to see it now looking like a small blur, a good time to start my descent perhaps.
The goats were fine, my mission had been achieved, and it was time for a curry and a pint of Snowdonian IPA.
There is a large number of things that I have loved about Germany for a very long time. They mostly centre around food (Spaghettieis for the win!), music (Blümchen, Die Ärzte and Fettes Brot to select from a variety of genres) and the varying landscapes that characterise so many different corners of the country, from the alpine mountains in the south, the industrial cities of the north, and the various yellows, greens and blues that form the Rhineland in between. Then of course, there’s all of those gorgeous colourful timber-framed buildings that you can see all over the country, often evoking imagery of something out of Hansel and Gretel (minus the witch, hopefully, but also minus the Battenberg windows, sadly).
This year, I was delighted to have the chance to get back out to Germany with a friend. I had seen some extremely cheap flights to Cologne in the Summer, and snapped them up whilst I could. It was a very busy and extremely entertaining weekend, not least from the fact we had arrived during ‘Karneval’ weekend. This was something which had been unbeknown to us but not to the entire rest of the German population, who all seemed to descend upon the city every 11th day in November, our first full day there. This centuries old tradition was originally celebrated as a way to scare away winter spirits, and nowadays translates into revelers from all over the country packing every square inch of the streets of Cologne in fancy dress and enjoying several biers and glühweins whilst singing songs together extremely loudly. After the initial shock to the system, we felt extremely pleased to have been able to experience it, but were admittedly extremely grateful when the crowds started to clear and we could move about more easily.
However, my favourite part of the weekend was a boat ride along the Rhine that we had booked for the Sunday afternoon. To me, the experience brought together all the things I love about Germany in one river-roving vessel. During this 1.5 hour journey towards the southern borough of Rodenkirchen and back, a gentleman played classic German pop covers and traditional songs on a keyboard whilst groups of friends and families jigged about on the dancefloor, cheering on all those who came to join them. Extremely polite waiting staff took drinks orders and talked us through the different varieties of schnapps on offer, before bringing back a Kölsch and a shot glass of dark, syruppy matter which would clear the airways for the next decade.
Next to us, an elderly lady appeared so delighted with the size of the sausage brought out to her that she held it up in the air in disbelief, waving it about whilst her daughter grinned on. Up on deck, a young man named Ben enjoyed practising his English on us, although I was keen to try to speak the best German I could remember from school whilst conversing back at him. Ben explained that his family had traveled to Cologne from Berlin, especially for Karneval. We spoke about his life in Berlin, and how he supported F.C Union Berlin and specifically not F.C Hertha Berlin. Ben volunteered to take a picture of my friend and I, before heading back down to his family, a group made up of several generations.
Alongside the friendly company, amazing hospitality, classic tunes and good local beer, what I also loved was the river itself. This huge expanse of water was a true gift to the senses, and conjured up much in the way of imagination. At 1,225 kilometers long, from Switzerland to the North Sea, our little boat ride barely scratched the surface of the entirety of what the river has to behold, and that’s not even accounting for the vast history, which includes being a vital conduit for trade during the Roman era.
No sooner had I arrived back in the UK, I was looking up how much it might cost to travel a longer distance along the Rhine, and the general upshot was that I’d need to sell my home and probably a limb to be able to do so. So, with that dream out the proverbial porthole, I’m instead just basking in the memory of a very magical 1.5 hours in November.
Song of the Day: The Dining Rooms – Wild Love
The Dining Rooms is an Italian band who combine ambient and electronic music together in a fusion they refer to as ‘downbeat’. This isn’t the sort of song I’d put on whilst getting ready to head out, but it’s perfect for a long drive on dark and rainy evening. Very atmospheric and appropriate for this time of year.
One of the most endearing experiences of natural light I’ve ever come across occurred last weekend, not far from Calais, France. A friend and I had some time to spare before catching our ferry back to England, and thought we should use the time to try and juice being abroad as much as possible, and see as much of it as we could see.
It was a Sunday, and most of France was typically shut beyond some vague signs of life at Cite Europe, a shopping estate reminiscent of a bunch of metal shipping hangars with an enormous car park where the painted arrows seem to have a mind of their own. We browsed around and found only a couple of uninspiring English-themed pubs and a Thai cafe – where we ended up ordering a quick snack from a very unobliging waitress – open.
It’s fair to say – after we finally received our food – that this experience wasn’t making us feel that we were making the most Frenchy use of France, so we took a look at Google maps and noticed an appealing streak of yellow on the coastline a twenty minute drive away. A drive there followed by a quick walk on the beach would then set us up nicely to get back to the port in time to catch our boat.
As we drove to Plage de Strouanne near the small town of Wissant, the enormous grey constructs of Cite Europe became smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror and were replaced with some of the brightest greens and blues I had seen in a while. The small village of Peuplingues that we went through en-route could have been right in the very heart of France, since it felt so far removed from the industrial environment we had been sitting in just a few minutes and kilometres earlier.
We were making our journey during that magical window of time just before the sun starts to set, a time when it seems to be saying to itself, “I know I’m about to disappear for a few hours, so let’s leave them all with a little parting gift.” The golden gloss it had lacquered across the French hills was accompanied by a rainbow that seemed to last for about twenty minutes. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a rainbow as close to a sunset before, but it was the most perfect fusion of lighting and colour.
When we reached Plage de Strouanne we parked up and followed the footpath towards the water, eventually working our way down a steep set of sand dunes to reach the beach itself. From here the panoramics were pretty incredible, and though the photos don’t do it justice, I hope they’re enough to make you consider taking a little detour here if ever you have some time to spare before catching a ferry from Calais.
No sooner had we driven away to make our way to the port, dusk set in, the blinding lights of the A16 no patch on the natural lighting we had just experienced.
We reached the ferry port, took it in turns to seriously believe we had lost our passports evoking much panic, and then ate far too many Kinder Schoko-Bons in quick succession to heal said panic before catching the ferry home across a pitch black channel.
It had been a detour well worth making, and I was strangely thankful for the fact everything else had been closed.
Song of the Day:Siriusmo – Gummiband
Sticking with a continental theme for this month’s post I’m sharing this track from Berlin-based electronic whizz Siriusmo.
A few weeks ago, we had our Summer. It was admittedly a little short-lived (though whilst large swathes of the continent are literally burning right now, maybe that’s nothing to complain about), but it was nice whilst it lasted. One weekend, the local bus services were all running for free, and it made sense to make the most of this offer. I took a bus ‘out into the sticks’ and wandered around for hours in an area I’d otherwise only be able to get to by car, and maybe wouldn’t even have thought to go to at all. There was something quite liberating about all of this; being able to look out the window properly during the journey there, not having to think about where to park, and not needing to worry about finding a walking-route that would get me back to my vehicle (plus the financial and environmental benefits of course!). In every way, this was a day to really feel free and explore.
There were some beautiful sights to take in. The vibrant purple hues of foxgloves flashing in otherwise eerie ancient woodland. Meadows spanning miles, peppered with the fluttering of families of Red Admirals. A freshly shorn sheep hydrating itself as it sipped from a trough. Tidy topiaries in the back gardens of homes which I’ll never get to own, but like looking at.
Eventually, taking heed from the sheep and feeling the need for some hydration myself, I went to the local village pub. Here, I was greeted with a warmth that was in-keeping with the day’s weather, and a lady telling me the tale of how her cute dog – that was sniffling around at my toes as we spoke – had been coming to terms with recently losing an eye. I then experienced another benefit of having caught the bus by being able to refresh myself with a beer whilst doing some writing in the pub’s pretty garden, before returning home.
All in all, a nice, easy little adventure for a Summer’s day, and I’m excited to do more ‘bus explorations’ in the future.
Song of the Day:Russian Red – This is Un Volcan
This is a beautiful new song by a Spanish folk singer whose real name is Lourdes Gonzalez. She’s been around for about 15 years now and has produced some incredibly emotive and listenable pieces, the kind you keep on loop and keep finding new layers to the more you listen. One of her earlier pieces, ‘My Love is Gone’, is another favourite of mine for similar reasons.
When I told people I was heading to Morocco, it was often responded to with words of warning:
“You’re going to have to be so careful!” “Alone? You’re crazy!” “Prepare to be heckled!”
With these words ringing in my ears, I touched down in the country somewhat nervously expecting to be accosted as soon as I left the airport. In reality the welcome was much less eventful. My first exchange was with a young female compatriot who was off to a yoga retreat as we tried to work out how to use the ATM, before exiting the airport and being met by taxi driver who was very polite but didn’t speak much as we drove along the coast to the riyadh where I spent my first few nights.
I am very appreciative to those who meant well by recommending I stay vigilant, and whenever you’re travelling alone – regardless of whether you’re male or female – it’s important to keep your wits about you at all times and not be too naive. But when I came away from Morocco after eight enjoyable days, the imprint it had made within was far wider ranging than the preconceptions I had gone there with.
By listing five things I loved about Morocco, I hope this will serve as a more balanced picture of what it’s like and some of the things that make it special: 1) It’s more laid back there than you think
This may vary depending what part of the country you’re in. Marrakech, as a major city, felt a bit less laid back, but along the coast there were numerous times when an efficiency of informality caught me by pleasant surprise. A classic scenario is buying coffee from one of the sellers on the beach, for example, and realising that you don’t have enough cash:
“It’s okay, just pay me tomorrow”
And the very next day, you see the same seller and they can’t even remember that you owe them cash until you point it out.
I was also impressed when it came to booking a taxi to the airport, which I did at the hotel front desk two days before departure (how very British of me). The man behind the desk asked me my room number but didn’t appear to write anything down and said that all was booked. With some doubt in my mind about whether he had actually booked one, especially since I’d paid up front, I went to the front desk the next day to confirm that a taxi was arranged.
“Room 113? It’s all confirmed” said the receptionist – a different man to the previous day – without even checking anything. The following morning I walked into the lobby and the security guard knew that I was Room 113 instantly, and that I was due to be getting a taxi, and pointed outside towards where it was there waiting for me. Turns out I never needed that receipt or confirmation email I had expected.
2) The landscape is utterly gorgeous
Place the images of intimidatingly bustling souks to one side and you realise that there is so much more to the geography of Morocco than instinct may suggest. Staying predominately by the coast filled me with an appreciation for the white sandy beaches and bright blue water that forms a large part of the country. Meanwhile,the bus to Marrakech afforded distant views of the snow-capped Atlas mountains, ancient honey-coloured apiaries and gaping caves. Paradise Valley, a well known tourist attraction, lived up to its title with its collection of secret waterfalls, natural pools and virid palms. Morocco is an extremely photogenic country, and there are views round every corner.
3) It is steeped in tradition
Berbers – also known as indigenous North African natives – are still living in communities across Morocco, and they have a well established reputation for being incredibly friendly and hospitable. During a quad biking activity, we took a break to head into a Berber village where they provided us with complimentary Moroccan biscuits and sweet mint tea. This is a common experience for tourists visiting Morocco, and was a lovely way to experience a culture so very different to our own, which has always got to be one of the primary purposes of travel.
4) The people are friendly
Everybody I encountered during my week away – without exception – was polite and smiled. I especially recall a taxi driver – Hassan – who drove me from Agadir bus station back to my hotel and spent the whole time talking about his wife – Sara – and their four children. With a sense of real pride, he told me all about what they were studying in school and their dreams to work overseas in time. He also spoke of his life as a taxi driver in Agadir, and how his bilingual skills have enabled him to help out many a lost tourist at the bus station over the years. These are the stories you don’t get to read in the guidebooks, but they form a large part of the Moroccan fabric.
5) The colours
A botanical garden we visited on the way back into the city from Paradise Valley was as beautiful as you’d expect it to be, but even beyond dedicated space like this, bright floral colours could be seen all around. I was particularly struck at how they managed to breathe life and joy to the otherwise grey, concrete facade of this random, everyday wall:
There were lots of other things that I loved about Morocco that didn’t quite make the list, like the salt-cured black olives and various other foods, but I also acknowledge that in eight days I’ve barely scratched the surface of the country. Hopefully one day I’ll have an opportunity to get back out there and continue scratching.
Song of the Day:Havana Swim Club – Lagoon
“Sample based instrumental dance”. Many will recognise the sample used in this song as the theme to Desert Island Discs. A nice piece for this time of year.
On the surface of it, the idea of a weekend away in which you spend almost half of your waking hours in the car may not sound overly appealing, but after being grounded from travel for a couple of years, any time away at all seems a privilege now, and that’s probably the way it should always have been.
We had booked flights to Oslo because neither of us had ever been to Norway and the tickets were really cheap. Granted, this meant going away with nothing beyond an acorn in an envelope for luggage, but that alone was quite liberating, and substantially reduced the amount of time spent packing for the trip. And the number of items that we could lose.
Our decision to rent a car from Oslo airport derived from the main perception that we’d had of Norway, that of green fjords and snowy mountains, and we were keen to see them during our weekend away. From research it became clear that in order to fulfil this we would need to venture several hundred miles north of the city; and from the safe distance of four months earlier, a ten hour journey in the car each way seemed a breeze. Yeah, we can manage that, just need a few snacks and a couple of breaks and we’ll be fine. And we really were, but we hadn’t anticipated some of the characteristics of Norwegian road-travel which we would encounter on the way.
The grand plan very nearly fell apart within the first thirty minutes of our arrival into the country. Just as we were about to be handed the keys for our rental car, we discovered that the allocated vehicle was an Automatic, despite our booking confirmation stating otherwise. The slightly nervy lady behind the desk, backed up by her more aggressive sounding boss on the phone, advised us that they didn’t have any Manual cars available, and that it was this or nothing. Neither my friend or I felt comfortable driving a car with an unfamiliar transmission type on unfamiliar terrain, so we had to almost consign ourselves to a whole weekend in the city but for the fortune of a rival car hire firm who happened to have just the one remaining Manual car available. We snapped it up immediately. The shiny red Suzuki Swift became not only our saving grace but our passport to the fjords and mountains which we had so nearly missed out on due to the rising prevalence of Automatic transmissions in Norway.
After an evening in the city, during which we ate baked potatoes and took out a small mortgage to pay for the overnight parking, we set-off first thing the following morning towards Bergen, around five hundred kilometers north, on predominantly mountain roads. It was a long time to be sat in a car, but it was so worth it. Cruising round the perimeter of Tyrifjorden – the country’s fifth largest lake – within the first thirty minutes of our journey seemed breathtaking enough and I was incredibly excited to see snow-capped mountains in the distance, but this only proved to be the beginnings of some of the best landscapes we’d ever seen.
Before we knew it we were up high within those very same mountains I’d marveled at from hundreds of meters below. There was nothing to see beyond white: lodges caked in thick layers of icing sugar, some visible only by the tops of chimneys poking above the ground, and the occasional flashes of colour from kites being flown by people from Oslo Kiteklubb, decked out fully in ski gear. The sunshine, which gave the white rug around us a warming buttery glow, belied the temperature. When we stopped to take pictures and stretch our legs, we were reminded that whilst it may have been May and the sun may have been shining, we were still on land level with the Shetland Isles, and we felt it! After a quick photoshoot, it was a swift return to the Swift, and on we went.
The landscape on the journey continued to astound, regardless of the number of hours that passed and the number of joint-swiveling seat exercises required to prevent ourselves melting into the seats. Much of it evoked memory of studying Ibsen’s ‘Peer Gynt’ during school. Looking out upon miles upon miles of sparsely inhabited deep green valleys, forests and fjords, you can understand how imagination may run wild in these parts, and how well-known Nordic folklore such as trolls and elves came into being. I wouldn’t know where to start with trying to guess how many Norwegian square meters have remained untouched for decades, but I would imagine that it is a considerably greater percentage than those in the areas we are more used to here in the UK. I also wouldn’t be surprised if spruce trees outnumber people by about a thousand to one.
One of the defining moments of our Norwegian road trip came as we were on the cusp of excitement at being just forty five minutes away from our destination. After hours on the road we were absolutely exhausted and itching to take a break from the Swift for a day, and to actually feel the fjordland, not just look at it. It wasn’t the ideal moment for the Sat Nav’s loyal pink line to mysteriously break by a circle of blue on the screen.
Oh yes: archipelago = an abundance of car ferries. We needed to take a boat to the peninsular on which we were staying. Of course.
It would no doubt have been a wonderfully exciting addition to the trip, were it not for the fact that there was absolutely no sign of the life at the port and no boats about to leave any day soon. We had no choice but to go back on ourselves for at least thirty minutes, before taking an alternative, much longer, route which added a further hour onto our journey. We were tired and a little fed up by this point but still able to absorb an important lesson which would stand us in good stead for our return journey:
‘Route Options’
‘Avoid Ferries’
Of course, what we also hadn’t anticipated about our Norwegian roadtrip, and what would create a nail-biting delay on our tightly time-bound journey back to the airport on our final day, was the sudden appearance of a fella in a high-viz jacket waving a red light on a stick instructing motorists to wait for an undefined period of circa twenty minutes whilst the world’s slowest traffic emerged from the tunnel ahead during roadworks. With little in the way of visible signage to explain what the wait was about, we had wondered whether the stick denoted a temporary or more permanent stop to traffic, and even reached the point of getting out of the car to ask Mr High Viz, only to be met with a very stony-faced response which was thankfully followed shortly afterwards with a green light on a stick. Phew.
When we had turned down the Automatic car at the car hire at Oslo airport, and refuted Mr. MoodymanonthephoneatSixt’s assertion that “everybody else just takes Automatics, why can’t you?” we had done ourselves an even greater favour than we first thought. On the day of our return journey to the airport, further snow had fallen in the mountains and we were driving through it before the gritters had made their way up there. To say it was a precarious thirty minutes of driving would be an understatement. Not only was my friend driving an unfamiliar vehicle, across sheets of black ice, but a heavy goods lorry had decided that this was the perfect time to tailgate us, and became quite unjustifiably irritated by our caution, flashing its headlights and casting us a long, bullying beep as it eventually overtook us on an icy decline. My friend did remarkably well to manage this and keep us safe, and neither of us feel we would have quite known how to do this on a totally different gear transmission.
From the ice and snow, the unanticipated delays, the lengthy tunnels and breathtaking scenery, it’s fair to say that this roadtrip had been one like no other, and back when booking the trip earlier in the year we could have had no idea about what would be awaiting us.
We returned the Suzuki Swift to Oslo Sandefjord airport just an hour before our flight was due to depart, and having set off from our chalet south of Bergen at 5:30am. We had spent a long time in the car but seen so much of the country that way, way more than we would have seen otherwise, and it only compounded my growing belief that there really is no travel quite like slow travel, no matter how much time it takes and how narrow the window with which you have to do it.
‘Indonesia’ – a name that will immediately evoke images of the exotic. An archipelago characterised by colour: blue seas, white sands, lush green palms and dazzling yellows of Durian flesh alongside the ravishing reds of the ‘rambutan’ (it means ‘hairy fruit’). Not to mention, of course, the ‘Angkots’, which are painted in bright purples, blues and oranges and zip dozens of huddled passengers wearing colourful hijabs round dusty streets whilst blaring out that same old D’Bagindas album from 2010 through speakers that crackle under the pressure of the driver’s desired volume. Sun-faded knick-kacks, accumulated over decades of travel, dance around on the dashboard, never failing to resist gravity with each sharp turn the vehicle makes.
…And the ominous dark grey skies that hang over the nation’s capital, Jakarta, as I sit alone inside a fast-food outlet at Arion Mall in the east of the city. Outside, the rain hammers down on traffic that will choke up the streets for hours to come, but the inevitable arrangement of horns thankfully cannot be heard from the refuge provided by this Mall. Instead, I am heckled by a quartet of teenage girls who marvel at the colour of my skin. Tourists don’t really come to these parts. I am here visiting friends who grew up in neighbourhoods not far from here, and if it weren’t for them, I doubt I would have come here either.
The young girls ask me a series of questions and take it in turns to pose with me in a picture. Picture after picture. The forced smile slowly dwindling into complete lack of expression with each flash from a Blackberry emblazoned with emoji stickers. I have humoured this contact for a while, but now I really just want to be finishing the half-eaten plate of fried chicken that sits before me. The girls ask for my Instagram username and when I eventually return to a place with WiFi I’ll suddenly see that I have four new followers. They’ll upload the photos from our meeting and decorate the captions with #foreigner.
Before I leave the Mall, I decide that it’s time to buy some Batik garments. I have always liked Batik, with its bright, bold colours and patterns. The clothes are always so unusual, and so unmistakably representative of the country I have come to love since completing a voluntary internship in 2010. An assistant with a huge smile approaches me. He is wearing a waistcoat and looks like he could be about to break into song. “Hello Miiiiss, can I help you?”
I immediately reply in basic and broken yet better-than-nothing Bahasa Indonesian that, “I like Batik. I look for Batik”
The assistant’s smile extends further and he begins to rifle through the collections passing me every single item of Batik to try on. He’s a natural salesman who no doubt has Rupiahs flashing in his eyes as I strenuously attempt to voice my approval of each piece using a very limited vocabulary of “Saya suka” (“I like”) or “Bagus” (“good”). Having trialled around a dozen or so garments, I eventually emerge from the changing rooms with the couple of dresses I have selected to go on and buy. The assistant eagerly waits by the door, enthused to hear about how I got on. He is pleased with the items I’ve chosen, but is also keen that I reconsider my decision not to buy a surprisingly rather dreadful-looking black and red piece. Whilst watching him redundantly point out all of its merits another dress catches my eye, and it looks like the size I see on display would fit me perfectly. I go and take a closer look.
“Errr maybe not this dress for you Miiiiiss as we only have this size, and errr you have fat”
For a second I take offence though it’s hard to continue to do so when it’s clear that none was meant. What amuses me most is the way in which a steadily growing rapport could suddenly cease due to a moment of lingual naivety. I smile at my new friend – my new attentive stylist – as he goes on to initiate the payment process before we bid one another Selamat Tinggal(goodbye) forever. Who could’ve guessed that this inconsequential scene, which lasted only 20 minutes and involved a man whose name I can’t even remember, nor probably never even knew in the first place, would’ve stayed in mind in the way it has all these years later? What is it about the characters we meet when travelling? Is it something to do with the language barriers, and how they enable us to view people in different ways? The smiles, the looks, the way in which any verbal exchange ends up holding considerably more weight because it took more effort? Maybe it’s to do with the scope for brutal honesty that is actually somewhat refreshing, for it is harder to maintain tact when you can only speak a few words of the language.
I go out into the rain and join the traffic on the Transjakarta busway back to my friend’s house. A five minute journey takes half an hour due to the clogged nature of the traffic. Equatorial rule dictates that daylight is limited, and so it’s already dark outside. It’s September 2015 and this is worlds away from the Indonesian experience of 2010, where I taught English to orphans in the beachside city of Padang, West Sumatra. Padang hosted a landscape much more reminiscent of the opening paragraph to this piece, but it doesn’t matter, because these real, rugged, unfiltered experiences are all just a part of the world I love. A world that hides beneath a map. A world that doesn’t make the guide-books because it’s not always deemed interesting enough, but a world that’s real and which leaves a permanent impression in the mind of a 29 year old (back then!) woman who originally set off only to eat some fried chicken in order to pass the time whilst waiting for a friend to finish work.
Song of the Day: D’Bagindas – Apa Yang Terjadi
The most apt choice. It would feel impossible not to hear this song at least five times a day whilst out and about in Indonesia, impressively during each of my visits there (2010, 2012 and 2015).
