The best street food in Istanbul: The Islak Hamburger

Posted on May 3, 2013 by Delia

Sometimes you visit a city and need to tell the world about its crumbling city walls, stunning churches and mosaic mosques. Other times you need to eulogise about its food. Specifically a hamburger.

The Islak hamburger may only cost £1 and look like a heart-stopping combination of soggy bap and dirty meat, sold on unreliable street corners across Istanbul – but allow me to dispel such myths.

After purchasing said burger from a kind looking man at a stand on Taksim Square (where it had been sitting in a hot glass tank for longer than is probably worth thinking about), I was delighted to discover how soft the bread was. Biting into the warm, soft bap, a rich meat infused tomato sauce oozed out.

A few bites later, I was into the heart of the burger… a herby, spiced lamb mince pattie that made me make inappropriate noises and earn unfavourable looks from passer-by’s.

The Islak Burger is, my friends, the burger of kings, the king of burgers – the burger that looks down at Burger King from his hot, glass tank and mocks their dry baps and spiceless meat.

The pictures of me actually eating it are not suitable for public viewing but here’s me being all excitable by the stand.

However, if you are after something a little more fresh tasting then I can also heartily recommend making your way to the Gelata Bridge (that crosses over the Golden Horn) to one of the stalls where the fish is grilled fresh from the fishermen’s net. Meaty mackerel (or whatever the catch of the day is) is thrown into a crunchy baguette, drizzled in fresh lemon juice and topped with giant rocket leaves and crunchy onion slices, with a slight sprinkle of salt and paprika.

This will set you back just £2 – which means you can definitely go back for seconds.

Istanbul is a street food lover’s haven… We drank the juice of three freshly squeezed oranges (costing 50p) every day and munched on giant sesame seed sprinkled pretzels, costing about the same.

But it is the rows of dirty looking burgers that is the real secret gem in the city’s street food scene. Trust me*.

PS If you want to know more about the highlights of the city then take a look at my picture-led post from when Matty and I first visited Istanbul a couple of years ago.

*The hamburger was tried and tested after about four pints of Turkey’s finest Efes lager.

So, What’s Bucharest Like?

Posted on April 30, 2013 by Delia

As we hastily packed our bags* in a dorm room in Budapest, a balding, middle aged man from the opposite bunk enquired where we were off to next.

‘Bucharest,’ I replied, trying to shove two backpacks worth of toiletries into the top of my rucksack.

He slowly sucked in his breath through his yellowing teeth and gave us a knowing look. He had some advice for us: ‘Be careful of the Romanians, watch your bags closely,’ he said, before adding in a brighter and more positive tone: ‘But they do have hookers. They are very cheap.’

Hard to know how to respond to such advice, but fortunately time was not on our side as we had a train to catch. So, it was with that newly formed preconception of Romania’s capital, that we boarded the sleeper train to Bucharest. The Lonely Planet’s description that travellers often ‘depart shell shocked’ was also less than encouraging, and the Romanian in our carriage did his best to convince us to go anywhere and everywhere in his home country… except Bucharest.

But nevertheless, 17 hours later, looking almost as dishevelled as the city itself, we stepped off the train – to be greeted by stray dogs and a ferocious looking ticket woman who begrudgingly booked us onto the next train to Istanbul. In the meantime, we had 24 hours to explore the city.

It felt a bit like seeing your elderly grandparents surrounded by pictures of their younger selves… you can see how good they once looked and you know they didn’t always need a walking stick – but somehow you can’t really imagine it. Bucharest is exactly that. Beautiful, grand old buildings are now chipped and crumbling while once-glinting domed roofs are brown and rusty. Scattered among such shabby chic architecture stand the bland, concrete towers of the Soviet era.

The city is a picture of faded grandeur but just when you think you’re beginning to suss it out, Bucharest throws a curveball at you. Like the moment we turned a corner to discover a huge, tree lined boulevard that is six metres longer than Paris’s very fine Champs Elysees, with a huge, imposing palace-like building at the far end.

The Mongoose and I look onto the huge Palace of Parliament, the brain child of Comunist dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, which was never finished.

And then just 20 minutes later we found ourselves on the cobbled, continental streets of the old town, where tables line the pavements and hundreds of people spend afternoons and evenings wining and dining into the early hours.

Irish pubs, Italian restaurants and bars that would not be out of place in Ibiza are hustling and buslting, as if waiting for European stag dos to discover them. One Glazweigan pub even displayed a banner claiming, ‘We proudly welcome heavy drinkers’.

Oddities at every corner

But just when we started warming to this strange city, which often seems completely at odds with itself, I saw that man in the hostel again… grinning and rubbing his thighs. Because sex tourism is clearly a well-cornered market here after all.

The 'information' stand in our hotel's reception largely contained exotic massage material.

So when my good friend rang me just after we had bid farewell to the city and asked, ‘So what is Bucharest like?’ I found myself stumbling over my words, unsure of exactly how to define the city… or what I thought of it. Is the architecture stunning or tragic? Is the vibe upbeat or desperate? Are the people happy or sad? Is it stuck in the past or looking to the future? I certainly didn’t leave shell shocked but I did depart feeling somewhat mystified by a city that still seems to be working out its own identity.

*We might have been packing our bags hastily because I may have developed an unfortunate habit of making up train times, which are actually completely wrong and only realised about half an hour before the actual time. This might have happened on more than one occasion.

A Dummies Guide to Surving Sleeper Trains across Europe

Posted on April 30, 2013 by Delia

Chugging along rolling countryside, watching green fields turn into slums, and slums grow into cities – there is hardly a more pleasant way to travel. So far, just six days into the big trip, we have already spent about 72 hours on trains.

We’ve sampled everything from posh trains with fancy buffet cars to rickety, smoke-choked carriages where even conductors are puffing away beneath the ‘No Smoking’ signs. We’ve sat, cooped up with strangers in couchettes, swigging wine from the bottle watching the world go by in Hungary, while rationing our last bottle of water meanly travelling through Bulgaria in the baking sun – and we’ve encountered many an unsmiling passport officer at borders, where the trains seemingly sit for hours on end.

Matty, the Mongoose and I will often glance up from our reading, journal writing or travel planning activities to exclaim excitement over the change in landscape, prompting all three of us to rush to the open windows and hang our heads out like panting dogs in a hot car. The phrase ‘travel is about the journey not the destination’ must have been coined by a train enthusiast.

And perhaps the best bit, for me at least, is snuggling down in my little train bed in one country, falling alseep to the reassuring chug of the train, and waking up in another country altogether.

Matty showing you how it's done on our Budapest to Bucharest sleeper train

But, there are you things you need to know before embarking on such trips. So, without further ado here are my handy tips for inter-railing across Europe on sleeper trains.

1) Shop, shop, shop! Buy all your provisions for the journey before you get to the station – you can never be guaranteed of a buffet car… as was the case on our 17 hour journey to Istanbul from Bucharest. Upon boarding a two-carriage train with just a small picnic for lunch, we realised the only facilities on the train consisted of a man in a white vest selling flat, warm fizzy water. In desperation this saw me buy Bulgarian Levs from a stranger and Matty and Donagh leg it across a random Bulgarian station mid-journey, with just five minutes to spare to get provisions.

They returned with this. And let me tell you Flirt Vodka will liven up any journey.

Matty and the Mongoose train feasting at a previous, better planned picnic

2) If you spy any rich-looking westerners, struggling with their over-sized suitcases, offer to help them. They will probably tip you, which will help buy those much needed drinks in the buffet car.

In fact, the tip was big enough for three large Weiss biers on our Munich to Salzburg train. True story.

3) Take lots of photos…

Train photos are cool. Here’s some of me and the Mongoose taken by Matty…

And a few more snaps…

4) When you go into the sleeper car, space is tight and you’re often sharing it with six people. Get everything you need for the night out of your rucksack before putting it into the luggage shelves above the top bunks – once it’s up, it ain’t coming down. Wash bag, towel, PJs etc…

5) Once the bags are up, sit down on the lower couchette with your roomies for the night- ask if you can push the middle couchette up to avoid having to hunch. You never know, they may just give you the best tips for your next destination… and at least it will avoid the whole carraige bunking down for bed at 8pm.

6) TAKE EAR PLUGS. TAKE EAR PLUGS. TAKE EAR PLUGS. Did I mention, pack some ear plugs? The snoring can be phenomenal… personally I think snoring tests should be carried out before tickets are issued and the snorers should be made to sleep together in a tiny little couchette where they can snore in harmony like a six-piece nasal band, making the kind of music nobody else wants to hear.

8) Open your eyes and enjoy… the train will take you through communites and parts of countries you would never otherwise come across. It’s magical.

Why you should visit Budapest…

Posted on April 28, 2013 by Delia

Every now and then you visit a place that you don’t just love, you adore. You walk through the streets but really you want to skip, you pause somewhere and you want time to stop, you go for coffee and imagine returning every Saturday morning with a paper… when you live there.

It doesn’t happen to me very often but when it does it hits me hard. Melbourne, Beirut, Lisbon, Brighton and Bristol. I could live in any of them. And now I have a new one for the list.. Budapest.

The last (and first) time I visited Budapest was 10 years ago and I was at university, travelling for the first time with a group of eight friends. But when I returned this time I felt like I was seeing it for the very first time. I’m not sure if the city has changed, if my memory is terrible or I just saw the city with a youthful naivety all those years ago… but wow, Budapest is ace.

The skyline is exactly how I remember it. The fabulous Danube River swims between Buda and Pest, with each side boasting impressive architectural delights.

But the city has an underbelly that passed me by on my last visit… Dozens of old ruinous buildings, once home to a vibrant Jewish community before WWII, have been transformed into weird and wonderful underground bars and restaurants. The kind where No Smoking signs are made from lace and people sit in bath tubs while sipping G&T’s.

Matty and Donagh in Szimpla Kerta - the 'daddy' of the ruinous bars

Yes that's right, she is sitting in a bath tub

And if youre not sure what to order, try the Palinka hanging from the ceiling in a dispenser.

Even public transport is a little something out of the ordinary. The eclectic, electric street cars are like something out of a novel and the metro is so retro that it’s back in fashion.

On one of the city's many fabulous bridges

Funky blue seats line the platform

The city has a great big whopping list of ‘cool things to see’ including a palace that looks like a parliament and a parliament that looks like a palace, as well as a museum devoted to the history of communism ‘terror’. But when the sightseeing all gets too much and you just want to, I don’t know, sit back in a 40 degrees (Celsius) ancient bath, then fret not because Budapest has already run it and put in the bubbles for you.

Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce the Gellert Baths. The ornate complex, which dates back to the early 20th century, has an outdoor pool (surrounded by deck chairs), an indoor pool and about five mosaic-decorated thermal baths with water at various temperatures from about 35 to 40 degrees Celsius. For those that are feeling brave there is, what can only be described as, the most painfully hot steam room I have ever come across… followed by a plunge pool so icy cold that it leaves your skin pink and tingling as if repeatedly slapped by a pair of particularly brutal plump, bare hands.

And so it was, with tingling skin and slight hangovers we boarded the fabulous metro system for the last time to catch the sleeper train to Bucharest and continue our journey east.

But as we did so, I made a silent promise to return, wondering how long it would take me to master the Hungarian language and which coffee shop would become my local. Budapest, we have some unfinished business to tend to…

Where to stay in Budapest?

We stayed at the Wombats Hostel, which I can heartily recommend… it’s on the right side of town, in the heart of the ruinous bars and funky nightlife – but the hostel is also wonderfully clean and spacious. Our six-bed dorm cost just €10 per night, including breakfast amd free wifi. They even give you lockers for your valuables in the dorm.

Home for the night

Our dorm bathroom... I'm sure they were never this swanky last timeI travelled.

World In Pictures: Paris, Munich and Salzburg in 48 hours

Posted on April 26, 2013 by Delia

For me travel is about immersing yourself into another world, exploring new cultures and embracing different ways of thinking. But right now we’re not really doing that… We’re just a-hoppin’, skippin’ and runnin’ across Europe before starting a four month journey across the Silk Road from Turkey to China.

So, since leaving the UK on Tuesday we’ve travelled from London to Paris, to Munich and Salzburg – and tonight we shall be dining in Budapest. Of course I say that in the loosest sense of the word as we have rediscovered our old travelling ways and have been frequenting curry shacks and markets for ‘supper’. I even refused to use the loo at Munich Station because it cost a €1 – I don’t mind spending a penny… But a Euro?! Outraged.

Anyway, in keeping with our fleeting pace across Europe I thought a ‘World in Pictures’ post would be most appropriate (where I write less and let the pictures give an overview). We can’t pretend to have got under the skin of these cities but my, we’ve had great fun surfing the surface.

Our time in Paris totalled just 3 hours… We decided to spend it on the Montmartre, picnicking outside the Sancrecerre. This guy turned up with a football.

He was impressive.

So was the picnic. Matty wore stripes especially for the occasion.

Then it was off to Munich on this sexy sleeper train.

We threw ourselves right in the deep end with this wonderful lederhosen-adorned tour guide.

And concluded dat bratwurst ist gut.

The handsome Feldherrnnhalle in the Odeonsplatz square, Munich.

Lovely old state building with huge glass extensions, Munich.

The Englischer Garten, in the heart of Munich is the biggest public garden in Europe. People also sunbathe naked. I went there to gaze at the colourful fauna. Obviously.

When in Rome… We drank beer in Munich. We finished beer in Munich. Here’s me through Matty’s beer goggles.

And we’re in Salzburg! No, I don’t really get this either.

Donagh looking pretty with the flowers in Salzburg.

Salzburg Cathedral is a baroque beauty.

Inside the cathedral…

The beef goulash with dumpling was mighty fine indeed.

A view of Salzburg from the impenetrable fortress of Hohensalzburg Castle, Salzburg.

I am still coming to terms with the fact I have visited Salzburg without doing the Sound of Music tour… Tragic combination of travelling with two boys and having only an afternoon in the city. Somebody pass me a schnaps.

An Ode to My Friends: I Miss You Already

Posted on April 21, 2013 by Delia

It’s finally happened. After weeks of meticulous planning, months of hard saving and years of dreaming we would be on the road again, the time Is here. Yesterday we bid farewell to our little home in Nottingham, with its freshly painted walls and sparkling clean surfaces, carrying only our rucksacks on our backs. (And, if I’m honest, quite a lot of Asda carrier bags containing all those precious bits and bobs that we had forgotten about – to give to my mum at St Pancras.) So we kind of looked like overloaded turtles/bag ladies as we waddled out the house for the last time. (Matty was especially working the bag lady look).

Make no mistake, our backpacks are ram packed. I have a year’s supply of asthma inhalers, contact lenses, trekking gear and a minute amount of clothes. But sadly, the one thing I wanted to take most of all – the one thing I that’s been hardest to leaving behind – does not fit in my bag.

My friends and family. The people that have made the last six years the truly fabulous years they have been. Painting over the graffiti wall on our landing (pictured above), which was full of messages from our loved ones, was definitely the hardest part of getting the house ready to let. So before I fill this blog with the world… in words, I want to just say thank you to the people who have made my world what it is today.

Here’s a few snaps from our very lovely leaving dos:

As my mother recently wrote on a friend’s Facebook post: “She will miss her friends so much.” And I will… More than even my hardest goodbye hugs could convey.

Keep in touch, much love xx

Everything Must Go! Selling your world to travel the world.

Posted on April 16, 2013 by Delia

It was when I started blowing the ‘raving horn’ at a recent car boot sale and screaming: “Everything must go – 50p – everything must go,” that I realised I had reached a new level of desperation.

With just half an hour to go, I declared that everything could go for 50p – nothing was sacred.

My mother looked slightly incredulous. “Even these?” she asked, pointing at my collection of unopened Clinique miniatures – the last remaining evidence of all the ‘second skin care items’ I have purchased in a bid to get the all-so-necessary free gift.

“Especially those,” I glowered.

A lady came over (who had already bought one of Matt’s jackets for £2.50 after making me try it on to convince herself it was actually quite feminine) and picked up my bottle of fancy-pants tinted, shimmery SPF 15 sun cream.

“I’ll give you 30p for this,” she offered. I grabbed her pennies gladly. I’d loved that cream but alas, the lid had long since gone and it would be sure to turn everything in my rucksack into a brown, shimmery mess if it came with me. It had to go. Like all my other half used, much loved lotions and potions.

That’s me with my good friend Carly. She works in sales and was responsible for about 80% of our sales that day… Watching her sell Love Actually as a porn film to a middle aged man was a personal highlight.

As the morning drew to a close I ran off to collect more charity bags from the car boot organiser to avoid returning home with the loveless goods. We filled up about 6 bin liners with all my wise little purchases from years gone by, ignoring the slightly racist man opposite selling bird tables who was muttering something about Bob Geldof ripping off charities and how, if it wasn’t for immigrants, he wouldn’t be selling bird tables at a car boot sale.

Truth be told, I’d have given even more to charity if I’d been permitted but the charity shop at the end of the road sort of asked me to stay away earlier this week.

My recent giveaways on Facebook have been more successful – friends have gladly taken my old Tupperware, spices and condiments – although I’ve had less interest in an assortment of coat hangers I kindly advertised to my loved ones last night.

And perhaps slightly more worrying than that, is the lack of interest we’ve had in the house so far. Ah yes, that little thing. The small matter of covering the mortgage while we swan around deepest darkest centra Asia.

Almost three years ago exactly we bought our lovely little three-bed terraced house in Hyson Green, Nottingham… eating pizza with our hands and supping bubbles to celebrate picking up the keys. For three years we loved, cherished and thoroughly enjoyed our little home – but now it’s time for someone else to live on the door step of the best curries that Nottingham has to offer.

Yes, I have written this blog to try and convince you to rent our house. So without further ado (putting on my best Lloyd Grossman accent), ‘who lives in a house like this…?’

My, what a LOVELY door… And great bins.

And with a courtyard perfect for the looming summer’s evenings.

Through the keyhole and into the lounge… (The rug is still up for grabs for first available collector etc).

A nice, spacious kitchen/diner. Are you sold yet?

Crikey, look at the fitted wardrobe on that. Just like a scene out of Clueless. Quite.

“Darling, we simply must live here,” I hear you cry.

Top floor bedroom.

Best loo north of the River Trent. Fact.

And a room for little Joey.

By the time you’ve reached this point, I’m sure the agent’s line will already be busy – you should have called after reading the first line. Those of you that are now considering emigrating from Oz and elsewhere to Nottingham, I can assure you that you will not miss the beach life. The Old Market Square is transformed into a beach (fully equipped with deck chairs and a bar) every summer. You will be very happy here.

Meanwhile, we are now a mere six days from beginning our big journey from Nottingham to ‘nam across the Silk Road. We have spent weeks selling everything we own for just a few pennies, cleaning out a house that we love but has no tenants yet and wondering what to do with the Rover 25 that should never, ever be combined with a moustache in any circumstances.

Yes, you too could look this good. Just over 100,000 miles on the clock, 4 months MOT and guaranteed sex appeal. I’ll even throw in the car for free. All yours for just £400.

In sum, giving everything up to travel the world at an age when you own more than a few bags of clothes and a wok (circa 2006) is tricky… Truth be told my mother is having kittens. There are, of course, risks, worries and concerns but then again we wouldn’t be doing any of this if we wanted an easy life.

Instead we are choosing to travel a corner of the world where hotel televisions sometimes double up as CCTV cameras and visa rules are harder to follow than camel tracks in the scorching desert sand. It’s not meant to be an easy ride… But something tells me it will be a little bit more memorable than a bottle of fancy-pants, shimmery suntan cream.

Bring on the adventure x

Getting cosy Under the Stairs, Edinburgh

Posted on April 1, 2013 by Delia

Sometimes you just have to eat somewhere that has a fish tank built into its fireplace.

It was a cold, sorry – I mean a BITTERLY cold day in Edinburgh – when I found myself desperately googling ‘warmest pub in Edinburgh’ and ‘warmest place to eat in Edinburgh ever’ and ‘make me warm in Edinburgh NOW’, when I realised I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore and Google hadn’t provided. So I did what we used to do a few years back and looked around frantically for somewhere to hibernate.

For those of you in Northern Europe who are currently suffering a similar fate – how are you coping and what survival strategies are you employing? For those of you elsewhere or reading this in the future I am writing during the period of time that I am sure will be known as The Great Easter Freeze of 2013… I mean, let’s be honest there is no way Jesus would have risen 2013 years ago if the weather had been like this.

Anyhow, I digress. So with numb fingers and a distant memory of feeling my toes, I headed down Merchant Street in Edinburgh (just behind the lovely statue of Bobby, the bonniest dog of Scotland who sat on his master’s grave for 14 years after he died…. Ahhhh!) And it was down that little road that I spied some railings with a sign reading ‘Under the Stairs’ and in the window below, a big comfy looking chair.

I shuffled my frozen feet down the stairs and tentatively pushed open the door. Immediately I was greeted by array of retro sink-into-me armchairs and the fire place/fish tank feature. I knew I had struck gold.

Glancing around, I realised this was one of those rare places that doesn’t really have a ‘bad table’ in the house. Table picking can be a tough gig. Too often when walking into a restaurant you immediately spy the two good tables – perhaps by the fire, with the comfiest seats etc – which are always taken, leaving you with the remainder of the room and its cold, drafts tables packed too closely together, by the door – the loo – the mad woman muttering to herself.

Under the Stairs offered no such predicament. The large cosy room, with its thick and battered wooden floor boards, offered a plethora of mismatched, cobbled together tables and chairs – each as lovely as the next.

The man behind the bar greeted me in a warm, Scottish drawl and told me to sit wherever. I immediately wanted to try out a few tables before settling on one – they all looked so good.

In the end I settled for one that boasted both a fabulous old armchair (they just don’t make them like they used to, do they?), and an old lampshade that gave off a warm, orange glow. Feeling very pleased with myself I perused the menu.

This is where Under the Stairs gains a few more brownie points. It has a fabulous selection of sharing plates… Anti pasti, cheese boards, breads and dipping oils etc that can be ordered until midnight. I am constantly seeking establishments that will cater to both my food and wine needs at all hours, if only I lived a little closer.

The rest of the menu also appealed – from the imaginative twist on a veggie burger (black bean, spring onion an mushroom burger), to the venison casserole and salmon and cous cous fish cakes, I was torn.

With most dishes costing about £8.95 it’s definitely a cheap lunch option in Edinburgh.

But it was this sign that caught my attention:

And this one:

Two things. One, they had my sandwich and soup and I needed them back and two, red wine must always be pondered.

So I pondered and I ordered and I sat in my Grandad’s chair, listening to David Bowie, plotting how to steal the Scottish Crown Jewels over a large glass of Rioja. I’m joking, I’m joking… I was drinking Cabernet Sauvignon.

The food arrived and I decided it was definitely the best use of £5.95 that I have put the pound to for some time. Ladies and gents, allow me to introduce you to my soup and sandwich.

Aren’t they lovely? Divine? As soon as we were ‘reunited’ I realised I had unknowingly missed them my whole life.

The soup, a spicy parsnip and puy lentil number, was delightfully coarse and rich with a heart-warming chilli kick to it. Meanwhile, the sandwich was door stopping – huge slices of granary bread were filled with Cajun marinaded chunks of chicken breast, accompanied by a sweet, caramelised onion garnish and garlic mayonnaise. There was no corner cutting.

As I finished my lunch, the tank cleaning man came in to tend to the fish. As I watched him remove water, add water, and do his thing, I couldn’t help but feel they definitely have the best spot in town. If I was a fish I would want to be by the fire, swimming around Under the Stairs.

Food Facts

My soup, sarnie, and large glass of Rioja came to £12.80.

If you want to get involved you’ll find Under the Stairs at 3a Merchant Street. Bell them on 0131 466 8550.

Dear Journalism: We’re not breaking up, I’m just taking a break

Posted on February 21, 2013 by Delia

I feel a little bit like I’ve just broken up with somebody I still love.

We had some good times over the past five years, some bloody great times. You took me to places I would never have otherwise seen, you made me laugh, made me mad… And made me swear like a trooper. You were my life, my world, my everything. You were demanding, challenging and impossible at times, I hated it when you kept me up in the middle of the night.

I think I’ve done the right thing, I think it will work out for the best – for both of us. I just need some time on my own, to explore new lands, be selfish for a while. It’s not you, it’s me. Well, it was you a little bit, but let’s not get into a fight. Not now.

I can’t remember my first day as a reporter. I think I probably arrived early, with freshly washed hair (that was a bit too flat on my head according to my security pass), dressed in a clean, pressed shirt, pushing my glasses up my nose with enthusiastic keenness.

In fact my only vivid memory from my first week was when, after spending about 20 minutes trying to work out how to submit a small piece of news that I had laboriously typed up, I timidly turned to the girl next to me with short, dark hair for some advice. She was laughing with another reporter, while typing furiously and I decided I wanted to be her friend.

‘No worries,’ she said, as she helpfully started pressing buttons on my keyboard. We both watched in silence as she accidentally hit “delete” and sent it to story heaven, where it spent the rest of its days alongside legally questionable investigations and adjective-heavy crime stories. She was mortified, I was desperate to assure her it was fine. She bought me a Crunchie, and I made my first friend.

This is us a few years on. Her hair got longer and mine developed some volume.

I wanted to be a journalist ever since I was about seven years old when I thought it simply involved being paid to make up stories (note to Nottingham City Council – this is NOT what we do). Back then I was rewarded for spinning a yarn at story-time with a carton of milk on the carpet. That was good, being paid would be better, I thought.

Fast-forward some 15 years and I was walking into the news room for the first time (with flat hair), clutching my shorthand guide.

I remember my first ‘big story’. The atmosphere in the newsroom shifted from chattering banter to passionate and enthusiastic obscenities. Word had reached us that Harworth Colliery in north Notts was reopening.

With hundreds of ex-miners still unemployed in the county this was big news. ‘Fu*kin’ big news,’ declared one of the editors, as he told me to get up there as soon as possible for the detail. A correspondent was handling it from the office I was assured, who would be putting the spread together and look into the history of the site. I just had to get the detail on the ground.

‘No probs,’ I agreed, desperately trying to recall some knowledge about coal mining. As I sped up the M1 I played conversations with my Welsh nana over in my mind, she had told me so much about mining, but I couldn’t remember a thing.

I soon arrived at the site and was greeted by barren, brown land, scattered with a few industrial buildings. As I walked away from the car, unsure where to head, someone yelled, ‘Press?’ and I was swiftly escorted upstairs, into a board room of VIP coal people. There sat the chief executive of UK Coal, trade union leaders, Colliery leaders, I lost track… Job titles blurred into names and names into companies.

I introduced myself and shook hands with a lot of faces in suits.

‘So what exactly are you planning to do here?’ I asked, with confidence that I didn’t have inside. They started telling me and as I listened, enthralled by plans that seemed to fly in the face of history, the questions unravelled and soon I found asking about things I hadn’t even known had existed just minutes before. I left with enough material to write a small book on Harworth. And that is probably the best way I can explain journalism to you.

For the next five years I remained at the same regional daily newspaper. Until yesterday that is, when I packed up my shoe collection from under my desk and walked out the doors for the last time. And what a roller-coaster it’s been. Few jobs take you into the heart of Nairobi slums in Kenya, take you face to face with Gordon Brown, or give you the chance to talk to plane crash survivors who have never before spoken of their ordeal.

As a journalist it is your job to step into somebody else’s life and tell their tale. It can be both a terrifying responsibility and immense privilege, and one that often leaves you flying by the seat of your pants.

Quite literally sometimes… me with Ron Haslam doing about 120 mph at Donington Park. All in the name of a story.

But if there’s one thing journalism has also taught me it’s that life is short and you’ve got to grab it while it’s here… (the stabbings, shootings and suicides may also have made me a morbid cynic but let’s not go into that). So it feels quite appropriate that one of the last stories to be printed in my name will be that of Miles Hilton Barber, a blind adventurer who has climbed some of the world’s highest mountains, crossed the entire Qatar Desert in 78 hours without sleeping and even flown himself from London to Sydney. It is also apt that my other final story is about Justin Bieber. Like I said, it is a roller coaster.

This is Miles, guiding a man in a wheelchair along the bottom of the seabed. His motto in life is: “The only limits in our lives are those we accept ourselves.”

So, journalism, it’s not that we’re breaking up as such. We’re just taking a break. It is time for me to push those limits, and take on new challenges. Perhaps then we will work even better together.

Weekend Cottage with a Hot Tub in Suffolk: Perfect for Four Little Piggies

Posted on February 10, 2013 by Delia

Everybody has a little piglet in them. Whether it’s behaving like hogs at the trough, indulging in a little dirt and mud every now and then, or perhaps thinking you’re a little bit cleverer then your pen mates sometimes, we’re not as different to our curly-tailed friends as you may think.

So it was quite appropriate after a two and a half hour journey from Nottingham to Suffolk (pigging out on pretzels and banana cake) that four little piggies arrived at Piglet’s Place, in a little village called Culford in Suffolk.

Matty and I are desperately trying to make sure we spend lots of time with our loved ones before we depart on our trip across Central Asia, and that is exactly what brought us to Culford with our good friends Gemma and Marco. We had a boot full of booze and grub, and a new, shiny pen to play in for the weekend.

Formerly a pig barn, Piglet’s Place has been somewhat spruced up in recent years.

We walked in, bagsied bedrooms and furiously filled up the fridge for the weekend.

But Piglet’s Place is more than just a posh pigs pen, it is a posh pigs pen with a hot tub. I have decided that cottages with hot tubs in the UK are the perfect answer to dealing with the uncertainties of British weather. I don’t mind battling the horizontal rains on a walks that leave you exposed to the elements for hours on end, but I do want to warm up afterwards. And hot tubs are the perfect way to soothe those aching trotters after such countryside adventures. It’s one of the few British outdoor activities where it doesn’t matter if its raining – in fact it is almost better if it is, just take a shower cap instead of an umbrella.

To be fair, the hot tub is more like a nightclub under the stars… It has flashing disco lights (I know, amazing), you can be in it until 3am – and you don’t wear many clothes. It might just be my new favourite club.

But it was the little touches that made this cottage stand out from the rest. Sitting on the work surface of the kitchen, in a cute little blue tin, sat a homemade cake, freshly baked for us.

Let me repeat that – they had baked us a cake! It was delicious and we ate it for breakfast.

So aside from eating, drinking and hot tub dancing, there is plenty to do in this corner of the world. Surrounded by acres upon acres of beautiful countryside there are plenty of walks to enjoy – and it is also near the quaint town of Bury St Edmunds, which is home to the Greene King brewery and has lots of lovely pubs and restaurants scattered across its cobbled streets. Oh, sorry that’s eating and drinking again, isn’t it?

We went for a lovely 6.5 mile walk across Thetford Forest, filled with tall, skinny trees as high a the sun and was quite delightful.

Me (on the left) with Gemma and Marco being naughty piglets. Do not try this at home folks.

A pretty river runs through the forest.

Sun worshipping.

This little piggy got numb fingers (me).

This little piggy led the way (Gemma).

This little piggy walked in the road (Marco).

And this little piggy went (for a) ‘wee, wee, wee’ all over the forest (Matty).

Then it was over to Bury St Edmunds for an ale or two. The pretty town boasts a wonderful old abbey that dates back to 633 and was over-run by the town’s people in 1327 who destroyed the Abbey Gate and killed several monks, as well as decapitating the abbot as he tried to flee. The placard, telling the story of the abbey, read like it had almost been written by the town’s people themselves – clearly quite proud of their rebellious history.

Abstract shot of the old abbey.

The Abbey Gates as they stand today.

All in, it was the perfect retreat for four little piggies… who did not want to drive ‘all the way home’ on Sunday afternoon.

Traveller’s Tips

Piglet’s Place is run by the lovely Steve Flack of Home Farm. He has about three properties on the farm and they also share a swimming pool, which opens in the summer. At least two of the properties have private hot tubs – we originally intended to book The Dairy, which is a smaller two-bed cottage with a hot tub. There was some confusion with our booking but Steve ended up offering us five star Piglet’s Place (which has three bedrooms) for £182 for two nights, which was the price of The Dairy at this time of year.

To make a booking or find out more click here.

There are some fab pubs within a one to three mile radius of the cottage including the Cadogan Arms at Ingham, the Woolpack at Fornham St Martin and the Three Kings at Fornham All Saints. We ate at the Cadogan Arms, which is more like a gastropub restaurant than your average spit and sawdust style ale house. The food was exceptional – we enjoyed perfectly cooked medium rare steaks and beautiful tempura squid. The wine list is very good and a two course meal with plenty of wine cost about £40 per head.

PS And I can’t believe its taken me this long to mention this – Piglet’s Place is a working farm and they have an amazing shed of cows that you can go and hang out with. Amoozing!

World in Words

By a girl who loves to write, eat and explore…

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