World in Pictures: Istanbul – The Accidental Holiday

Posted on November 18, 2012 by Delia

Travel is never without hiccups. Or at least it isn’t, when Matty and I are involved. I’ve already mentioned the time we got stranded up a Lebanese mountain, and now I’ll tell you about the time we were meant to be flying to Portugal and accidentally ended up in Turkey.

It was a cold frosty December morning when we arrived at East Midlands Airport and we were fully intending to run the Lisbon half marathon two days later. We had all our running gear packed, we’d been (kind of) training for months and we were sort of prepared and very excited about becoming “international runners”. Having been to Lisbon before, we had taken a fairly gung-ho attitude with the whole planning side of things and didn’t buy our city guide until we got to the airport, where we excitedly sat down and starting planning.

Sipping water (like athletes) we kept an eye on the flight board, which continued to show no information about our flight. Eventually we got up and asked someone.

“No, your flight has been cancelled,” we were told.
“All flights to Spain and Portugal are cancelled due to air traffic control strikes.”

Got to love the continentals with all their strikes. Scratching our heads and realising we would not be running in the Lisbon half marathon after all, we wandered over to the bar and sank a couple of large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. Then we tackled the Easyjet desk.

It was like something out of a reality TV show – people doing their best angry faces, lots of loud phone calls being made in a variety of languages, there were even tears. Not from us mind you, we were just hoping they would fly us somewhere – anywhere a little bit warmer – plus I love airports, and felt like I was already on holiday (the Savvy B helped).

When we got to the front the woman looked up wearily and apologised for the cancelled flight.

“No worries,” we said cheerfully. “Where can you send us instead?”

She looked surprised, smiled and tapped away on her computer.

“Istanbul? Flight leaves in two hours,” she suggested.

Result. We were now flying twice the distance for the same price. So, clutching our freshly printed flight tickets, we headed back to WH Smiths to swap our unneeded Lisbon book with a much needed Istanbul one (much to the check-out girl’s amusement).

And that is why we ended up in Istanbul with nothing but the clothes on our backs and our running kits. And no, we didn’t run once.

Enjoy the pics x

Mmmm…. Turkish coffee should be adored by all

The markets are a dazzling array of colours

The super impressive Sultanahmet Camii (aka the Blue Mosque)

As if oblivious to the dozens of tourists in the Blue Mosque

The antique tram that runs down the main shopping throughfare Istikal Caddesi (and me)

Matty doing his research

The stunning interior of the Byzantine church Aya Sofya, which was the largest enclosed space in the world for almost 1,000 years (anyone know what is now?!)

Tee hee, this bird which was happily perched on a boulder at the top of the Gelata Tower, which offers superb views across the Golden Horn to the Old City, flew off after taking this picture… and landed on Matty’s head. Priceless.

City centre fishing: Dozens of fishermen line the Galata Bridge in Istanbul

The city has som fab street art…

Wicked arcitecture to be found at every turn

We fell in love with Istanbul, aside from its spectacular mosques and rich culture, it’s riddled with superb shops, bars, restaurants and cafes. The only city in the world to straddle two continents, perched across the Bosphorus that divides Asia from Europe, it really does feel like a wonderful mixing pot of many different worlds.

Chino Latino, Nottingham: Food Porn on a Plate

Posted on November 11, 2012 by Delia

WARNING: This post contains serious food porn. If you’re feeling peckish right now I suggest you eat something substantial before reading…

I first stumbled across Chino Latino at the Nottingham Food and Drink Festival this summer, when Old Market Square is transformed by dozens of stalls offering delicious treats from around the world. I was a bit of an embarrassment that week if I’m honest… I gave up any lunch-making ambitions and shamelessly ran to the square at noon every day to get my fill.

It was on one of these days that I noticed Chino Latino’s little stall that had chefs rolling sushi and impressively tossing ingredients around in a large wok. They had some gorgeous little dishes on offer and I went for the wasabi prawns. To this day I still talk about these prawns… There were about five of the giant, juicy fellas, dressed in a spicy, wasabi dressing, sitting in a large shell. They were divine.

That weekend when my friend Nicki visited I took her straight down to the square for a prawn fix.

She LOVED it

I pledged then and there that I would dine at Chino Latino before the year was up. And when it comes to food I never break a promise.

Finally, on a chilly, autumnal Tuesday evening last week I made it. Eating so early in the week can often be challenging when it comes to atmosphere, but I needn’t have worried about that. The restaurant, which sits underneath the Crowne Plaza Hotel on Maid Marian Way, was absolutely heaving, although I think its warm, dim lighting with red tones would still create an inviting atmosphere when empty.

The menu is basically a list of all my favourite things. It’s ‘Asian fusion’ so has a fabulous selection of small bites including sushi and dim sum as well as more international favourites like tempura, duck pancakes, chicken wings and Thai fritters. That’s even before we get to the ‘main courses’, but it’s the kind of place that encourages sharing, and we all know how I feel about that, so you don’t even have to order a main – you can just order lots of little dishes.

The staff were wonderful. And that means a lot to me. I spent years working as a waitress so I know how easy it is to be nice and helpful (bar the occasional nightmare customers who deserve every filthy look they get) – but unfortunately so many waiting staff seem to disagree with this. Not so at Chino Latino, our friendly waiter explained we could just order small plates, or one main plate with a few of the smalls – or just whatever we fancied. There were no rules. And I love nothing more than a good waiter with no rules.

Afters much ‘umming and ahhhhing’ we settled on about four small plates, a main to share and a delicious bottle (or two) of Chianti. The latter, the Chianti Superiere II Leo made in Ruffino, Italy, was a warm, spicy number with cheeky plummy after tones.

Our waiter explained that the food would be served as and when it was ready but said he would put breaks between some dishes. I was impressed by his foresight and managed to ignore the fancy pants within me who wanted to stipulate which dishes arrived when. I decided to trust him.

And sure enough, first up was the vegetable tempura. The very dish I would have asked to arrive first.

Juicy is not normally a word I would use to describe vegetables. Crunchy, fresh, green – yes, but not juicy. However, I have to say these vegetables were just that – chunky slices of aubergine, red pepper, courgette and sweet potato were deep fried in the lightest of tempura, allowing the oils to seep through and bring out the deep and unique flavours of each veg. With a light, sweet soy sauce to dip them in, I have never enthused so much about vegetables.

From the juicy, light veg, we tucked straight into some naughty dim sum of foie gras and shiitake mushrooms. I’ll let the picture do the work here…

Imagine breaking into those steamy buns?! The foie gras gave it a wonderfully rich edge but the mushrooms brought it down a ‘meaty’ peg or two, making for a mighty fine dumpling.

Meanwhile the scallops (pictured above – but again now to make sure you really understand them) were equally special.

Meaty and juicy, the pan-fried scallops were perfectly cooked and drizzled in a rich soy sauce. Their melt-in-the-mouth texture was enhanced by the creamy yuzu aioli and complemented by the crushed, crunchy wasabi peas sprinkled on top.

The crispy duck was also a raging success. Served whole and carved at our table, we happily rolled up little pancakes of meat, cucumber slices, spring onion slices and hoisin sauce.

And then, just when we thought it couldn”t get much better, we were served a basket of beef. That’s right, a basket of beef. Served piping hot but perfectly pink, the slivers of fillet came with a selection of three dips; wasabi, teriyaki and a garlic and chilli. And if that was not enough, you could actually eat the basket. It was made from threads of sweet potato, I might refuse to take any other kind of basket in the future.

This beautiful basket of beef was our “main course” dish

After initially rubbing our bellies and declining dessert, curiosity got the better of us and we asked to see the menu (for research purposes only you see). Upon perusing our options I immediately found a small, fifteenth of a stomach that was free for dessert and while it pains me to admit there wasn’t quite room for the chocolate and ginger fudge cake or the passion fruit cheesecake with blowtorch marshmellow (both of which I will have to return for), I did sign us up for the homemade exotic sorbets to “cleanse the palate”.

These little balls of rasberry, lychee, guava and mango sorbet were a taste sensation. My friend Lorna, who hath protested she needed no dessert just minutes earlier, cried: “Can you feel the goodness going into you?” as she sooped the sorbet up by the spoonfuls.

I can conclude that Chino Latino has not only made it into my all-time top three Nottingham restauarants, but is easily jostling for the first place position. It does come at a price with small plates ranging from £7 to £12 and mains from £11 to £25, but if you’re looking for something a little bit special to top the taste charts then it’s worth every penny. If, on the other hand, you’ve not got the budget for that then we’re only a (cold, bitter) winter away from the Nottingham Food and Drink Festival and my shell of meaty prawns only set me back about £4.

Travelling Lebanon: Rocks, Punctures and Guns

Posted on November 4, 2012 by Delia

There haven’t been many moments in my life where I’ve thought ‘Oh God, I might die here’. Admittedly there have been plenty of times (often on stunning white sandy beaches or at Michelin starred restaurants) where I have thought, ‘Oh God, I could die here’, which is, of course, a totally different thing.

But no, I haven’t feared a great deal for my life in the past – well, apart from the time a load of ladders flew off the top of a van while I was driving about 70 mph on the M25.

That was quite scary. And then there was the time that Matty, the Mongoose and I hired a car to drive around Lebanon. The Mongoose, aka Donagh, is our travelling buddy who we met many years ago in Australia and have since shared some wonderful adventures with.

And Lebanon was definitely one of them. An intoxicating mix of complex history, the friendliest people on earth and an uncertain future, Lebanon often feels like it’s just a day away from another bloody and horrendous war. Vulnerable and volatile, housing thousands of refugees and the infamous Hezbollah, many watch the little country closely, arguing the first sign of trouble in the Middle East will be seen here.

Nevertheless as you stroll its beautiful towns and villages, scattered with some of the largest and most impressive Roman ruins outside of Rome, it is hard to feel afraid.

Just a tiny fragment of the impressive Roman ruins in Baalbeck, Lebanon

Today Beirut is heaving with funky bars, clubs and cafes and is home to a burgeoning bourgeoisie, but the gunshot-wounded buildings serve as a stark reminder of the bullets that fell like rain as recently as six years ago. (In 2006 the Israelis and Hezbollah engaged in a 33-day war, which saw Hezbollah fire a hail of rockets into Israel and the Israeli’s bomb towns and villages across Lebanon – after eight Israeli soldiers had been kidnapped and killed by Hezbollah. And that was just a flash in the pan after the 25 year-strong civil war that ripped through the country until the early 1990s).

‘The Lebanese do not save their money,’ one girl told me in a Beirut bar.
‘We like to live life to the full, we spend all our money every day because you never know when it will end.’

Nevertheless, it was not a country we travelled timidly. We were there in September 2010 and felt surprisingly safe, embracing everything it had to offer – in our little white hire car.

We had been grounded in Bcharre, in the gorgeous World Heritage listed Qadisha Valley, for a few days because Matty had been struck down with the inevitable stomach bug that he always insists on getting whenever we visit foreign lands. But eventually we convinced him to make the short drive over the mountain range and Bekaa Valley to Baalbeck, land of the impressive Roman ruins. (The Mongoose doesn’t drive and we had decided not to put me on the licence for health and safety reasons), so Matty tensed his stomach and off we set.

It was a stunning drive, and as we weaved up one side of the mountain we were rewarded with magnificent views. We reached the top and slowly began to zig-zag down the other side. Or at least that was the plan. After one small zig, before we could begin to zag, we hit disaster. In the form of rocks.

The crumbling mountainside had gathered on the roadside and we had driven right over it. Almost immediately we heard the tyres pop and realised we were no longer in control of the car. Slowly Matty brought it to a stop and we surveyed the damage.

The front and rear right-hand tyres were completely flat. It soon dawned on us that we would not be able to get the car down the mountain, we were well and truly marooned. Then we realised we only had about half a litre of water, a few scraps of food, no shade and no real idea of what to do.

So we took some pictures.

The boys wandered down the road a little way to try and assess how long it would take to walk to safety. It was only about 11am but the winding road looked endless and with so little to eat and drink, we decided not to risk it.

We rang the hire company and were told that lo and behold, we had breakdown cover and that they would send someone from Beirut. It would take a ‘couple of hours’ but to just sit tight, help was on the way!

So we got our books and sarongs out and perched on the side of the mountain to enjoy the view. Well at least the Mongoose and I did, Matty was clutching his stomach, looking longingly at our half-empty bottle of water (and yes it was very half-empty, there was no half-full about it) – and worrying his next toilet trip.

As we lay there soaking up the rays, the occasional truck would drive past, crowded with men with large guns sticking out the side. We flinched a bit when the first couple drove past but soon got used to them, some even stopped to chat, clearly bemused to find tourists sunbathing on the mountainside.

After about two and a half hours we called the car hire company.

‘Yes, help is on the way,’ they assured us.

An hour later we had the same conversation. And after another hour passed we were told they were nearly here.

Then like a gift from the Gods, a man pulled over over and opened his boot to reveal rows and rows of sweet, sticky nuts and dried fruits. A food delivery!

The Mongoose couldn’t keep his hands off the poor man’s nuts…

We hungrily gazed at the treats, sampling a handful of different nuts before enquiring about the price. He wanted to charge us about £10 for a bag of nuts. We laughed and we sneered, we used all of our finest tactics to haggle him down. It didn’t work. We were stuck on a mountain, he had us cornered and he knew it.

Disgusted and hungry, I took my mountain seat once more and waved him off. I would not pay £10 for a bag of nuts – even if it was the last thing I did. And I started to wonder if it might be.

We called again. This time we were told our mountain-rescue-chariot was lost.
‘There are many roads over the mountain,’ the lady at the car hire shop told us.
‘He’s been up and down a few but can’t find you.’

‘But,’ we protested, ‘There’s only one road between Bcharre and Baalbeck on the map you gave us with the car. And that’s where we are. On that road. We’re on the blue line.’

But it seemed to fall on deaf ears. Meanwhile, the water was running dangerously low and I started seeing cashew nuts on the horizon. The sun was getting lower in the sky.

We made a few more calls and had the same sort of conversation. And we sat. And waited. And finished our water.

And then suddenly, just as the day was turning into dusk, our chariot arrived. We were being rescued! I practically hugged the spare tyres that he carried out of the van and danced around him as he wrenched up the car and removed our deflated rings of rubber with ease. After hours of waiting we were back up and running. Hungry and thirsty we were keen to finish our journey to Baalbeck in time for dinner.

‘You cannot go down this mountain now, it is too dark,’ our rescuer explained.
‘Dangerous people on this side of the mountain at night’, he said pointing down the roadside.
‘You must go back.’
He explained that we were actually now in Hezbollah land and must leave as soon as possible.

Realising for the first time that we may have actually been quite lucky, we nodded in agreement and followed our rescue chariot back the way we had come. Choosing not to go back to Bcharre, we stopped off at the Cedars, a ski resort that was a little closer and home to the country’s famous Cedar trees – a national emblem that can be found on the Lebanese flag.

The Lebanese flag painted on a wall in Tripoli, Lebanon

It was a balmy summer’s evening and the ski resort had a real ghost town feel to it. As we gingerly stepped inside an empty little restaurant, which had walls covered with framed pictures of skiers, we found a man who greeted us like his first guests since the snow had melted.

We took over a large table in the corner and the happy restaurant owner, once a famous skier he told us, covered every inch of it in mezze dishes.

It was a feast for Kings. There was rich, creamy hummus, marinated barbecued meats, delicious salads, soft warm breads, stuffed vine leaves, the smokey flavours of baba ganush (a tasty combination of mashed Aubergine and olive oil) and much more.

The next day we managed to make it to Baalbeck, and about five days later we returned to Beirut where we were staying with a friend of the Mongoose’s.

‘Good to see you’ve made it back ok’ he said as he opened his front door.
‘Did you hear what happened to the tourists on the mountain?’ He asked.
We thought it was a stitch up. But it wasn’t.

About 24 hours after our escapade a couple of Polish tourists had been kidnapped from almost exactly the same spot. They were thrown into the back of a car and because the driver failed to stop at one of the many police patrol checks that line the roads in Lebanon, the police opened fire on them. The police killed the driver but remarkably the Polish tourists, although shaken, were unscathed and freed.

It was hard to swallow. Later that night, as we sampled some of Lebanon’s fine wines in one of Beirut’s funky little bars, we reflected on how unbelievably lucky – and incredibly stupid we had been.

But actually I hadn’t really feared for my life once up that mountain. It’s so easy to feel safe in Lebanon and forget about the conflict that is bubbling away under the surface. The mounting volatility is well disguised and hides behind the sheer beauty of the country and its kind warm-hearted residents, who will invite you in for a cup of tea or drive you 10 miles to find your lost camera (yes that happened) without wanting anything in return.

On the other hand, the M25 is just plain dangerous.

Iberico, Nottingham: The King of Tapas in his Castle of Churros

Posted on October 30, 2012 by Delia

There’s a new word that’s entered restaurant vocab of late. It has just quietly slipped in, unannounced, and often comes up during those precious moments when you’re scanning the menu, desperately trying to absorb what’s on offer, keen to make sure you make the right decision. Fomo.

Fomo, my friends, means the Fear Of Missing Out and it’s a growing condition. It tends to strike when two people are torn between the same dishes. When one makes a decision, the other turns to her decisively (and a little bit bitterly) and says: ‘Well I shall have to have the same otherwise I’ll be riddled with fomo.’ Ok she might not say riddled, but you get the idea.

To be fair, it has a point. There is nothing worse than spending an entire dinner staring at someone else’s food, wishing it was yours.

But this is why I am such a fan of tapas. Specifically, tapas at Iberico in Nottingham.

Tucked away under Nottingham’s busy pavements in the caves of the Lace Market, this is the perfect place to while away an evening ordering two, three, four even five small dishes. And obviously the Spanish designed tapas so that you also get to share all the dishes ordered by your dinner companion too. It’s perfect for a fomo-free night of nibbling.

It’s white, low-arched ceilings create a warmth that feels almost unimaginable when pacing the pavements above on a cold winter’s day, and the cosiness is further intensified by the restaurant’s soft lighting and the Arabic mosaic tiles that adorn the bar.

Apologies for the poor quality of the pics, the cosy, warm lighting played havoc with my camera

But it is the quality of the food that makes this place stand out from the crowd. You will find all the tapas regulars on the menu like patatas bravas, chorizo and totrilla but you will also find an endless list of ever-changing imaginative dishes like its infamous black cod in spicy miso, the scallops with smoke cured pork belly and cauliflower foam or beef skewers with truffle sauce. To put it bluntly, Iberico makes La Tasca taste like fast food. So it is no surprise to learn that it has just picked up a pretty impressive food gong – the Michelen Bib Gourmand, which is an accolade given to “good value” restaurants by the most respected food guide in the world.

Dishes are priced at anything from about £4 to £8, which I agree is good value for the quality here – but as my belly is so often dwarfed by my big, greedy eyes, it is easy to walk away with a bill larger than one would reasonably expect for two people. However, on my most recent trip I sampled the early-bird menu which took this problem right out of my hands.

For just £13.95 you can have two tapas dishes and two chunky slices of their delicious Catalan bread (imagine crusty door-step toast made from the softest bread, smothered in a herby, garlic tomato paste). It works. Plus dessert is also included.

The early-bird menu also scores points because it doesn’t just leave you with the cheap dishes to choose from. We ordered the pan fried squid with chorizo jam, jamon croquetta, the sausage and bean cassoulet with confit of duck and the wild mushroom, kale and chilli empanadilla. It was hard to pass on the delicious sounding roasted cauliflower in curry mayonnaise with almonds and rice and the grilled hake with piquillo pepper, green olive and lemon salsa – but that is just testament to the great selection on the bargain menu.

The wine menu is equally impressive and we ordered a beautiful bottle of Montepulciano that arrived at the perfect temperature, despite the almost icy weather outside.

And after about 15 minutes or so our food began to arrive. Iberico serves the dishes as soon as they’re ready so be prepared to finish one dish before the last has arrived, but it does mean you can enjoy each dish while its hot and fresh from the pan.

The cassoulet was the perfect winter warmer. The duck confit gave a delicious rich flavour, while the chunky pieces of chorizo and stewed beans contributed to its rustic and robust texture. And the squid was just as impressive. It’s reassuring to be offered squid without its usual coat of batter, instead the delicate flavours of the al dente pan-fried squid were accentuated simply by salt and pepper – and a sweet, sticky chilli jam on the side.

The mushroom patties (aka empanadilla) were fab. These delightful little parcels of crumbly puff pastry were stuffed with finely chopped marinated wild mushrooms and the kale, which it was served with, had a nutty sweet flavour. I was a little bit in love.

And the jamon croquetta fingers were equally delightful. Their crispy bread-crumbed shells broke away to reveal a creamy, cheesy béchamel dotted with ham. I remember loving Findus crispy pancakes as a kid but returning to them years later and realising, with horror, that they were awful. However, I must confess that these croquettes are, to my matured taste buds, what Findus was to my five year-old self; a guilty, creamy pleasure.

And then it was time for dessert. Just look at this…

Like a castle with turrets of Spanish doughnut; the churros was something special. The fried dough-pastry fingers were perfectly crispy on the outside, sprinkled in cinnamon sugar, but beautifully melt-in-the-mouth soft on the inside. And the hot chocolate dip (yes it comes with hot chocolate dip) was wonderfully rich, thick and creamy. I was in heaven.

So there you have it, the essential guide to dealing with fomo; you can order, taste and fall in love with everything on your table… without any fear in the world.

DISCLAIMER: If you’re eating from Iberico’s standard menu you will be spoilt with a huge selection of tasty tapas. The cheese board is to die for and the black cod is amazing. In fact, unless you are dining with a small group of people, and can order at least 12 dishes, you may still suffer from fomo. Sorry about that.

Food Facts

The express early evening menu is available from 5.30pm to 6.45pm Monday to Friday, and we had to vacate our table by 8.30pm for the evening diners. It costs £13.95 for two tapas dishes, the Catalan bread and dessert (the churros and hot chocolate incurred an extra £2 supplement).

You can also get the same deal at lunch time during the week for £11.95.

Iberico World Tapas lives at the Shire Hall, High Pavement in the Lace Market and you can call them on 0115 9410410.

The Tea Trolley, Nottingham: Giving even more ‘reasons’ to eat

Posted on October 24, 2012 by Delia

I’m sure you’re all more than aware by now that I do not need ‘reasons’ to eat. If I’m honest, sometimes I tuck into some delicious looking fodder when I’m not even hungry, I just really fancy it. My hips and my wallet get most upset when this happens, but I’m not sure it’s something I can really control.

But now I have discovered a little place, just a stone throw away from where I work, that has given me yet even more ‘reasons’ to eat.

The Tea Trolley in Chapel Bar has only recently opened and is a quirky little room that feels more like someone’s living room than a cafe. It has a sort of 1970s tea-cosy feel to it, with spoon backed wooden chairs and a handful of little round tables. In fact I felt like I had walked right into the cafe scene of Withnail and I.

But that’s not my new ‘reason’ to eat.

Flicking through the menu I was impressed. The cafe has a great list of lunch options – salads, sandwiches, paninis, soup – but with some really nice (and cheap) variations. Take the Italian panini for example, thick sliced vine ripened tomato, homemade basil pesto and torn mozerella, freshly made for just £2.50. The soup of the day just £1.50. My friends, this little gem of a place undercuts the Boots lunch deal.

I opted for a jacket potato with cheese and beans, for £2.50. Randomly this is often a meal I crave at work and I have sampled a number of jacket potato eateries across the city. Many are very good but most are just takeaways, served in polystyrene containers dripping with bean juice – and while I’m at it – come with a plastic fork that snap at the first hurdle of crusty potato skin.

This, on the other hand, came on a plate, with proper cutlery, and was served with a good portion of REAL MATURE cheddar cheese. Nothing makes me more angry then a potato with that awful mild, rubbery stuff piled up on top. And I mean nothing.

Phwoar, would you look at the cheese on that?

It was a great jacket potato. But that’s not my new ‘reason’ to eat.

No, no, behind the funky interior of the cafe – and its good, mature cheese – lies something even cooler. The Tea Trolley is actually a social enterprise.

It is run by South Notts College and Mencap and gives people with learning difficulties the opportunity to work and earn a NVQ in catering. So while you scoff on your afternoon tea (£10 for two I seem to recall), the people serving you are earning some genuinely valuable life skills.

And surely even my hips and wallet can’t argue with that.

World in Pictures: Lenton Flats, Nottingham

Posted on October 19, 2012 by Delia

The Lenton Flats in Nottingham are like the Eiffel Tower to Paris, the Shard to London, or the Empire State Building to New York.

Of course I’m exaggerating, they never quite made it as a tourist destination, but nevertheless the five 1960s tower blocks dominate Nottingham’s skyline, well if you live in that part of town anyway.

But not for much longer. Nottingham City Council is pulling the whole lot of them down… They are going the way of the dodo.

In my job as a reporter I went out there for resident reaction (yes I was the person ringing all the buzzers until someone let me in), which gave me the opportunity to explore a place that will soon become a little piece of history that separates generations. And contrary to the popular belief that no one would want to live in these ‘eyesores’, I found people in spacious, well looked after flats with tenants who were sad to leave. Yes, they said it was cold in the winter but they had raised their children here, their grand-children lived round the corner, Mavis upstairs is their best friend.

But the council says they are not financially viable and I’m sure they’re not. They are building new, warmer homes in their place. But as I walked around the estate that has been a landmark for so long, and a home to so many, I found myself singing ‘The Way of the Dodo’ by The Streets. And here are my pictures… to the lyrics.

I’m right behind you but don’t expect me to ride like it’s a race

Conspiracy theories – we all see these

Just another brother trying to love my son and mother

Scramble for the top, for the bottom of the ceiling

For the kids let’s make the rules

It’s not that I don’t care, just that I’m way too caught up with breathing air to grieve the trees

I can’t imagine the day when things have actually faded away

Gili Trawangan Night Market: Tasty, Budget Food with No Frills (literally)

Posted on October 12, 2012 by Delia

I would like to discuss a theory I have about restaurants with you. It’s a philosophy that Matty and I carry, perhaps controversially, across the world on our travels. It’s not about what warrants chefs to throw toenails into stews, nor is it about judging a waitress by the number of wine glasses she can carry in one hand (I can carry five since your asking) – or even a conclusive theory about tipping. Although I admit all of those would be helpful. No, no, I believe you can judge a restaurant by its tablecloths alone.

And when I say a restaurant, I really mean the price of its menu. It’s a simple theory really – the skankier and more threadbare the cloth; the cheaper the bill. Here’s a quick guide to restaurant prices based on this scientifically proven (well I have eaten a lot) theory.

White linen tablecloths – Woah there Billy Big Bollocks, you are going to be flashing your cash. Just how much will depend on the quality of that linen, if it’s matched with big heavy, sparkling silverware you could be paying in excess of £10 for a cocktail. And that’s just my aperitif…

‘Funky’ wooden tables with no cloth – You could be in a bistro, a gastropub, a carpenter’s studio. But either way you’ll be paying a fair whack… It’s all about the girth ladies, the chunkier the wood the more you’re paying. Fact.

Dark coloured cotton – You’re probably in an Indian restaurant. It disguises the curry you see. But it’s a popular choice in other cuisines too and a reliable sign of a low-mid price restaurant. Be prepared to pay anything from £8-15 for your main course.

The patterned tablecloth – It’s very likely you’re either in a vegetarian art-covered cafe or a tea shop. Either way the price is coming down and you can potentially enjoy an afternoon tea or falafel burger for about £5.

The plastic tablecloth – If you don’t leave your elbows on the table too long you’ll be fine, especially if you’re on a first date. There’s something decisively awkward about the sound of skin ripping off a plastic-covered table, ‘She had heavy arms,’ he’ll tell his mates. But hell, he’ll get a cheap bill.

No tablecloth – And we’re talking about revealing a naked, ugly table underneath; possibly something resembling a decorator’s table, a plastic table or some scratchy metal surface. We’re entering serious no frills here. If you’ve got less than £5 in your pocket and need a feast this is the place to pull up a pew.

Matty and I have walked streets across the world, from Ibiza to Lebanon, exclaiming, ‘Oh no, look at the tablecloth on that, we can’t afford to eat there.’ You actually don’t need to look at the menu after a while, a quick glance at the tables is all you need.

I would like to add that we have often had some of our best food on plastic tablecloths and at bare, naked plastic tables, so I’m afraid this chart is not much use in judging the quality of food. However, it can be a lifesaver when backpacking on a shoestring.

On our recent trip to Gili Trawangan we found the perfect spot for these special tablecloth free evenings, and I’m not talking about girth now. The Gili T food market is a brilliant find if you’re looking for cheap grub. I say ‘find’ but you can’t really miss it; a huge square, which stands empty by day, turns into a hive of plastic tables, bucket chairs, wooden benches and hungry tourists by nightfall. Big simmering cauldrons of soups sit on hob rings on food carts while fish lay in ice ready to be barbecued and traditional Balinese black rice pudding is whipped up for afters. There is barely a tablecloth in sight – and the ones that are present are both plastic and stapled to the table.

Our favourite stall was one that belonged to a woman who had trays of marinated fish and meats next to a huge barbecue.

Here she is, the woman in green.

This, my friends, is where you can pick up five skewers of barbecued chicken, beef or prawns with an assortment of delicious salads and a side portion of rice for just 25,000 Indonesian Rupiahs, which is about £1.70. What a bargain! The chicken was succulent and the salads were delicious, my favourite being a fresh green bean number, dressed in a soy sauce based dressing.

And the stall behind her, with the yellow and red lettering, prepares what might just be the best pancakes in the Southern Hemisphere. These little beauties really put the cake in pancake. Huge folds of fried batter came drizzled in melted chocolate, bananas and condensed milk. Served in a cardboard box it was like a huge chunk of sweet, pancake flavoured cake, costing just 15,000 Rupiahs (about £1). It was beautiful. I queued for about half an hour, much to Matty’s disgust, but it was worth every minute. And I’m a bad blogger because I just inhaled it, without even taking a picture.

We actually couldn’t finish it between us. It was that big. But I do hate to see good food go to waste so we offered to another couple on our table, who turned out to be from Lincolnshire.

Fortunately they didn’t think we were crazy (or at least not at that stage anyway) and the pancake sharing soon turned into Bintang drinking with our newfound friends Jane and Simon. And as we sat there exchanging tales and drinking the chilled beers (available from ice boxes at all good food carts) I couldn’t help but think it would have all turned out differently if there had been white linen tablecloths involved.

So there’s my secret, what’s yours? If you have any tips about finding good budget eats when travelling, or any restaurant recommendations, please share!

Learning to surf in Kuta, Bali

Posted on October 10, 2012 by Delia

‘Don’t go there,’ almost every traveller warned us, in dark and fearful tones.
‘It’s a concrete jungle… Blackpool for Australians… the Magaluf of the Southern Hemisphere.’
The list went on.

We didn’t intend to visit Kuta, in fact we had positively decided not to. But things change.
Namely Matty (‘young, hip and urban Matty’) said he wanted to check it out… ‘Have one night on the town’, he said. So we agreed to stay for two days only, taking a day trip to the nearby Seminyak and Denpaser on the second day. And I’m glad we did it. Kind of.

Famous for its fabulous, wide 12km stretch of beach, Kuta is riddled with touts and hawkers. You cannot close your eyes for a minute without feeling someone tugging on your shoulder crying ‘massage, massage’, as everything from carved bow and arrows to pirate DVDs are thrust into your face.

The only way you can escape the madness is to get into the sea… There you are safe from it all. And I think this is why so many people surf. That and the amazing breaks. (Have I got the lingo right? I’m working on this).

So partly out of desperation to escape the touts and partly because well… when in Rome and all that, we threw ourselves into the sea for a surfing lesson. Not before a bit of haggling mind you.

The beaches are lined with ~~hunky~~ Indonesian surfer bods who sit around small stands of surf boards that are propped up in the sand. These guys are pretty entrepreneurial, you have to give them that, not only do they rent surf boards, give surfing lessons and sell drinks in little cool boxes but come sunset they line their little plastic chairs up to face the sinking sun and serve ice chilled Bintang. Perfect.

We played the regular ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine for haggling down the surfing lesson. This is a technique my lovely friend Carly and I perfected on our ‘gap year’ and basically involves one person doing totally unreasonable haggling while the other person looks on at said tradesman with sympathetic eyes and nods as if to say I-know-she’s-a-nightmare-but-I’m-a-good-person-and-we-all-know-you’re-asking-for-too-much.

Needless to say when Matty and I play the game I am the bad cop and he is not just the good cop but a bloody angel of a cop. He even says ‘I know she’s a nightmare’ to the said tradesmen. I’ve tried telling him that he’s meant to say it with his eyes but I don’t think he gets it. Anyhow, it worked and we were soon armed with surf boards and surfers ready to teach us the way of the waves.

I’d like to say I charged into the water with the surf board tucked under my arm Baywatch style, but I didn’t. I entered the water looking more like a criminal whose ankle tag had accidentally become attached to someone else’s surf board and I hadn’t realised. So Ketut (my surf instructor) strolled into the water holding the surf board and I ran behind him trying desperately not to trip over the cord that ran between the board and my ankle.

Many people choose to go to surf school in Kuta where, for a lot more cash, you spend the best part of a day learning to surf. Lessons often start in a swimming pool before you’re taken to the beach. And while, I cannot vouch for this method, I really recommend just having a go with the guys on the beach.

They were fantastic and gave us a 10 minute explanation on the sand (which saw us lying on the surf boards like beached whales) before we entered the ocean. It was a little tricky, I won’t lie.

Ketut held my board in the right direction and let go just as the right wave came my way, so really he did most of the work, the wave did the rest of the work. All I had to do was get up. But first few times I didn’t even try.

‘Why are you not trying?’ Asked Ketut, clearly confused by my apparent determination to just ride out the waves on my belly.

‘I wasn’t psychologically ready,’ I tried to explain. This is a phrase I over-use, as my good friend Nicki knows only too well after she accompanied for my first ever skiing trip. I said it a lot… Perched at the top of a terrifying green run, just as we were about to get on a ski lift, the time she tricked me into snow ploughing down a red run. I spent most of our trip crying ‘I’m not psychologically ready’.

So anyway after belly boarding about three waves I attempted to stand. It’s a strange old concept… My hands gripped the sides of the board, I pushed the top half of body up, right foot forward, left foot forward and voila… I was up! So it didn’t happen immediately, but it did happen, quite a few times.

And I liked it. It was cool. I was just standing on a board riding the waves… It was totally rad man. And then as I got closer to the shore I could see the water was running out and I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I just sort of threw myself off – but I meant to you see.

And that was definitely the best bit about Kuta. The rest of it is everything we had been warned of. The streets are traffic-choked, heaving with tourists, rammed with touts and tack and, sadly starved of the beautiful culture we had grown accustomed to in Bali.

Come evening the main strip, Jalan Legian, turns into something else entirely… It’s like an ugly cross between Ko San Road in Bangkok and London’s Picadilly Circus, minus the lady boys. It is a intoxicating mix of neon lights, loud music and snail-crawling traffic. But yes, we did have a good night out.

A memorial to remember the 202 people who died in the Bali bombing of 2002 in Jalan Legian. Built in the spot of the bar that was bombed, it has a strange aura of calmness in an otherwise chaotic street.

We felt compelled to see Kuta, and that we did. But you don’t need more than a day and one night. So if you’re going to go then go now, quickly, before they put the touts on surf boards. It is, surely, only a matter of time.

Travel Tips

Don’t pay more than 100,000 Rupiahs (£6) per hour for surfing on the beach with the locals. Someone tried to charge us 300,000 each but with one instructor. Instead we got an instructor each for 100,000 in the end. Play the cop game! The surf in Kuta, we’ve been told, is ideal for beginners and while we had nothing to compare to it was certainly manageable. If I can stand up anyone can!

The food in Kuta was terrible – full of crap restaurants catering to western tastes badly. We did not have one good meal. Do your research and maybe you’ll have more luck than us!

We stayed at Fat Yogi Cottages in Poppies Gang I and it was absolutely wonderful. It’s very central, you’re right in the heart of Kuta but bizarrely, it was lovely and quiet. Rooms start at about 200,000 Rupiahs, we upgraded and spent 340,000 for a room that was really worth the extra pennies… Large walk-in shower with hot water, big spacious room and very clean.

The pool was lovely, there’s Matty on the right-hand side ordering our breakfast.

World in Pictures: The People of Bali

Posted on October 8, 2012 by Delia

The people in Bali are a beautiful bunch. Blessed with big, bright smiles, glossy hair and romantically chiselled faces, many are undeniably good looking. But it is the beauty I found underneath all of that – their warmth, their friendliness, their sheer delight when you attempt to speak their language, that really sets them apart.

This beautiful man works at the Monkey Temple in Ubud and while hundreds of tourists coo and scream at the scavenging monkeys he just goes about his job, sweeping leaves and tidying the place up. He seemed quite bemused when I stopped him to ask if he’d mind being in my picture, he laughed and pointed at the monkeys as if to say ‘they’re the bloody attraction, not me!’ But nevertheless he obliged.

Fortunately, people in Bali always seemed quite happy for me to take their picture, I’d make that international sign of an over-exaggerated shutter push and they’d smile and nod and pause for a minute to allow me to capture a split second of their world.

I guess they’re used to it. But while hundreds of thousands of tourists descend on their tiny little island every year, most Balinese have never left. One of the nicest people I met in Bali was our lovely taxi driver Ketut, which literally means fourth son, who drove us from Kuta to Denpasar. Unbelievably they only have four names in Bali, each one represents the birth order and if a fifth child is born the cycle just starts again.

Anyhow it was on this journey that Ketut explained to us that the Balinese don’t have enough money to travel. Not just because their wages, which may allow them to live comfortably in their local villages, don’t translate into international air tickets, but more because of what they choose to spend their money on.

‘Ceremonies,’ he explained.
‘Our Hindu faith means we spend years and years saving for our ceremonies. Weddings, funerals, cremations are very, very expensive. We spend it all on ceremonies.’

So there you have it, while I am busy saving for a holiday for me, a new camera lens for me, some clothes for me, another holiday for… yep me, many Balinese spend their whole lives saving for ceremonies for their families. And I guess when you look at it like that, posing for a picture is an easy thing to give.

A taxi rank in Ubud.

A stall owner in Ubud… his stall must have one of the best backdrops in the world.

The children in Denpasar who put flowers in my hair…

A woman blesses her offerings for the day in Ubud.

Setting the scene for a traditional dance performance at Ubud Palace.

Jimbaran’s rambling beach band

And of course, my favourite man of all, Gung Bawa, who I will be eternally grateful to.

World in Pictures: Goose Fair, Nottingham

Posted on October 7, 2012 by Delia

In Nottingham autumn is not marked by the change in the colour of leaves, nor the need for a scarf. No, no, it is marked purely by the arrival of a goose. When the goose lands on the Mansfield Road roundabout you know the season has officially changed and its time to crack open the winter wardrobe.

The Goose Fair, one of Europe’s largest travelling fairs, rocks up at the Forest Recreation Ground every October. This weekend it’s the fair’s 718th visit and to celebrate the milestone I’ve put together a few of our pics from the past couple of years (and drunk a bottle of Chianti). Add hundreds and hundreds of people, the smell of sweet, sticky candy floss in the air and five different booming songs playing from rides all around you, and then, and only then, will you get a true picture of the infamous Goose Fair.