Wwoofin' and a-trampin' in the Grampians

The bus journey north felt very long, but, still suffering from jetlag daze, I kept snoozily dropping off and great big chunks of the way disappeared. I got my first glimpses of kangaroos on the way, through my droopy eyelids. Some living, some not so much. After a few days spent trying to find my way around brand new environments, it was lovely having a break, letting go of the controls, and entrusting the bus driver with getting us to our destination, through the immense landscape.

I was met by my cousin and his van in Narrabri. We knew virtually nothing about each other's current lives, and as we caught up I had flashbacks to how much I enjoyed playing with him as kids, whenever my family would visit his family in their rural home, usually for a whole weekend of running barefoot on the grass, visiting farmyard animals and going swimming in the nearby lake. He was a very sweet child, and as it turns out, an utter sweetheart as an adult too!  

A town called Ma... er Narrabri

Him and his wife, a New-Zealander, whom I've met for the first time, both lovingly looked after me for the next days. I was a good-for-nothing rag, sleeping a lot and unable to do much else, other than exploring the neighbourhood, reading, and sleeping some more. Their kids – a one year old boy and a 3 year old girl - were sweet as pie and I enjoyed their cheery company.

Realising how badly jetlagged I still was, even a week after landing, I was fortunate to have this time to get my body clock in order. The house was right on a lake so I gradually took longer walks, went into town, visited my hosts' workplaces, but generally chilled out. Stimulation was thin on the ground in this one horse town, unless you get excited by the cotton industry. A good thing too, in my current state of mind. 

 

 

Lake Narrabri

In actuality, though, this was also time for the realisation of how hard my sister's breast cancer diagnosis had hit me - indeed I was shocked at my own reaction, when, at times, hours were spent sobbing uncontrollably, which must have been a delight for my patient hosts. I am not a crier - to a worryingly robotic extent some would say - but here I was clueless as to how I can come to terms with the situation - on a trip of a lifetime, having to find some way of enjoying it, whilst being entirely pre-occupied with worry over possible developments. I contacted home whenever I could, which was not often, this being an era slightly preceding ease of online instant messaging, but of course, that could not entirely assuage my, nor my family's, concerns. After a few days of sombre meandering, and certainly not a moment too soon for the my cousin's family's continuing peaceful existence, I left Narrabri to carry on with my plans, rested, grateful and apprehensive.

The next stop was to be my first Wwoofing experience, in the Grampians National Park, a beautiful nature reserve, roughly the size of Mauritius, but a mere speck on the map of Australia. I would be based at a bed and breakfast and farm on the outskirts of the small village of Dunkeld, Victoria, not far from Melbourne. Well, I say not far – in real terms about 4 hours' journey away. It's hard to convey just how mindbogglingly big this country is, the area covered so far being a teeny-tiny part of it, and yet I’ve already travelled almost 30 hours in total!

Sunrise on Serra B&B

Margaret was friendly enough when we discussed arrangements and expectations on the phone prior to my arrival. Like many in the Wwoofing community, she was very much into all things new-age - apart from the B&B she ran - Sunrise on Serra, so named after the one of the Grampian mountain ranges visible from her house - she also worked teaching pottery to adults with learning difficulties and practiced Reiki. She had a sweet horse called Gypsy - my first ever horsey friend, a cow called Sunny and two Siamese cats - Ninja and Ling.

She seemed really happy with me being there and wasn't too bothered about working me too hard, which was nice, this being my first experience. From reading people's accounts, at times farm owners try to take advantage of Wwoofers, demanding that they work longer than the maximum 6 hours per day, 6 days a week, and providing minimal conditions. Some even try to supplement and even replace their actual paid labour with this free resource, exploiting naïve Wwoofers. As the scheme is intended as a mutually beneficial and balanced arrangement, whereby backpackers could still use some of their time to explore the area they are visiting, it utterly defeats the object and is extremely unfair, particularly as even after 6 hours of manual labour one would usually be too exhausted to go on, say, a proper trek, let alone if being pressured into working any longer than that. Yes, the farming industry is a difficult and fragile one to survive in, some farm owners literally going hand to mouth, but there needs to be a clear trade or the whole thing falls apart, and those who took advantage got banned from participating. Similarly, workers not fulfilling their part of the deal got asked to leave by the farm owners, reported to the head office, and faced having their membership revoked.

From my correspondence with the various farm owners, I managed to get a good feel for the sort of person I was dealing with and their implied expectations. I sensed that my next farm stay was to be stricter and not as flexible, and was dreading it slightly, and therefore grateful for this soft initiation. However, I was not going to speculate and would reserve judgement for now.

My accommodation at Margaret's was a little soldier's cottage at the end of the garden, full of old gardening tools and other dust covered items, a mosquito net over a lumpy but ingratiating bed - it felt very much like a secluded hut in the jungle, with the sounds of night creatures all around me. It was very peaceful. Each morning I would wake at dawn and go to the main house, stopping on the way at the chicken coop to pick up a couple of eggs for our breakfast, then in the garden to pick some tomatoes. We'd have our delicious orange yolky and plump red nourishment with some toast, then get to work.

View of the Grampians' Serra range

Margaret had me doing some gardening, a little housework and masses of manure shifting – that stuff is fantastic for the garden, and I became an expert in transfer techniques of cow and horse-pat, first shovelled into the rusty wheelbarrow, then on to the vegetable and flower garden. It's a skill! The relationship with Gypsy was particularly gratifying, as it took several days to gain trust, but bit by bit she relaxed, and by the end would gallop towards me in glee whenever I was approaching and nudge me affectionately. Sunny the cow maintained respectful tolerance of my presence, but kept her distance.

In the evenings we would sit at the back of the house, watching kangaroos grazing at the edge of her land, sharing a glass of wine in the dusky sunset's diminishing light. She would tell me about her relationship history, fraught with challenging characters, and I would share alike about my troubled marriage. This is where I learned that getting close with your host could be a tricky line to tread. These were, at times, people thirsty for closeness and human contact, yet at the same time they had a business to run. The relationship formed was one of subordinate and master, disturbed by personal shades, making it difficult to manoeuvre and maintain boundaries. In this instance, the closer we got, the more Margaret was relying on me for answers to her personal problems, I had to work very hard to draw a line. This caused some tension and ultimately a degree of mistrust, a problem I later found to repeat.

In the meantime, though, I enjoyed my time there and was eager to see as much of the area as I could. At the first change I get, I planned to climb one of the mountain ranges, as the farm was right at the foot of the national park. To do so I had to use the farm bike to get to the start of the trail. This proved harder than anticipated... Being more of a rambler than a cyclist, I've always found cycling punishing and the cause of much deep bruising, scraping and slight but increasing panic throughout. As a child, I loved cycling, but only for short distances. It is possible I didn't do it enough to ever feel truly at home with it. Once a year, on Yom Kippur, when the roads were clear of traffic for 24 hours, my dad and I would embark on a cycling trip. Off we'd set, but as much as I wished for it to be an experience both bonding and cherished, I habitually came back feeling I'd let the man down with my low cycling capacity. As a rule we'd have to turn around and go back earlier than planned. And the slight sense of breathless exertion to keep up hounds me to this day.

In order to acclimatise to cycling again, I decided it would be easier to visit nearby Dunkeld first, supposedly a straightforward and quick trip. Internet access was scarce, and I needed to find an internet café so I could check emails and send updates to family and friends. Having memorised the map (not that there were many routes to choose from), I took off, trying to feel the wind in my hair, the sun on my face and revel in the rush of the open road. Somehow, though, I managed to take a wrong turn.

I found myself in a strange suburban labyrinth of cul-de-sacs, with the roads no longer paved, and paths so new they weren't even mapped yet. I cycled to and fro, getting deeper and deeper into the net of back alleys, a kind of white picket fence rural hell. Not a soul could be seen anywhere.  

Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks. Something was wrong. It was very quiet. The kind of quiet where no birds nor insects are audible. I looked ahead of me, and right there, on the path which just sort of carried on into the open horizon of mountains and forests, in an already disquieting scene of civilisation melting into wilderness, there were cockatoos. Dead ones. Lots and lots of large, white, dead cockatoos. There must have been 30 or 40 of them, scattered all around the path.

I froze, overwhelmed with odd terror. I looked around - still not a soul. Then I looked up. On the trees on both sides of the path, along the branches, were dozens of cockatoos, alive and ominously quiet. They were all staring at me. I couldn't work out whether they were sat in mourning over their fallen comrades, or am I witnessing the aftermath of some great tribal battle, the victorious side gloating over the corpses of the defeated.



Menace

slowly, as if facing a growling panther, I backed down the path, never taking my eyes off the trees. It was only when I reached the corner of the path that I dared turn the bike around and cycle away as fast as I could. I had to go a fair way before I got back on the main road, and managed to find my way into the village.

This was to be my first, and relatively tame, close encounter with the wild, within the same week.

 

Pitt Cue Co.

There's really no need for yet another Pitt Cue review, it's been extensively admired since opening about a month ago. But as it happens, when something pushes your cynicism and prejudices aside, it deserves all the praise it can get.

This was the first of six days' leave I was oh-so-desperate for. You know, when it's the end of winter and you simply cannot face another dark and gloomy day, when it feels like forever since the Christmas holidays, and you're on the verge of emotional and physical exhaustion. I couldn't wait to start my staycation, had no firm plans, except relax, relax, and - oh yeah relax some more. But I was also determined to be out and about. Avoiding the trap of getting so comfortable sleeping in and mooching around the house that before you know it, the holiday's over. Nope, I'll be making the most of my leisure time, savouring each moment.

Dazed, I woke up. I had the morning to acclimatise to the lower gear, and a massage booked for the afternoon - perfect. Lunch, I'd decided, will be a spur of the moment thing, depending on where I am. Weather was drizzly, but I was eager to get out and explore. Even though my body felt like a thousand bricks, a touch of hay fever clouded my head, in a way, this all gave me the ability to just focus on the next step and be present in the moment, sort of slow everything down.

Fenchurch Street Station, the oldest rail station in London

Arriving at Fenchurch Street station by the C2C train, (aka the EssExpress), looking at the city awash with persistent rain, I knew adventurous exploration would be out of the question, and ran through the lunch options through my head - something nearby, something hearty, something tasty. I knew all about the Pitt Cue history, from humble van under the Hungerford bridge, to pop-up in Soho with queues snaking around the corner, and now a proper serious growed-up restaurant, on Devonshire Square across from Liverpool St station. Reviews I've read have all been excellent, and there was not too much menu faffing with branching out to new territories - they do meat, mainly pork, and they do it well. Chef and co-owner, Tom Adams, has a Mangalitza pig farm, he treats them lovingly and knows how to extricate maximum flavour from these delightful beasties.

However, the previous week, I had a disappointing dining experience at the unanimously hyped Marksman pub on Hackney Road. This prompted a somewhat surly distrusting attitude as I entered the Pitt Cue site, challenging it to dazzle or let me down. Dining alone always produces interesting reactions, and the waitress immediately tried to confine me to the bar stools, but being in my enfeebled state, it only took a short pleading 'could I have a table?' from me for her to deposit me at the nicest table in the room, on comfy sofas and next to the large, light windows. I was appeased.

Although I was now officially in holiday mode, it was not quite cocktail hour, even though the room was full of boozy city lunchers, but I did feel a drop of something in a hot drink would do me good. I asked for an Irish coffee, something I never ever normally entertain as an option, being so pedestrian a beverage. She consulted the barman and returned explaining that they don't know how to make it... but they'll try to create something for me. Huh. Surprising that at a bar with a sophisticated cocktail menu they find improvisation a challenge, and with such a well known oldie of a drink, but ok, perhaps the barman specialises in the particular concoctions available. Returning again, however, the waitress presented me with a small glass of foamy black coffee. "it might not be great, so we won't charge you for this", I was assured. To my delight this turned out to be a delicious, sweet drink, heady with whiskey.

Looking at the menu, and the tables around me, I already knew what I was going to order. A board laden with pink and glistening pork meat at a nearby table helped with the choice of a Mangalitza chop. A salad of fennel, apple and toasted hazelnuts would accompany it well, with crunch and liquorish sour-sweetness to offset the fatty richness. And the Pitt Cue mash, unreservedly praised by all, I had to try. 

Mangalitza chop

The meal was exactly as I had hoped. Wholesome, delicious and skilfully prepared, without excess experimentation - these flavours worked on a very deep and satisfying level. Crispy fennel and apple salad, dressed with a beautiful light vinaigrette, and the earthy shards of toasted hazelnuts, complementing the chop, which was served with a charred pickled onion. But it was the mash that knocked me out. The mash, that simple, childhood comfort food, was so good, I couldn't help but suppress a groan and an eye roll of pleasure with each forkful. Ok fine, so it was a marrow and mushroom mash. I mean, how could that combo not produce an incredible result. It's almost an unfair advantage right there. And as if that wasn't enough, it was served with a rich gravy, so thick and substantial, it didn't mix in with the mash to make it in any way soupy, and I was able to apportion the mouthfuls of mash with the drinkable liquid, enjoying the deep layers of flavour.


Mash, marrow and 'shroom, with the nectar that is the gravy



I had a glass of a light and tingly Loire Chenin Blanc which worked beautifully in contrast with the depth of the meal. And after a short break, feeling revived, and confident in the establishment's abilities, I opted for their Rhubarb + Custard, a deconstructed crumble, with excellent buttermilk ice cream and a stew of rhubarb served under shards of caramely crunchy crumble.

I sat looking out into the wet streets, blinking like a newborn pup, my face relaxed into a serene smile. I smiled at the staff, at the other diners, at the people outside. I paid my bill and thanked my server. I'll be back, I said. I have to share this with people. And leaving the restaurant, I rubbed my hands together, thinking: 'right, let's get this vacation started'.



Two weeks later, I returned with a hard-to-please foodie friend. She was impressed:



Partly devoured caramel chicken cunningly angled to hide gnawing. Plate was licked clean.

Lamb shoulder (shared) on a bed of sour cabbage and onion

First plating, still civilised




Sourdough and roe, ordered by accident, mais je ne regrette rien

Hitting the Ground Down Under

Landing in Sydney, I was, as expected, in a dreamlike state, the night-terrors kind. Thankfully, I sailed through immigration and customs, despite ominous forewarnings of having to turn right back should a grain of earth is found on the soles of my shoes, and I was launched into the hot and sticky arrivals lounge. I'd been vehemently advised to pre-reserve the first couple of nights' hostel stay, to avoid having to engage in any interaction on a level more complex than signing my name and collecting room keys on arrival. Smart.

A shuttle service was allegedly to be provided by the hostel, and fairly soon an overheated and irritable man could be spotted lurking in the foreground, making no attempt to identify himself to us waiting backpackers as the driver. Eventually, though, he deemed it convenient to absentmindedly ask us to follow him, then proceeded to drive around the city, losing his way frequently, negotiating U-turns in streets too narrow, and getting increasingly agitated. By the time I was dropped off, last of the group, steam was visibly emanating from his ears.

My hostel was an early 1800s colonial estate, converted into a labyrinth of dormitories. It was based centrally, albeit in an area far from desirable, one street down from a prostitution hub. Yet there were plenty of other hostels in the area, with convenient transport links to all parts of the city.
 

 I was shown to my room, shared with 5 others, 4 of whom were sound asleep in their cots, no doubt sleeping off a night of wild backpacker abandon, was my assumption. In spite of the midday sun, as well as the strong and distinctive sock-sweat odour, I immediately heaved myself onto my top bunk, fully clothed, and fell into a sound asleep for the next 7 hours.

I woke up with just time enough to make a few phone calls before dinner, confirming my Wwoofing farm stays. Farmers participating in the Wwoofing scheme can be peculiar characters, as my story will amply demonstrate later on, and negotiating your engagement can be a fickle and capricious process. One wrong word could often mean the arrangement is null and void, as sensitivity and volatility levels are on the higher end of the spectrum. A fair number expect housekeeping and/or babysitting duties, which, all things considered, may be a reasonable thing to contribute towards, but - let's face it - that's not why you're doing this. For me, it was about the opportunity to sink my hands in the mud, develop blisters, make friends with farmyard animals, just purge some of my supermarket urbanity by learning about the holistic natural process. I was therefore very vigilant in my choices of stays, knowing once I'm there I'd be totally at the mercy of the owners, in the middle of nowhere and alone. I'd heard stories, you see.

There was also a call to confirm the first week's stay with my Narrabri dwelling distant relative and his family, arranged to help cushion the acclimatisation blow. I haven't see him since we were kids, and was quite excited about meeting family at this remote corner of the world! Besides, I was still reeling from the recent discovery of my sister's illness, and although I tried to put it out of my mind for the moment, it was stubbornly hanging in there like a hulking shadow over everything I did. I needed sympathetic company.

Once all arrangements were confirmed, I joined a hostel organised Korean buffet dinner in the green and pleasant yard. BBQ meat skewers and salads. It was cheap, tasty, and plentiful – just was I needed to aid my recovery. Having eaten, It made sense to venture out into the Sydney evening, for a drink in a local pub with some of the hostel guests already heading that way. However, I was beginning to sense that whilst a traveller in their 20s is greeted with a revellers’ carefree tribal yelp of inclusivity, a traveller in their 30s borders on falling into the hobo-weirdo category, to be treated with wary caution. My jetlagged state perhaps didn't help, as any attempt at an easy-going demeanour fell flat. Talking to people felt a chore. I tried some light pub chit-chat with a NZ guy, but, other than being introduced to the concept of ‘Movember’ for the first time (and he did have a magnificent 'tach), I was politely rebuffed. It may have been the jetlag, or not yet being in ‘travel mode’. Whatever the reason, I clearly needed to adjust and knew it was going to take time. I was also keen to get out of Sydney – urban city-scape was not what I came here for - and commence true traveling. But first, I had two days to get a taste of this city.

To that end, the next day I decided to walk around the city, allowing the residue of my haze engulf me like a cloud, and I began to relax a little bit. I started around Chinatown, which always makes me feel in an familiarly urban environment, as it's found in most Western cities, including London. I then walked to the Sydney Opera House, on the bay. I'm a sucker for harbours, marinas and seascape, and the whole area was very beautiful, water glistening, boats lapping, all that. Conveniently, I was right on the edge of the botanical gardens, a great big park - free to visit - and which has a wonderful feel to it, full of different types of odd flora and fauna.
 

One of the things I immediately noticed about Sydney and Australia in general is the incredible collection of birds I had never encountered before, roaming freely, which truly overwhelmed me. I was simply not prepared! Various big birds, particularly parrots and cockatoos, flying around everywhere! It’s quite something.
 

 

I also noticed gangs of huge flying foxes at the botanical gardens, in fact furry bats (but actually called flying foxes, clearly I'm not the only one with limited imagination),  zooming around in the midday sun. They were residents of the gardens but were apparently considered a pest and the city was trying to disposed of them.
 

After tiring myself out at the gardens, I found a travel agency and excitedly booked my ferry trip to Tasmania, where I planned to Wwoof extensively, then went out looking for some dinner. Having already scouted Chinatown, I was in the mood for some Asian food, and deposited myself in a lovely little Malay place, where I had a gorgeous veggie Laksa - a spicy, rich noodle soup made with coconut milk, herbs and tofu, savouring the bountiful, rich, glistening broth. Here I realised with sadness I must keep a sharp eye on my expenses, as budget was tight and so dining out, even for relatively cheap street food, was going to be a rare luxury. Included in price hostel breakfast, slow release energy snacks, dried fruit and nuts were going to feature heavily over the next few months...

 The next morning I only had a few hours before catching the northbound coach to my cousin's town, a 14 hour journey... in Australian terms a mere jaunt, of course. The annual Glebe Street Fair seemed like a decent place to pass my free morning. A suburb of Sydney, Glebe is a fairly trendy area, with dinky little boho shops and beautiful colonial houses. While I mooched around, a band played what they insisted referring to as "jazz", although twee folky tunes, with lyrics such as "...i gotta get rid of my pussycat, he'll be the end of me... " brought out the critic in me, and very quickly I removed myself from listening radius. Various market stalls and even pony rides were available, and I managed to procure a couple of gifts for my hosts, and got back in time for the bus, feeling a little like Captain Oates, perhaps somewhat less apprehensive and doomed.

'Tis the Season - Cabbage and Stuff

I've been under-seasoning lately, which I believe is a symptom of decreased confidence in general. Not entirely sure what that's about - perhaps pure winter exhaustion with everyone clawing through the last few days before spring officially begins, the cumulative effect of moving home, adjusting to shared living again after so many years of self-indulgent aloneness, erosion by an active lifestyle... who knows. The point is, could I use salt to push my self-esteem back up? After all, they say that rather than feeling good making you smile, smiling can make you feel good, firing the right neurons in your brain. I shall use condiments as a reverse-psychology tactic from hereon in.

This first attempt at making a version of my mum's stuffed cabbage recipe therefore fell short this time, due to my current meek state of mind, but I'm still keen to share it because, with a little adjustment, this dish could be a knockout. I used all those loose, single, seemingly uninspiring vegetables left in the drawer, having consumed all the bright green and easily stir-friable ones. So here I had one hefty swede, two slightly softening courgettes and three carrots, not forgetting a lovely invulnerable savoy cabbage.

The recipe, digging into the far reaches of my childhood memories, is labour intensive, but having broken it down in my head, it didn't seem too daunting. In general I find cooking very meditative and reflective. Stick the radio on and you're singing an embarrassing version of whatever's playing, fully immersed in the craft.

Chance declared my stuffed cabbage was to be vegan - a healthy, nourishing and satisfying main. Not a bad thing. First, I cooked some rice, with quick-fried cayenne, cumin, cinnamon (bark or powder) and paprika, and of course salt - rice isn't my problem area.

Using a food processor - a lifelong dream finally realised now I have a kitchen big enough for appliances! - I grated the swede, courgettes and carrots. These were then blanched in boiling water for a few moments, drained well, and mixed into the cooked rice. Also mixed in is a can of chickpeas. I covered the bowl of rice mixture with a towel and left it to steam and fluff up.

While that's going on, the cabbage can be steamed in a pot, but not too long, just until the leaves are bright green and slightly more malleable than their usual crunchy self. Once done, it can be rinsed in cold water and the leaves are separated and left on a kitchen towel to dry.

Leaving cabbage and rice to do their thing, I chopped an onion, some garlic and ginger, softened them in a large pot, with salt, pepper and some chilli flakes - fresh chilli is great of course - then added some tomato paste, a couple of cans of chopped tomatoes (a large bottle of passata would work instead, or as well as) and an equivalent amount of liquid - I used water, although stock would surely be better. I then threw in a bunch of fresh coriander stalks I had in the fridge too. Then seasoned again.

Here is where my seasoning senses have failed me. I don't know what it is, but tomato sauce simply throws me - I panic about over-salting but somehow loads is required to allow the sauce to taste of anything other than tinned tomatoes. I pull back and miss the opportunity to make the thing zing. My advice is - go liberal, be bold, more liquid can be added in the event of overenthusiastic shaking of the mill!

Now leave the sauce to bubble slowly and reduce for a good 20 minutes, or as long as it takes to carry out the next stage - the stuffing of the cabbage. I found this process pleasant and satisfying, but I would advise to be less utensil-stingy than me, and have a tray ready to place the rolled pieces on, rather than thinking 'what, another item to wash? Another item on the drying rack?... Pah, I'm a maverick and an artist, I'll just make do with the narrow board I've already used' and suchlike idiotic rationalisations. The pile of dolma I formed resembled an over-ambitious game of Jenga.

A handful of rice mixture goes into each leaf, which is then rolled once, folded in from both sides, then rolled again. Once all the leaves are done (and I am left with an enormous amount of leftover rice mixture which I shall be freezing as part of my 'never again buy lunch ok maybe once in a while on a Fri when I fancy something from the food market around the corner, after all I am a civilised first-worlder why should I deprive myself of luxury when nobody else does' campaign), place them CAREFULLY and in an organised fashion into the gently bubbling reduced sauce, squeezing them down slightly as the layers amass, so that the sauce rises to cover them all.

My lodger liked it. Well, she said she did. I knew though. I knew she was being nice, whilst vigorously and clandestinely employing our salt shaker. Still, it had a juicy freshness and a little kick of chilli and Levantine aromas from the cinnamon. A beauty, potentially! And easily corrected. Just wish I could adjust my salt bravado, to aid my wilting confidence levels. Maybe i'll try stuffed peppers next....

Jetlag La-La Land

After a surprisingly smooth trip back to the UK via Madrid, I spent a hectic half day and night at my friends’ house, getting blissfully distracted by their two sweet, affectionate daughters, just at that age when they simply love their “auntie” unconditionally and generously. Lavished with sticky crayon paintings and glittery knickknacks, I then started the first leg of the journey, London to Los Angeles. Here I had my first ever taste of jetlag - It was a more than a little strange, arriving at 2pm, being midnight in the UK, which made me feel exhausted and trapped in a surreal alternate reality.

However, with seven hours to kill till my flight to Sydney, I thought the thing to do was make my way into town, and look around LA, maybe do one of the those cheesy bus tours, sit sleepily on the top deck and take the occasional peek around... as it transpired, I never even made it out of the airport.

It took a while to find a way out of the labyrinthine terminal – rumour had it there were shuttle buses going from various exit points by the arrivals area, which I tracked down after a disorienting hike. These buses took an inordinate amount of time to arrive, then dropped you off at a dilapidated and seemingly abandoned bus terminal, roughly the size of a tundra. Here, you were to fathom which bus shelter shaped black hole will take you into LA itself, using the power of telepathy, due to the absence of any timetables or maps. Ridiculous. All propaganda, I’d decided, pushing the agenda of private vehicle ownership in the US.

Caught up in this sanctimonious inner rant, I suddenly stopped in my tracks. I had wisely not brought any American currency, which obviously rendered the entire endeavour futile, as I wouldn't be able to get the bus into town! By now it was about 1 in the morning by my internal clock, yet still broad daylight, and making me feel very odd... If this peculiarity wasn't enough, an elderly man suddenly accosted me - ‘suddenly’ being a generous overstatement, as he could barely walk at all, just shuffle, several inches at a time  - and asked for my help getting to the bus stop, about 50 meters away. He was deaf, which turned our conversation into a celebration of ineptitude: me – badly disorientated and jetlagged, and him – in a shuffling-mumbling world of his own.

Our communication was thus somewhat stifled, yet he managed to reveal he was due to have surgery in a few days, which he’d hoped would give him the ability to walk again, lost, as far as I could decipher, by some kind of a muscular degenerative illness. I could only hope that his current speed would allow him to arrive at his appointment in good time. On discovering I lived in London he brightened up, saying he often visits there on business. This both confused and impressed me. Him even making it out of an airport terminal must have been the work of fantastical forces, let alone international travel. This was clearly a determined and resourceful individual.

By now, our short excursion had taken approximately half an hour, by which time I had to admit defeat, and knew I would never make it to downtown LA in time to have a decent scout. I shall return to the terminal - tail between legs - get some food and try to sleep curled up in a corner somewhere, as I was clearly at risk of collapsing right there on the tarmac in an exhausted heap. And so, having safely deposited my new friend at a bus stop of his choice, I laboriously embarked on my trippy merry way back to the terminal.


Chili’s, one of the many chain restaurants dotted in service stations throughout the US, seemed a comfortable yet affordable pit stop for my needs. Here I consumed a large bowl of much required spicy fried chicken strips, an even larger margarita, then selected an alluring slice of floor and fell soundly asleep, oblivious to the bright halogens and footfall for the next five hours.

My flight to Sydney was extremely comfortable, lovingly accommodating to the long-haul passenger, with a variety of media choices on my personal screen, why - even the food was not intolerable! My seat was next to an American gal from Spokane and her newly wed husband - both around 19 years old - on their way to their honeymoon in Australia and New Zealand, along with an entourage of their extended family, romantically enough. She was very sweet, although, as with many Americans over the course of my trip, the conversation quickly shifted to religion. She hoped, she revealed to me, to become an art therapist, but had to put that plan on hold until she completed her course in Christian studies. She seemed sad, but resigned to her fate, which made me wonder about choices in general and how often we believe we are restricted, when I fact, we willingly succumb to those restrictions ourselves. Did that couple want a honeymoon alone? Did this woman want to pursue her dream vocation? I would tend to believe they did, yet felt they had no choice but put their own desires on hold to placate assumed expectations. To me, though, this no-choice was in itself a choice they were perhaps unaware they were making.

After our chat, I thankfully managed to get quite a bit of sleep and woke up in time for an incredible sunrise over the Australian coast line.

Steak Me (New) Home

Adventures come in many guises and it is only a year after my contemplative nihilistic musings on the steps of my old flat, that I am inhabiting a new one. The expedition i've longed for is of a different nature - one of exploring a new area of London, and the pitfalls of property ownership. A challenge I was seeking, and one was provided.

And it is with intermittent exhilaration and groans of irritation that I face what the day brings. Now it's a mystery charge applied by the freeholders, now it's discovering a plethora of exotic supermarkets catering for the diverse local demographic, now it's the lack of recycling in my newly adoptive hood, now it's a surprise hipsterish steak restaurant in what is otherwise a sea of something-fried-chicken takeaways, betting shops and caffs, now it's the tricky art of neighbour diplomacy, now it's the joys of deciding on how to decorate my new home - paintings, furniture, all the bits and pieces I'd never given a second thought to before.

But it's the steakhouse that's worth elaborating on. An utter anomaly for the area, discovered on the day I moved. Suspicious of my new surroundings' cultural thinness and provincial leanings, lack of decent pubs, yet still determined to grow to love it, I paced the streets with a friend. We strolled past the tube station, through the pedestrianised high street with its low-rent Pound shops and cash-converters, and through the market selling net vests and plastic wallets. We were determined to be charmed and so walked to the very last stall.

Here we found a sad, dilapidated, boarded-up pub, but it was the blackboard sign on its wall that caught my eye:

Huh, we thought, we do indeed like all of those things, not least walking around corners. Let us follow the suggested course. Turn right we did, encountering a life-size bovine model outside what could have been a foodie spot plucked out of Dalston high street. But here, in suburban London. Buffed wooden furniture: check. Deliberately placed quirky ornaments: check. Claims for high quality ingredients: check. Aloof staff: check.

 

We weren't hungry, however we couldn't resist a nose around the premises, and were enthusiastically greeted by the self-professed financier, a man I would categorise of the "too posh to wash" ilk. He fluttered around us explaining his and business partner Cristina's vision of pushing the area to culinary eminence, facing off against some of the best London notable steak restaurants. 'Goodmans, Hawksmoor...?' I inquired. 'Erm... yes' he maintained, grasping onto his air of conviction.

I decided that, true or not, this place deserves a try - the menu offered excellent value and wasn't pretentiously complicated, just steak and lots of it. Besides, being as it evidently is the only vestige of fine dining in Barking, my only link back to urbanite sophistication, it would be foolish to dismiss it.

A few weeks later, following a lazy yet weary Sunday with overworked friends, we found ourselves crossing that threshold, with intention to dine this time. Service was lacklustre, verging on the irritable. however, we were tolerant of the fact, as we seemed to have happened upon a celebration of some kind, and staff may have been under duress preparing for the night - attendees adorned in shiny polyester shirts, pointy shoes, sparkly dresses and heavy perfumes, plus a long table set for a blowout party with many bottles of spirits, wine and beer. Attempts to guess at the occasion ranging from christening, confirmation, wedding, even funeral were speculated, but we were too tired and hungry to actually engage with the revellers. To our dismay, they eventually betrayed our gleeful sense of impending riot by maintaining cool and sober decorum throughout the evening. Damn.

The restaurant filled quickly with other diners, some clearly regulars, and we were optimistic. The food, when it arrived, was good but not great - the steaks mainly prepared well, but not as one would expect in the more established London steak joints - the meat has not been prepared with the appropriate heat, it seemed. Fat not crisped enough, sinew more evident than it should be, and even the fillet had a damp, cold quality as if it hadn't had time to thaw out properly before being tossed into he pan. And you've gotta wonder, given the profit margin, could these be superb cuts of beef at these prices? I'd like to believe this must be due to a special arrangement forged with an excellent and ethical meat supplier, but I'm afraid my cynical leanings won't let me.

Sides were tasty, although on the under-seasoned side, and we only got one portion of chips instead of two; however, the bill came to about £25 per head, including a bottle of a decent Vinho Tinto, and I'm certain the lunch menu at £6 for a main and sides, and even the Sunday roast menu for £10 are more than satisfactory.

The claim to quality and style and dogged stubborn insistence on being the leading steak eatery in the area is certainly justified, given that competition is non-existent. And no doubt I would be making repeat visits when I feel the steak urge coupled with a wish to stay local. The restaurant is doing well, management is eager and clientele is loyal, it appears.

Somehow, though, for local eats I prefer the excellent Kolachi, a Pakistani restaurant down the road. Drafty, cramped and garishly decorated with a candelabra, it serves truly authentic Karachi homey food, bowls of glistening lentil and chickpea and slow-cooked lamb stews, served with a side plate of herbs, ginger, limes and crisp fried onions to be sprinkled at your leisure over the dish, or a plateful of expertly grilled chops and skewered meats, aromatically marinated. Here you are expected to eat with your hands and/or paratha and naan baked a minute ago on the tandoor. No sophistication but no pretension either. Here I found the essence of what my new home ground is about.

An Uneasy Embarkation

I woke up in a small town in Eastern Australia, crying. This was not the start of a trip-of-a-lifetime I’d expected. The past two days were spent moping around my second cousin and his wife’s house in Narrabri, halfway between Sydney and Brisbane. Here, in this charming farmland town, I did a whole lot of not much, other than sleeping, weeping, and trying hard not to bum out my tolerant hosts. It was a mere fortnight ago that my family’s tranquil existence has been irreversibly disrupted, destabilising the vibe around the trip I’d been planning for many months as result.

We were sitting in the kitchen – our familial congregating area, its cramped cosiness and proximity to the fridge much preferred to the larger living room, only ever used for watching TV or entertaining guests - my mum, my sister and me. I was on a long visit, sort of an elaborate pit stop prior to commencing my long-planned trip, but in reality an excuse to spend much needed time in the bosom of my family. I’d been living away for so long, this was a singularly precious opportunity to gain some quality time on the family loyalty-points card.

Sitting in the kitchen, as we were, not unlike any other day, my sister casually mentioned she thought, but wasn’t certain, she may have a something lump-like in her breast, but perhaps it’s nothing. ‘I’m not sure’, she added laconically. My mum and I exchanged glances. ‘How long has it been there?’ we asked. ‘A few months, really’, she tentatively offered, fully recognising the implication of what she was saying, and the overwrought histrionics she may be invoking, ‘but honestly, I couldn’t tell if it’s anything. Here, feel it’. I knew, as soon as my fingers touched that Ping-Pong ball sized solid protuberance, that it was cancer. I’d felt it before, oddly, on my dog, years ago. I knew what it was then, and I knew now. ‘Make an appointment to see a doctor’, I said pointedly, whilst trying to maintain my cool. She seemed taken aback at my unequivocal tone, rather than being placated with a dismissive ‘oh it’s nothing to worry about’. But we all knew there was now no time to lose.

I was due to leave for my trip the following week, but was no longer sure I wanted to, or even could bring myself to. We went to see the doctor together, confirming what we’d already suspected, and set the wheels in motion for the next inevitable steps. Ominous words like ‘chemotherapy’, ‘terminal’ and ‘death’ were constantly going through my mind. I agonised over the decision whether to pack it in and stay put. But mulling it over with the family, they repeatedly pointed out that a. we didn’t know how soon, if at all, any treatments were to start, b. there is nothing any of us can do for the moment and c. I’d spent much time and money organising this trip and ought to at least begin, then if necessary I could always return.

I had just recently completed a postgrad diploma, later in life than is conventional, a feat undoubtedly driven by the dissolution of my marriage. The divorce papers have also just come through, the coinciding events both milestones of some epic. Feeling this was as right a time as any for a Sabbatical, I quit my UK based job, having put some funds aside for my adventure, and became a lady of leisure – for the next year or so, anyway. The plan was to travel around the south east of Australia, using Wwoofing as a great way of seeing as many remote parts as possible. Wwoofing consists of volunteering on sustainable and environmentally aware, mainly smallholders’ farms, sometimes organic or biodynamic, being provided with food and accommodation in exchange for 4-6 labour hours per day. My trip was then to take me around the north and south islands of New Zealand; however, here some work permit restrictions meant Wwoofing was not an option, and so I begrudgingly booked a hop-on-hop-off tour bus, with the intention of stopping off for independent hikes in various places. The final leg was to be around the southern states of the US, mainly by Amtrak train. I felt the tingle of freedom and yearned to consummate it by roaming the world, unshackled by concerns and trivialities of routine life. But now, It seemed, reality has sniggered smack dab in my face. Best laid plans and so on… a new perspective heavily wrapped round my escapade like a thick duvet. Still, I resolved to push on with my plan and put a brave face on. The airport goodbyes were not easy.