Steel Kitten

Go to Malta....you won't regret it.

Well...we've been back a few days now after our holiday to Malta  I had some misgivings about going on holiday this year - the worry wart in me wanted to put the money into our savings and give it a miss, but Martin insisted we both needed a break. The last holiday we had was January 2007 and I hadn't realised just how frazzled I was.

No computer, mobile phone, cats, chickens or people. Just me and Martin and no distractions.  I can honestly say it was one of the best holidays I've ever had. It wasn't the scenery that made it special. It isn't a scenic place - it's very dry, dusty and rocky. It wasn't necessarily the weather, although baking in 30 degree heat was very nice after the dreadful weather we had last year. It certainly wasn't the nightlife - we went our early in the day and spent the evenings relaxing on the balcony.

I think what made it special was the people.

 

Emmanuel Muscat and one of the bus models he painstakingly and lovingly builds in his garage.

They are friendly, inclusive, interested in you and of course speak English. They're always smiling and talking to you. All of this generates a wonderful feeling of warmth and inclusiveness I just haven't had anyway else, even when I went to Australia for five weeks back in 2002. The Ozzies spoke English and were friendly, but there was still a sense that you were alone, a stranger in a big country. You couldn't smile in the street at someone or strike up a conversation without the other person wondering what your motives for doing so were. In Malta you can't help but smile at people on the street - you're part of a community, even if you are on holiday.

Maybe it's because of how small Malta is and how closely entwined our countries are after WWII. Their heritage in this regard is phenomenal and evidence of their pride in defeating the Nazis with Britain''s help is overwhelming. We have a very special bond with the Maltese people that the majority of the UK know nothing about, and that's a real shame.

I'll leave you now with a few images of the trip.....

 

The wonderful colours of the fisherman boats at Marsalokkx

 

A well earned snooze on the beach after a 5k hike...

 

...followed by fresh fish caught that morning for an early dinner....

 

 

The minute I saw these three chickens in the apartment I knew Paxo would be fine while I was away. Call it a lucky omen.

  

 

A DC3 aeroplane at the Aviation museum. Martin even got to meet one of his favourite Maltese authors just sitting on the desk taking the money!

 

One of the beautiful old English buses...due to be phased out thanks to European Emission rules. Thanks Brussels. You just trash a country's tourist attraction without a second thought.

 

Yep...that water is cold! And it's just lapped round his nether regions.

 

We found Fiat 500s....

 

...I had my favourites.

 

And finally, I couldn't have photos of Malta without showing off the work of Emmanuel Muscat. We were walking to the beach on our last day and took a wrong turn down a side street. There in front of us to the left was Emmanuel 's open garage and his amazing wooden handcrafted bus models of Malta's buses through the ages. They're not for sale, more's the pity. Such a talented guy. To see more his blog is here.

Bulgaria here we come...

It's official. Martin and I have booked a holiday in Bulgaria at the end of the month. With all this talk about people retiring over there, we thought we'd do a holiday with a bit of a difference and check out the potential of some of the smaller villages with mountain views.

We both wanted so much to retire to Italy, but the prices are simply beyond us in the area we want to go to: Puglia. We love the Trulli so much (below) and try and stay in a different one each time we go over, but even the wrecks are now silly money and well beyond our pockets when you take into account the renovation costs. 

Anyway, the area we're going to in Bulgaria is around Sliven and Elhovo, about an hour from Bourgas airport on the East Coast. The scenery looks spectacular from what we can see from searching the net and last night in honour of our impending holiday, I did a Bulgarian speciality -  spicy meatballs from Quest Bulgaria's pdf recipe book. Although admittedly I decided to put them on skewers and stick them under the grill. And add a lot of chili for Martin's fire-loving palette.

The wind turbine genius

As far as the environment goes, I think the UK can be split into two factions: those that love wind turbines and those that don't. Those that hate wind turbines consider them a blot on the horizon, the purveyor of low house prices and responsible for gross levels of health-affecting environmental noise. Not that the majority of wind turbine haters have ever actually been to see a wind turbine or find out anything about them.....in fact, everyone I've spoke to who hates wind turbines has eventually admitted their views come from features and coments from newspaper journalists and the TV. Hmmmmm.....shall I go there? Shall I point out that newspapers and TV stations are run by political machines that broadcast their own agenda-reinforcing twaddle and that it's up to individual to find out the truth through rigorous questioning and fact finding? Nah...I won't bother. After all, political propaganda is only spread by our evil enemies abroad isn't it.....

Anyhoo, those that love wind turbines - and I am one of them - believe they are one of the best ways of reducing our dependence on fossil fuels and an excellent method of harnessing power from a free source. And my hubby knows I am a turbine lover. He knows that I hanker after a wind turbine in the back garden and have plans on the computer for building one. Which is why the pinnacle of his anniversary present was to take me to Swaffam on the way home on from Norfolk on Monday to see Ecotricity's EcoTech centre and climb its wind turbine! I have married a genius!Thank you, thank you, thank you Martin for giving me the opportunity to see it in all of its glory.

Having heard the arguments against wind turbines on the basis they are noisy I was keen to get out of the car and find out for myself the horrendous level of noise they made. Which was why I was so surprised that I had to stand DIRECTLY UNDERNEATH the wind turbine to hear the blades turning and only then it was a gently swishing sound! You CANNOT hear the blades turning even from the distance I took the above photograph. This is what happens when people form their opinions from reading newspapers and watching TV instead of getting off their arses to find out for themselves. Although to be fair, I'm sure some wind turbine technology is better than others and the older models may make more noise than newer. Which of course means we should replace them with newer ones, NOT build a skewed case for STOPPING building wind turbines altogether.

Anyway, we signed up for a tour inside the turbine, which is the only one in the world to have a viewing platform for the public to climb to and look out of. However, I must say I was really worried about the climb. After Florence cathedral, when I was exhausted, weak and shaking from the intense 40 degree heat and effort from climbing its 300 odd steps to the top, the thought of climbing these 300 steps and experiencing the same effect left me a bit nervous, especially as I didn't have an asthma inhaler with me if it sparked off an attack. But there was no way I was leaving without climbing it, so I duly took my place at the back of the tour so I could sit down on the steps and not hold anyone up. I also had a great vantage point to take photos:

The climb wasn't as bad as I feared - being at the back meant I could take my time and the turbine has been built to have two platforms inside to rest at, one just by the 'e' of Ecotricity and another at the end of the word by the 'y'.

The view at the top was fantastic and well worth the climb. You could see right to Ely Cathedral. That white thing in the background of the picture below is one of the blades as it had just passed.

I came down from the turbine believing whole-heartedly that my decision to switch my electricity supplier to Ecotricity many months ago was the right one. The profits Ecotricity make are put back into building more wind turbines, which I admire as I'd much prefer my money to be spent on infrastructure and new technology rather than Company Director's mansions in Barbados while the infrastructure is left to rot through lack of investment. Npower and your ilk take note.

And by the way Npower - stop calling. I will never switch back to you as my decision was made on ethical not financial considerations. Your insistence of helping me save £80 a year with fuel bonuses cuts no ice. It may not be money saving and frugal to pay a little more for something like electricity and gas, but it is important to put your principles first and stand up for what you believe in, rather than pocket a few quid and feel guilty about doing nothing. Your actions in Oxford involving the destruction of Radley Lakes to store your power station waste is shameful (especially in light that it can be recycled for use in road-building). Your treatment of the residents of Radley is shameful. In short, sirs you are shameful. Come near my property again to try and sell me your snake oil while I'm eating lunch and you will feel the sharp end of my tongue, not to mention the prongs of my fork.

Besides Dale Vince, Ecotricity's CEO, is sexier than yours.

Anyhoo.....if anyone reading this is considering switching to Ecotricity and would like a little incentive, go to the Ecologist website to sign up and you will get a free subscription to the magazine. Then your eyes really will be opened to the crap that some companies try and pull for profits.

Hubbie surpassed himself....

Martin and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary on Sunday 15th. It's been one year since we walked down the aisle. In fact, it's only 3 years and 3 months since I first met Martin so I guess we are sickeningly smug bastards who can claim "love at first sight" and "it was meant to be".

All I remember of that infamous aisle walk was my heels disappearing down the gratings that had been cunningly (and very stupidly) disguised with rugs and one of my bridesmaid treading on my veil half way down and yanking my head back (I had a very long, lace edged veil known as a mantilla - very popular with Italian brides and almost unheard of in this country). The rest of the wedding is a bit of a blur to be frank. Although I do recall the Groom and his friends lying all over the floor doing a splendid rendition of Oops Upside Yer Head while the Bride had her nose in a glass of vodka and lime.

Anyway, I digress.

At some point last week Martin started to display the symptoms of A Man With A Big Secret. You know what I mean girls; furtive phone calls with the living room door shut, frantic attempts at covering the computer screen whenever I walked in the room and subtle inquiries as to my whereabouts and workload on Monday. If it wasn't for the fact he's so honest that if he gets given too much change in a shop he returns it, I might have suspected he had a bit on the side or be indulging in porn. I realised by Friday he HAD booked us in somewhere for Sunday night and was duly instructed on Saturday to pack for an overnight stay and to make sure I had a pair of trainers.

Sunday rolled around and I was given a set of directions comprising of a list of road numbers and names. There was no information about the end point at all and no indication of which direction we would be going. I was forbidden to look at a map and I spent the entire 3 hour journey time with my eyes glued to signposts so I wouldn't miss a turning. I only twigged where we were heading when we were literally two minutes from our final destination and that was because there was a ruddy great sign pointing to it. I should tell you that ever since I decided to surprise Martin on his birthday two years ago by taking him to West Usk Lighthouse B&B near Newport (where he sprung his proposal and then had to rush me home to a doctors the next day as I was damn near on the floor with a bladder infection), we have tried to stay in as many different unusual places as possible for our holidays. So perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised when Cley Windmill in Holt, Norfolk hoved into view:

I have to say, it was one of the best B&Bs I've ever stayed at. The windmill had been renovated to a fantastically high standard and the owners had quite obviously paid a lot of attention to small details. We stayed in the River room, which is the right hand window in the picture, and everywhere you looked it had been carefully decorated. There were handmade windmill biscuits waiting for us on the bed along with a leather bound tome about the room, the windmill, the routine in the windmill and things to do in the area. It was all wonderfully clean, which sometimes doesn't happen when you stay somewhere very old. Occasionally owners of these places think it's quirky to never dust or leave bits of mold in the bathroom or attempt hackneyed bits of DIY renovating work which never achieves a good standard. But not the owners of the windmill. All professionally done with great care.

The highlight of the stay for me was dinner in the evening, which we decided to have at the windmill. It has a small dining room which it opens up as a general cafe in the afternoon for cream teas etc and then in evening it becomes a restaurant. The kitchen is just off the dining room and always has an open door so you can pop your head round and speak to chef if you want. You can also hear him preparing everything and humming along to his jazz tunes. Not only does he cook the meal but he also serves everyone in the restaurant by hand, including drinks. No waiters, just you and the chef.

The meal was absolutely wonderful. When you book for dinner, the chef will ask you if there is anything you particularly like and try and fit that into the evening meal. This is set on the night so everyone eats the same thing and you don't get to pick your own food. Therefore it's vitally important if you are allergic to anything or really don't like something you tell them. Martin was keen to tell them about my love of butternut squash, which was served for mains roasted with other Mediterranean veggies and a stunning piece of herbed salmon, but forgot to tell them of his pathologic hatred of tomatoes and cheese. So he was a bit shocked when the starter came out and it was beefsteak tomatoes with feta cheese and olives with a basil and olive oil dressing. We had to do a surreptitious swap when the chef wasn't looking - I took all the tomatoes and cheese, Martin took all the olives and herbed bread in the basket. We both loved the desert though - homemade warm fig frangipane tart with cream.

We staggered from the room - Martin wobbling slightly after a bottle of wine - to retire to bed and massage our bloated stomachs while watching some bizarre kung foo film on the TV starring that strange chaos-ridden, sexually-obsessed guy Stiffler from American Pie. Crap but strangely compelling.

And where did the trainers come into it?

I'll tell you that bit in a few days because this post has wittered on long enough. But I can reveal it involved a near vertical climb up 65 metres of steel and that my husband is forever in my good books.

Camping gets such a bad rap

The need for a cheap break away to celebrate Martin's birthday and get some quality time away from our psychotic insommniac cats saw us camping this week in Padstow, Cornwall. Now interestingly, when I told a friend I was going camping for a few days she wrinkled her nose and said: "God how primitive. I do nothing less than 4* when I go away."

Now don't get me wrong I'm all for a bit of creature comfort and let's face it camping has had it's fair share of horror stories about the conditions some unfortunate holiday makers have endured. Thankfully these are few and far between nowadays as many campsites have had to pull their socks up or face health and safety enquiries. But I'm also not for trusting claims over the number number of stars hotels and B&Bs boasts. I've lost count of number of times I've stayed in an establishment that claimed to be of a certain standard and been woefully lacking and not worth the money paid.

Am I the only one to notice this? And all the rules and regulations???? You have to check in at a certain time, check out by a certain time, listen to people running around the corridors drunk and yelling at 2am, take your meals when they tell you to and - this is especially true of B&Bs - follow complicated orders about using the hot water at certain times and not messing up the counterpane (yes...I have experienced counterpane hell just as Bill Bryson wrote about in Notes from Small Country - see my booklist). Excuse me but I've paid a lot of money for this room and if I want to sleep in until 10am and then eat why can't I? If I want to mosey on back to my room after 11pm why do I have to have a key to get in the building? Or worse be locked out because the place has been shut up for the night???

Camping on the other hand offers much more freedom, flexibility and, off course, is much cheaper. You get up when you want (no last minute hurtling to the breakfast room before it shuts at 8:30am), go to bed when you want (no locked doors at 10pm), eat when you choose to and go about as you please without worrying about getting back within a very small window of time to guarantee hot water for a shower (yep...had that one too at a B&B and as Bill correctly observed it usually coincides with the times the Proprietor wants you out of the place!).

But most importantly, camping teaches you that your holiday is what you make of it. You get the chance to plan your time the way you want and set your own agenda without a mass of rules and regulations to take into consideration. That's not to say there aren't any rules and regulations, there are. But most of the existing rules on campsites are there so you don't negatively impact on other campers enjoyment and they don't annoy you in return. Not revving your car engine or running around drunk and screaming after 10pm is an obvious one bearing in mind the only thing separating you from a campsite full of irate campers is a thin piece of nylon material. In those circumstances it's actually for your own protection otherwise you might be lynched. Likewise disposing of your rubbish thoughtfully and not having a raging campfire is common sense when you consider that thin piece of nylon material isn't fire retardant. A stray spark, a light breeze and some unhappy camper is going to be irretrievably melted to their tent.

And of course the big one for me - Camping is Cheap. Peanuts compared to hotels and B&Bs. As long as you do your homework, pick a good site and are organised and capable of planning, you'll probably pay between £10-20 a night (depending on location) including electrical hook-up. If you're a money-saving kind of guy or gal and can cook on a barby or primus you're laughing.

So, if you're looking to get started in camping head down to Cornwall, especially Padstow if you're a cooking fan. We like to call it Padstein due to the ever present Mr Rick Stein and his unfeasibly large number of businesses in this seaside town. We counted a takeaway fish and chip shop, a sit down fish and chip cafe next door to it, a delicatessen next to that, a cooking school above the three, his famous Seafood Restaurant and Hotel nearby, a patisserie and another general cafe in the back streets. I also think there was a cook shop nearby selling cooking equipment, but such was the sheer number of Stein businesses surrounding me I've gone a bit hazy.

Clever businessman that he is, he sited his takeaway fish and chip shop directly next to the town's coach park which disgorged huge amounts of hungry tourists every day around lunchtime. I'm afraid to say that Martin and I did succumb to buying a pack of chips for a snack, only because we wanted to crow about how we'd had a £1.35 box of chips and they were lacking. Except they weren't. They were genuinely bloody gorgeous - large, crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside -  and I had to be dragged away by Martin as I wanted to buy a second lot with a big piece of fish and trough the lot despite having had lunch. So hats off to you Mr Stein - despite our skepticism your made us part with our hard earned cash and actually enjoy doing so!

Our campite of choice was Dennis Cove Campsite and I have to say it's one of the cleanest and quietist sites we've ever been to. Only for families and couples so if you're in a group or play Stairway to Heaven half the night on your electric guitar to help relax you forget about it. The proprietor Simon is lovely, especially when we ran the car battery flat pumping up the airbed. Ok, actually we ran the battery flat using the aforementioned wonderful car kettle after we pumped up the airbed, so technically it wasn't the kettle's fault but we still didn't think it was so wonderful after that. Simon cheerfully produced jump leads and dispensed the vital juice we needed to hare around the countryside like crazed weasels on heat visiting The Lost Gardens of Heligan, Trevarno Gardens and the Newquay Marine Aquarium. All in all a fabulous time was had culminating on our last day with a pasty for lunch in a secluded beach cove in Padstow.

As the tide was in the miles and miles of golden sandy beach aren't visible on this side, only on the other.

 

Martin contemplates the long drive home

Practising his Prince Charles pose

Cream teas and big stones

Yes you read that right stones, not scones. Ok....it took me slightly longer than having a cup of tea and eating some apple rock cakes to come back and write this second post about Dorset, two days longer in fact. I got up a bit earlier to make sure it got done. Looks like I'll have to have a sleep in the back garden this afternoon to make up for it....such a shame ;-)

So...err...where was I? Oh yes.... we zoomed to Dorset on Saturday after Martin finished work and I'd finished annoying some Jehovah's Witness's that rang the doorbell to bring me the Lord's message. We ended up in Shaftsbury, home to the Hovis bread ad, and obviously arrived during a town festival as there was a marching band and aging town dignitaries walking around with all their gold chains on. Naturally I couldn't pass up the opportunity for a snuffle in the charity shops, where I managed to pick up a gorgeous sweet pea double duvet cover (see below), a fabric remnant with big, blue poppies on it and a brand new sweet little pink cosmetic case with double zip up sides, which will be fab for keeping all my crochet stuff or sewing machine equipment together.

We wandered through junk shops and an antique fair, but didn't find anything we fancied parting with cash for then made our way to Gold Hill. Now this has to be the jewel in Shaftsbury's crown because it's the site where they filmed the old Hovis ads years ago, the one where the little boy is struggling to push his bike up the cobbled hill so Mrs Brown (or Miggins, whatever her name was) would get her loaf of bread on time that morning....remember?

We found a little cafe at the top of the hill called The Old Salt Cellar and settled down for a bacon and egg sandwich followed by a cream tea. After the appalling state I got into climbing up Florence cathedral on honeymoon (I think I really scared Martin and most of the people around me), I really didn't fancy walking down the hill then back up again so Martin was very gracious and agreed that wedges weren't the sensible shoes needed to attempt the cobbled, near vertical walk and I escaped the task. Truth be told he probably didn't fancy the climb either.

Stonehenge

After stuffing our faces while watching an old couple eat in complete silence for an hour (I don't count the old boy blowing his nose), we ambled back towards the car to come home, a journey that would take us past Stonehenge.We got there about 6pm and parked up on a grass verge directly opposite the stones. I had ready the water to make two steaming mugs of tea and we sat there in silence sipping it, Martin looking at the scenery and people climb all over the stone, me thinking I should have descaled the travel kettle or at least poured the water into Martin's mug first.

Just in case you're wondering how I managed to do a fresh brew in a car, a while back I'd found a brand new car kettle in a charity shop (for the bargain price of £2) and it's proved a fabulous little thing for taking on journeys. It plugs into the cigarette lighter in the car and takes around twenty minutes to boil enough water for two mugs of tea. Very good for doing a fortifying brew when I have to leave a charity shop stunned at the high prices because they advertise on the TV and employ people instead of use volunteers.

There were quite a few people parked up on the grass verge, including a white transit van that opened up on the side to reveal five people, a barbecue and a guitar. The family had a great time feasting by the roadside and every now and then we could see the oldest man in the group, I assumed the father, doing a little dance rance the barbecue. I got the feeling they were either hippies or pagans judging from the tunic/toga the old boy was wearing and they looked very happy...well apart from one of the younger men, possibly his son, who had a face like a slapped arse for the entire time. Obviously not his thing....or perhaps it was that special brand of embarrassing dancing that only dad's can do which prompted such a long face. He loped around the dirt track, poking things with a large stick trying to assert his masculinity while his father tangoed round the van on his own stuffing food in his gob.

I was sad when it was time to go. As I stood taking a picture of the stones I looked down and saw a Tesco carrier bag stuffed into the grass verge. That really spoilt the moment for me....there's just no escaping the insidious monster that is the Big T. As I looked around suddenly all I could see was crisp packets and empty yoghurt cartons where people had picniced and dumped their rubbish. I picked the bag up and stuffed it in the car to bring back. As we were getting ready to go, a family turned up to read one of the noticeboards describing the history of the site. Right in front of their legs was a couple of newspaper pages poking out of the grass. One of the kids picked it the newspaper and showed it to his parents, who promptly told him to drop it as it might be dirty. Not tell the child to find a bin or take it with them, but to put the litter back down. I bit my lip to stop myself commenting. The women had enough time to spray bad fake tan on the back of her legs (which were a completely different colour orange to her top half) but not the time to explain to her boys why it's important to stop litter choking the countryside. God forbid they should do something to protect the views and wildlife they were currently enjoying. I'm getting angrier by the day about this sort of thing and I'm gutted that I didn't say anything.

Anyhow, we're back home now and for the last couple of days I've been making steady progress on the studio. The underlay is down and today I have to get out the laminate and let it acclimatise in the room ready for laying tomorrow. How exciting! Martin's going to set up the workbench and jigsaw for me and then leave me to do the whole thing....yeh right! I nearly amputated my fingers once taking a new knife out of a packet and recently only narrowly escaped slicing into my knuckles when my electric knife skidded lightly across the backs of my fingers as I was slicing a loaf of bread. I'm not to be trusted.