“We call it catching up here. Not fishing!” says Trevor, grinning. I’m standing on the bow of the MV Nomad holding a three-metre-long rope with a hook at one end and what looks like a spoon while bobbing on top of the Arafura Sea, off the far north coast of Australia’s Northern Territory. I have no idea what to expect.
“Here they come,” Trevor warns. “Make sure you pull them in quick. The sharks are bloody fast up here.” I look across at my brother, who’s clutching his rope somewhat competitively, but now looks equally uneasy. In an explosive splash, his line pulls taut as a Spanish mackerel the length of a surfboard breaks the water and takes his lure. There’s no fishing rod or reel here. It is hand over hand as fast as you can – if you aren’t fast enough, as my brother soon finds out, you pull up half a fish, the other half taken by an opportunistic and rather hungry bronze whaler shark.
Within an hour of casting our spoon lures we’ve reeled in four and a half enormous Spanish mackerel, blistered both hands and screamed like little kids as we pulled our catch from the jaws of Jaws himself. We try some reef fishing and my brother snags a fish that is the size of a couch and fights with the resistance of one, too. I hook a coral trout that swims into the mouth of a shark and snaps my line. I’m out of breath from both exertion and laughter. All the while Trevor smiles broadly, almost with pride, as he fillets the mackerel. The sun is high and bright and the sky a deep endless blue. It is almost the perfect fishing trip until Trevor offers us a beer. Perfection.
We are on a “bro-cation” at Banubanu Wilderness Retreat, a dream made true by Trevor Hosie and his wife Helen. Tucked into the dunes of Bremer Island, about three hours by boat from Nhulunbuy, on northeast Arnhem Land’s Gove Peninsula, Banubanu looks as though Robinson Crusoe himself built it out of the driftwood, flotsam and jetsam washed up on the surrounding beaches. There’s a dugout canoe in the Driftwood Cafe – the central meeting and dining point – that’s made its way from Papua New Guinea, and a life ring from the Avona Jakarta hanging on the wall. God knows what happened to the Avona Jakarta, or her crew for that matter. Given the appetite of the bronze whalers we’ve encountered, I doubt many of her men would have made it this far had she gone down. Old fishing nets, giant turtle skulls and coloured buoys complete the picture.
There are wooden walkways through the sand leading to the accommodation: a series of cabins and tents almost buried in the dunes behind the Driftwood Cafe, all with luxury bedding and bathrooms. Trevor has also built the ultimate beach shack here, its sundowner deck looking over the northern beach. It is his crowning glory and where we sit après catching, cold beer in hand, watching a golden Northern Territory sunset over the far rocky point after which Banubanu was named.
Trevor’s dream began decades earlier while he was surveying the area for a previous job. Bremer Island, in particular, stayed with him. Ironically, Trevor was part of the team that classified the island a protected area and, as such, it remained isolated until 2003 when he returned to build Banubanu. Lak Lak, the local Yolngu landowner, remembered Trevor from his surveying days and granted him permission to build. In return, Trevor employs local youths and pays a royalty to the community. The arrangement gives guests a unique opportunity to meet the Yolngu people and gain an understanding of how they live. Unfortunately we don’t get a chance to meet Lak Lak, but we’re told she is a regular visitor.
Trevor and Helen’s respect and affection for her is obvious. There are quite strict rules regarding the environment, and alcohol can only be preordered and brought in with guests.
We spend a morning circumnavigating the island in Trevor’s beaten-up old Toyota. It doesn’t take long, yet around each bend is a breathtaking view of another isolated beach just begging for a set of footprints. Trevor takes us inland to some crab holes, but we pass on trying to catch their inhabitants when he mentions the area also “has a few crocs”. As beautiful as it is in this part of the world, it is important not to forget just how wild it is too.
And that is what makes Banubanu so special. There’s no TV or phone coverage (unless you climb the highest dune and get lucky), so you find yourself immersed in the nature surrounding you. Trevor talks us through the bird life and I imagine twitchers fumbling with their binoculars in excitement. We’re lucky enough to spot some sea eagles darting in the distance. Turtle watching here is world class with new nests appearing weekly during the nesting season, and while they are off-limits to guests, the locals can track down larger turtles for an up-close and environmentally friendly experience.
The easy option for Trevor and Helen would have been to set up a simple campsite and let guests look after themselves, but the beauty of Banubanu is that they haven’t. Helen tells us they have tried to make everything they can control five star. The food she prepares is exquisite. On our first evening we start with sashimi from a fish Trevor filleted on the boat that afternoon. Dessert is a Heston Blumenthal-inspired pop rock pudding. The Driftwood Cafe, lit by candles and catching the sea breeze, is the ideal location. The food, the bedding and the service are on par with a top-priced resort. The beach, the sunset and especially the fishing are even better.
But for me, it is the escape that is the allure of Banubanu. After only a couple of days I feel like a genuine castaway, as though I’ve been washed up on the beach clutching the Avona Jakarta life ring. Three days feels like three weeks. The rest of the world is so far away it is forgotten. Large beach resorts try hard to replicate the “shipwreck experience” travellers seek. Banubanu doesn’t have to try. It is the real deal, garnished with luxury. We have a perfect half-moon beach to ourselves and time is told by the sun’s position in the sky. On our our final evening it puts on another spectacular closing number. My brother and I toast the moon and gaze up as the stars come out. From this vantage point Banubanu is far more than five stars.
Tell people you’re heading to the Northern Territory to kayak down a river and they’re only going to say one thing. Come on, no one in their right mind kayaks down a river in the Northern Territory – particularly if the river’s full of crocodiles. So I say it again and again and again: “They’re not stupid. No one’s going to let me paddle down a river with crocodiles in it.”
Turns out I was wrong. They are going to make me paddle down a river with crocodiles in it. Saltwater crocodiles. The kind that grow bigger than, well, a kayak. I discover this about 300 metres above the river on my incoming helicopter ride. That’s the Katherine River below me. When it’s done funnelling its way through nine famous gorges, which we’ve just flown over, it winds its way slowly downstream across the red dust and clay of the Australian outback, south-west of the township of Katherine.
“How come there are no saltwater crocs where we’re going?” I ask the helicopter pilot, waiting for a logical explanation. I’m sitting right beside him in his Robinson 44, so while his voice comes to me as a noise through my headset, his eyes stare right at me. “What do ya mean?” he asks.
“I just would’ve figured that a river so far north in the Northern Territory would have saltwater crocs in it.” I’m still looking at him. “There are saltwater crocs where you’re going, mate,” he says slowly, like he’s not sure whether I’m messing with him or just thick. “About a week ago, they pulled a four-metre saltie from a croc trap right where you’ll end up.” He continues on his merry way. “See there,” he’s pointing at a riverbed. “My neighbour’s dog was taken there by a saltie two weeks back. She reckons there wasn’t even a yelp. One minute it was there, next it was gone.”
But this far from the coast, the Katherine’s full of fresh water: “Doesn’t matter. They don’t mind the fresh water,” he says. But why on earth would an adventure company take people paddling above saltwater crocodiles? “It’s an adventure company, isn’t it?” he says with a chuckle. “Anyway, they should know how to avoid them.”
At this point in the conversation we spot a man in a kayak below us, waiting beside a tear-shaped sandbank in the river. The pilot banks hard left so that I temporarily lose my stomach as we come in low and fast and turn full-circle back at him.
My feet sink ankle-deep into coarse orange sand as I meet the bloke I pray knows where every last crocodile is on this stretch of the Katherine. The river’s a pretty sort of soft blue. It’s still enough, too, to create a mirror on the surface reflecting the lush trees that line both banks and look so out of place among the dusty plains we’ve just flown across. On a hot day like this one, it looks like the kind of river you’d leap right into if you didn’t know better.
“I wouldn’t,” guide Matt Leigh says casually. Leigh’s not the type to lecture or waste much breath on talking, but it’ll be these two words that guide me through the coming days – if Leigh says he wouldn’t, I don’t.
“There could be salties here,” he says, glancing around. “You never can tell. You’re better off soaking than swimming round here. Don’t swim where you can’t see the drop-off. You’d be right 99 times out of 100, but I take more than a hundred people here every year.”
Before I even so much as dip a paddle in the Katherine, I fire every croc question I’ve ever thought of, and then some, at Leigh. From that round of interrogation, let’s dispel a few myths about saltwater crocs before we go further – it’s only fair and, believe me, it helps.
They’re not always the killers we regard them as. An average saltie eats once a month, so they’re hardly out trawling for fresh meat like a lion, which eats as often as it can. And at five metres long, our kayaks are at least a metre longer than the crocs around here, so rather than seeing us as easy, squishy prey in plastic take-out trays, we’re simply the dominant species – they’ll hide until we pass by. Allegedly. Where there’s a greater chance of lurking crocs – in the deeper, darker sections of the Katherine – we’ll paddle in group formation.
But the crocs that inhabit this part of the river aren’t generally aggressive anyway – that’s why they’re here. They’re the non-dominant males who elected against fighting for women and food. Instead they tossed their towels into the ring and swam upriver to enjoy the quiet life, far from the testosterone of the coastal estuaries. There’s plenty more Leigh can tell you too, but it’s this image – of a river full of shy, retiring crocs seeking a bit of peace – that gives me the greatest comfort. So much so I’m finally able to concentrate on what’s all around me, rather than just under me.
Paperbarks grow right out over the water offering shade from the fierce afternoon sun. Blue-winged kookaburras – the kind that doesn’t laugh – fly between them as I pass by. Higher on the banks where gums grow, whistling kites and white-bellied sea eagles fly. Above them – high in the thermals – wedge-tailed eagles and black-breasted buzzards, so big they block out the sun when they pass in front of it, patrol the ground for food.
The river flows steadily so I ride the current downstream. Each bend brings with it a completely different scene – around some corners the river looks wide and peaceful; past others it narrows into tight, fast- moving avenues racing through smoothed-out sandstone, where I have to carefully negotiate my passage. When the sun starts to lose its sting, Leigh leads us to a sandbank near a knee-deep section of the river. “This’ll be camp,” he says simply. “Shallow water should keep the crocs away.” I stop to soak in the slow-moving water. By the time I dry off, Leigh has a fire going, and a pewter mug of whiskey with ice cubes is waiting on the camp table. All around ghost gums and river reds are lit up gold by the last rays of afternoon sunlight, while agile wallabies spy us through the trees, wondering about their funny-looking new neighbours.
Leigh cooks roast beef and vegetables in an old black pot on the fire and, when we’re done, I pick out a soft spot – still warm from the sun – on the rolling dunes. From my swag beneath the moonless sky, I watch stars shoot one by one across the infinite black, while listening to the steady hoot-hoot of southern boobooks and tawny frogmouths.
At dawn, Leigh kicks the fire back to life and cooks up a feed of bacon and eggs he frames not so neatly inside charcoaled pieces of toast. Then it’s back to the water. Over the next couple of days, the surroundings change by the second, as overhanging trees and green foliage give way to the kind of dusty setting you’d expect in this part of the country. Then we paddle around a corner and it changes all over again. Underneath me in the clear, warm water black bream, mullet, catfish, barramundi, snap turtles and metre-long whip rays dart about. Sometimes I float over tiny freshwater crocodiles hiding beside sunken logs – in the height of winter it’s not unusual to see 60 in a day. Above me in the trees, I see branches, tree trunks and other debris hanging precariously, swept there by summer floods when the river rises up to 20 metres. Around one corner I almost paddle into a decaying wallaby washed downstream. I hope its stench hasn’t attracted salties.
The more I paddle – or sometimes just drift with the flow, stopping to stretch my legs as Leigh boils billy tea along the river bank – the more I feel like I’m floating through some sort of real-life Hans Heysen landscape of Australiana, travelling back a century or more into a country I figured disappeared with the rise of modernity.
Out here, I can’t post a single shot on Instagram or Facebook, instead relying on my own eyes – rather than a hundred likes – to legitimise the beauty of all I see. There are no humans here either. Often we paddle for hours without speaking a single word. It’s like I can hear the outback slowly breathing in and out around me, keeping time with the wallabies that bounce along the sandbanks and the cooling nor’-wester that huffs and puffs through the paperbarks.
When the tour’s almost done, I spot a clunky, silver-looking contraption on the far bank. It’s only now I remember that a four-metre croc was pulled from here a fortnight ago – from that very croc trap. Rolling down the Katherine with the breeze at my back and the paperbarks forming a cathedral above me to guide me home, I’d forgotten about the man-eating creatures below. But as I squeeze my way slowly and silently through the only lush parts in one of the world’s most rugged landscapes, I’m mesmerised by all I see, smell and hear around me. In this blissful state of being, I feel like throwing myself into the river one last time before I leave her for the big smoke. “I wouldn’t,” Leigh says. I don’t.
Hobart’s ominous ceiling of cloud spits us out on the tarmac and we’re soon absorbed into a landscape as dramatic as it is gloomy. Rolling fields and mountains give way to a sky of endless grey. It’s a landscape of contrasts that serves as the perfect backdrop for the Museum of New and Old Art (MONA), an institution dedicated to life’s extremes – birth, sex and death. And that’s why we’re here: to revel in MONA’s Dark Mofo festival and get in touch with our hedonistic, pagan sides. Or, put simply, to check out some seriously weird art and music while enjoying Tasmania’s culinary spoils.
The program for the festival is unlike any I’ve ever seen. Museum creator and introverted gambling prodigy David Walsh and his minions do a damn fine job of sourcing some of the most left-of-centre exhibitions and acts. It adds great mystery and intrigue to the whole adventure, as there’s little preconception when walking into one of the numerous venues scattered across Hobart. From giant melting ice-blocks and transvestite Beat poets to Australian exploitation film screenings, Dark Mofo’s line-up is irreverent and unpredictable.
First up, and a mandatory highlight of the Mofo experience, is a visit to MONA itself. Clinging to a small point overlooking the Derwent River at Berriedale, about 20 minutes’ drive north of Hobart, the monolithic museum looks more like a Bond villain’s lair than an art gallery. Rumour has it the building will eventually crumble into the river as the land below it erodes. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.
You can’t describe MONA in a nutshell. Safe to say, there’s nothing like it on Earth. Or in the earth, for that matter. The museum is built into the ground and you can either take a lift or a steep winding staircase into its bowels – I use that word for good reason. One of the museum’s more notorious exhibitions is a contraption designed to replicate the human digestive process. It’s all very scientific, of course, but a poo machine nonetheless. And, yes, it stinks.
Our schedule allows only a couple of hours in the museum, but you could easily spend longer. It’s incredible, weird, shocking, ridiculous and even has an onsite craft brewery and winery. I can highly recommend both, especially after watching a robot take a crap.
The rest of our Dark Mofo jaunt is split between day and night. The days are spent traipsing around Hobart and surrounds, taking in the festival’s bizarre and disparate offerings. These range from a screening of the classic Ozploitation flick Wake in Fright and a disturbing performance from legendary gothic Greek singer Diamanda Galás, to a musical stage adaptation of Snowtown, the film about the infamous ‘bodies in barrels’ murders. It is hands down the strangest theatrical experience of my life, and I’d wager a barrel of hard cash it’d be one of yours too.
Murderous musicals and wailing Greeks aside, Mofo really gets going after the sun goes down. The biting cold winds pick up and now is the time to ignite your smouldering inner fire with some tasty food and drink. The Winter Feast, a huge wharf on Hobart’s waterfront filled with food stalls by some of the country’s leading chefs, is an ideal start. But get there early as the event unexpectedly drew more than 45,000 hungry punters over the course of the festival in 2014.
Bellies full, we take refuge inside the New Sydney Hotel, a pub to end all pubs. This Hobart institution is a must-visit. The giant blazing fireplace toasts our backs as we peruse the drinks list. But it’s the hand-pumped beer tap that snags our attention. The brew on offer is rotated regularly, offering up a bevy of either unheard of or unpronounceable small-batch beers such as the Aurora Borealis, a 16 per cent beast that dares you to mumble its name after a couple of pints. We knock back a few and proceed to Dark Faux Mo, the festival’s official afterparty.
We roll into the Odeon Theatre, a longstanding Hobart icon and this year’s party venue. Divided between the main theatre, a mezzanine space and a small shed around the back, the festivities offer something for every taste. Headlining the main stage on the final night of the festival is Seattle drone metal band Sunn O))). The entire theatre is drenched in smoke and strobe lights and through the flashing sickly sweet fog comes the most diabolical noise. The smoke begins to clear, revealing a monstrous stack of speakers and the origin of this deafening auditory barrage. I manage about 15 minutes before retreating to the bar.
A few more Moo Brews and I’m upstairs, soaked in sweat and beer, dancing (some would argue having a fit) to Aussie synth-funk outfit Total Giovanni. The band finishes on a high and I slip out into the chill. The pathway between the main theatre and the back shed is crammed. I shoulder my way through the crowd of freaks and geeks and into the brothel-red lit back room. I arm myself with another Moo and take stock. The room is absolutely pumping. In the back corner a bluegrass band works revellers into a frenzy, while in the centre a skinny, bearded dancer a leather S&M get-up is gyrating on a stripper’s pole. At this point any lingering inhibitions evaporate.
I’m not sure what time we finish up, but on the walk home, in between bites of a pie, I try to piece together what this whole thing has been about. I’m still unsure whether the winter solstice/pagan-ritual theme ties each moment and experience together, but there’s something undeniably powerful happening in Tasmania thanks to MONA. Travelling to an island at the end of the Earth in winter and completely immersing yourself in art, performance, gastronomy and partying is truly unique. In a bloated festival landscape such as Australia’s, MONA’s Dark Mofo stands tall among the crowd. And I can tell you, I’ll be back.
It’s 3am on game day and Katie Ryan can forget about getting any more sleep. A player raps on her door with a problem that’s now her problem. He has been up vomiting and can’t keep water down. Minutes later there’s a second knock on the door. Another player has woken, this time with a throbbing pain in his hand after his fingernail was trodden on during the previous day’s match.
“The players got very little sleep that night before having to get up and prepare for another two games, and I decided it was just easier to stay up, make an early coffee and get some paperwork done,” Ryan says. “It was going to be a long, long day – it would be 22 hours before I got a chance to get to sleep again.”
Welcome to life on the road as team physio of the Australian Men’s Rugby Sevens. In some respects, Ryan is living every girl’s dream – travelling the world with a muscular bunch of uber-athletic blokes, always on stand-by should one of them need a rubdown. But Ryan isn’t a girl, she’s a professional sports physiotherapist and mother of three, who’s second family just happens to wear green and gold and takes her to places most nine-to-fivers could barely imagine. This year the circuit includes Las Vegas, Dubai, Wellington, the Gold Coast, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Glasgow, London and Port Elizabeth in South Africa – all with two gear bags, a treatment table and 30 kilograms of sports tape in tow.
“Apart from the travel I’m just really lucky that I get to look after these absolutely professional athletes; they train super hard and, yes, there are pinch me moments when I’m doing a treatment session looking out over Dubai, or having a treatment session watching the whales swim up the coast at the Gold Coast, or treating a player looking over Wellington. They’ve just been amazing times.”
When we meet trackside at Sam Boyd Stadium in Las Vegas, Ryan, 44, has her hands full. The player who was up vomiting is being assessed for IV fluids – he’s come off the field severely dehydrated and has shed three kilograms. There are other wounds and injuries to tend to and once they’ve been dealt with, a quandary: where can two women meet in such a blokey environment? “How about I come to you?” I propose. The suggestion is met with the following text: “Where I am now in the change rooms faces the communal team shower – you would blush.”
Ryan is used to the nudity, blood, sweat and grit that comes with looking after a professional sports team – it’s part of her job description and, as the only woman on the squad, she carries out her role with dignity and respect. It’s a courtesy that is reciprocated among the players and team managers, who don’t mind giving Ryan a gentle ribbing when they see her talking to a journalist – it’s all part of the camaraderie. Humour is important when you live out of each other’s pockets on tour.
Ryan always snags the biggest hotel room during tournaments, but it’s not really her own. As the primary person responsible for player welfare (team doctors don’t come on tour), she’s on call 24/7. In Vegas her day starts early with the players filing into her room to ‘check-in’, a game-day ritual where they are weighed, have their physical stats recorded and any issues addressed. Next it’s off to the pool for ‘activation’ to start preparing for the day’s matches (often there are two games, each consisting of seven-minute halves with a two-minute half-time). Ryan will spend up to an hour strapping and prepping the players. Soon they are warming up against the dramatic backdrop of the arid Nevada mountains, then it’s show time.
“We go out on the field and the strength conditioner and myself have to run water during the match. Because it’s so intense you’ve just got a short time to get on and off. I almost got tackled by a Scottish player today, so it’s fast and furious and then it’s back off to manage any injuries.”
After the game there is more strapping, ice, hydration and perhaps some manual therapy as Ryan and the team assess whether some players can “back up” for another match. Fourteen minutes of competition might sound lightweight but the sport is punishing; these are colossal, super-fit athletes who charge the field with lightning speed and brute force. Peripheral injuries to ankles, knees, joints and backs are common, as are contact- related wounds and soft-tissue damage, such as strained calves and hamstrings. Hydration and nutrition are perpetual challenges, particularly on long-haul flights when you are dealing with bear-like men crammed into chicken-class seats.
“We know anecdotally that long periods of travel on planes affects athletes – it’s a real concern for player welfare,” Ryan says. “This can be the effects of sitting in air-conditioning for anything from three to 22 hours, sitting next to people who are unwell and picking up an illness, losing weight from eating small, irregular meals that are not optimal for athletes, and the effect of jamming six-foot, five-inch, 100-kilogram players in economy seating for long periods – expecting them to be able to have any sort of quality sleep sitting upright.”
Ryan – who graduated as a physiotherapist in 1993, becoming a sports physio in 2000 – spent two decades working with rugby union clubs before joining the Rugby Sevens full-time in 2014 when the program centralised in Sydney. Between running two physio practices with her husband – former Australian Wallaby’s physiotherapist Andrew Ryan – and raising three children under the age of 11, Ryan has little chance to sit still. And her job comes with sacrifices: in Vegas she misses two of her children’s birthdays, and Mother’s Day is spent on tour in Scotland.
“Missing two birthdays was a little bit devastating,” she says. “I guess the biggest thing being a mother is that there’s just no way I’d have this opportunity normally with three kids at home if I didn’t have a great team at home as well – my husband, mother, aunts, uncles – everyone pitching in to enable me to be able do this.”
The windows are shuttered and a lopsided ‘Closed’ sign hangs in the front door. Almost hesitantly, our guide presses a buzzer. Moments later a burly bloke in a stained black apron appears in the doorway. Glancing furtively up and down the street, he ushers us in. Anyone watching might suspect a shady drug deal was about to go down.
Inside, the restaurant is already filling up. The aroma of seared meat wafts over from a grill against the far wall with its bed of glowing charcoal.
We’re directed towards a table where bottles of malbec are slammed down in front of us. Service is curt and efficient; social niceties are clearly unnecessary. When the food arrives it’s clear why. Succulent pink cuts of steak are served alongside provoleta, cheese topped with chilli and oregano and heated under the grill until crispy. Our other side dish is berenjena al escabeche, eggplant marinated in garlic, red pepper, vinegar and olive oil. It has a rich, tangy flavour and some serious attitude; proof that not all eggplant dishes are for people who knit their own sandals.
Food in Argentina doesn’t get any more traditional. We’re inside a parrilla, the name given to a no-frills Argentine steakhouse that’s as synonymous with local culture as tango or the Beautiful Game.
It’s estimated that more than 50 per cent of restaurants in this country are parrillas (named after the grill) and Argentines are currently the world’s second largest consumers of beef, wolfing down an average of 58 kilograms each a year.
The meat itself is seasoned only with salt and pepper – “otherwise you’re weird,” says our waitress – and cooked at a low temperature over hot coals to prevent it from becoming tough. Despite the use of charcoal, most parrillas tend to avoid smoky flavours. Essentially, it’s the opposite of Texas barbecue.
While parrilla restaurants are ubiquitous throughout Buenos Aires, it’s important you choose carefully. This particular place is so acclaimed the owners change the name every three weeks to keep it strictly for in-the-know locals. Ordinarily I would never have found it, but I’m here as part of a small group tour with David Carlisle, an American expat and former wine merchant who decided to set up Parilla Tour Buenos Aires after being repeatedly badgered for food recommendations. His business partner, local boy Santiago Palermo, is probably the only reason we’re allowed on such hallowed turf.
Having gorged ourselves on tender cuts of steak and malbec, we push on to La Cañita another traditional parrilla in the Las Cañitas section of the Palermo neighbourhood.
“We pick these places based on authenticity and quality of food,” says Carlisle, who also admits some of the restaurant owners laugh at the idea of his tour since locals will regularly spend three or four hours in one parrilla rather than experiencing several in such a short time frame.
Too stuffed for another juicy beef onslaught, we sample a handful of other bite-sized local classics, including choripán, a simple chorizo sandwich. It’s served with chimichurri sauce, an intoxicating blend of chopped oregano, parsley, diced capsicum and garlic soaked in olive oil and vinegar. It’s a favourite pairing with steak – the meat is so sparsely seasoned, particular attention is given to concocting sauces with genuine punch.
Down the street, we pause outside La Fidanzata, famed for its legendary empanadas. Deliveries are popular with porteños (residents of Argentina) and the shop is a firm favourite with local businesses. What sets La Fidanzata’s bad boys apart from all the others is the filling. The cooks here use real hunks of steak rather than ground beef and the difference is palpable. It’s a bit like comparing Shane Warne and Xavier Doherty. With Carlisle holding out a tray piled high with a batch straight from the oven, we rip into them like a pack of wild dogs.
Trying hard to banish Monty Python’s “wafer-thin mint” sketch from my mind, we round off the tour at La Cremerie, one of the city’s most revered heladerias (ice-cream parlours). Thanks to a history of Italian immigrants – many came here in the 1870s – porteños have developed a fetish for ice-cream and this shop contains enough outlandish flavours to facilitate some kind of nightmarish Sex and the City marathon.
Like a swollen, contented pig, I hoe into a double scoop of cookies ’n’ cream and tiramisu flavour. As with all the food today, it’s nothing short of sublime.
And while it’s true there’s no shortage of parrillas to choose from in Buenos Aires, the insider knowledge definitely makes all the difference.
When grilling meat in Argentina, the only seasoning used at the time of cooking is coarse salt called sal parrillera. If you do want a little bit of extra flavour with your meat, one of the most traditional condiments you’ll find at parrillas throughout the country is salsa criolla, a fresh and flavourful sauce made of raw vegetables, oil and vinegar. Below is a great recipe for making your own salsa criolla at home.
INGREDIENTS
1 onion, finely chopped
2 red capsicums, finely chopped
1 tomato, seeded and finely chopped
1 clove garlic, finely minced
1 tbs parsley, finely chopped
½ cup olive oil
¼ cup white wine vinegar
METHOD
Combine all the ingredients and season to taste with salt and freshly ground black pepper. You can serve the sauce immediately, although resting it for an hour or two will allow the flavours to develop.
Three… Two… One… Happy New Year!” Immersed in a hot tub, I chink beer cans with 16 strangers. Our quest to reach the Antarctic Circle for midnight celebrations has been abandoned. Instead we’ve been soaking on the top deck, surrounded by the pack ice that has foiled our plans.
We have no concept of time as the setting sun clips the horizon before immediately rising again. The ocean is choked with puzzle pieces of ice sheets jostling with iceberg rubble. The silhouettes of colossal icebergs resemble a faraway city skyline. As the ship splinters the solid ice in its path, each hit sounds like an empty oil drum being dropped onto concrete.
Three days ago we left Ushuaia, starting a 13-day voyage. The beginning of our epic adventure involved two days crossing the notoriously rough Drake Passage. Our ship is the Rolls-Royce of these seas, boasting a fancy stabilisation system that thankfully reduces the roll by 40 per cent. The remaining 60 per cent, however, confines half of the guests to their cabins for the crossing. Crew members diligently check on the absent, while vomit bags and dry crackers magically appear throughout the ship. The pharmacy of every conceivable seasickness remedy I’ve stowed in my luggage proves my saviour.
During the days at sea everyone is briefed on the wildlife, expedition plans, conservation practices and landing procedures. Suiting up for each excursion is quite the procedure to master. Layering up as you would for the ski slopes, you then add an outer skin of wet-weather gear, boots and a life vest before waddling to the gangway like a weighted-down astronaut.
Our first step onto land is at Port Charcot, a horseshoe-shaped bay on Booth Island, rimmed with towering mountains laden with glaciers. Convoys of curious penguins in their matching tuxedo onesies waddle down to greet us. Not aware of the five-metre human–penguin boundary rule, they happily move about us. Here, three species mingle. The cartoon-like features of the Adélie penguin belong in a picture book. The chinstrap penguin seems to be wearing a little tied-on helmet. A white splash above the eye identifies the gentoo. They catapult out of the water gracefully, yet turn into hopeless goofs on land, performing a slapstick comedy routine of face plants every few steps before pushing up again off their pot bellies. Nesting mothers shelter fluff-ball chicks, while their partners steal pebbles from one another in a never-ending game of switch.
As I walk to the peak, I discover I’m as useless as the penguins. The deceptive crust holds my weight momentarily before collapsing, swallowing my boots with each step, sometimes to the ankle, other times exhaustingly to my thigh. It is a long, steady trudge, but the view from the top of the ant trail of people below is a good measure of the true scope of this landscape.
The penguins catapult out of the water gracefully, yet turn into hopeless goofs on land, performing a slapstick comedy routine of face plants every few steps.
On Corner Island, I opt to sleep out overnight. As we set up camp, the blue skies succumb to ominous grey clouds and the temperature plummets. With a shovel I customise my shallow grave to protect against the frigid winds. The once flawless hillside now resembles an emergency scene lined with dozens of body bags. Hurriedly, I shed my outer layers and scramble into my sleeping bag. Only a foam mat separates me from the ice. Through chattering teeth I laugh to myself as I realise this authentic adventure will come with little sleep. Burrowing into my cocoon to contrive darkness, I wait out morning. As we unfurl our frozen bodies to pack up, one token penguin completes a good morning lap around camp.
After thawing in a hot shower, the morning thankfully consists of nothing more strenuous than a cruise around Iceberg Alley near Pleneau Island. It is a bottleneck of enormous sculptures, some standing higher than the ship. The elements have shaped them into uncanny likenesses of dramatic cathedrals, tiered wedding cakes and frozen arched waves. The ice surfaces range from crumpled paper to golf-ball dimples, crystal splinters to a glossy finish.
Day seven marks our first landing on the actual continent. Orne Harbour is the ideal location for what we call ‘body-bogganing’. Once we hike up the lung-bursting slope, it takes just seconds to careen back down. Trial runs meet with some cringing successes as heads are whacked, bodies toppled and skin left behind. The technique deemed fast yet safest is headfirst on your back. The first few toppling seconds are terrifying before adrenaline from the speed takes over. After jarring across the finish line unscathed, I trudge back up with a huge smile on my face. The view from the top seems oddly scaled – the ship appears minuscule beside the towering glacier walls. In this epic 360-degree postcard setting, I am merely a speck.
Concurrent to the onshore excursions, One Ocean runs a series of kayak tours. At water level on Paradise Bay, the floating ice crackles like rice bubbles and the submerged masses of the icebergs are clearly visible below the surface. Exposed to a rumbling glacier, we maintain a safe distance since even a minor calving would create an iceberg tsunami we’d never out-paddle. Stealing a piece of floating ice for a refreshing nibble, I try to fully absorb this pinch-me experience.
Zigzagging up the mountain on Cuverville Island, I hitchhike in the footholds our guide is diligently stomping. Pulling my legs out of each sunken step is like trying to conquer a StairMaster cranked to max incline. At the top the softened snow offers perfect playing conditions for rugby tackling, a push-up competition and human pyramid. Heading down we make a navigation error and face a treacherously steep route. With walking impossible, controlled slides – just a few metres at a time – are employed. Giggling despite our vulnerable state, we finally make it down, trousers and boots jammed with snow.
Blessed with glorious sunshine, Neko Harbour is ideal for sunbaking beside a very active glacier. Except for an occasional reshuffle that makes them look like fat slugs busting out the worm dance, lounging seals could be easily mistaken for rocks. The mountains are smothered in what was once a glossy meringue, now collapsed and crackled into glaciers. Fracture lines threaten to give way and the sheer edges are poised to crumble. Deep crevasses reveal the fairy-floss blue of ancient compressed ice. The slightest shift sends a noise not unlike distant fireworks reverberating around the bay. We hear an avalanche before we spot it and run to higher ground as a precaution. Only a small section collapses yet the massive plume takes minutes to settle.
I decide to take the polar plunge. with the de brillator unnervingly close by, I strip down and dash into the zero-degree water.
As we head back to the ship, the fin of a minke whale slices up through the sea’s surface. Patiently we scan the bay hoping for another glimpse. Our hearts miss a beat when the blowhole spurts directly beside our Zodiac. The whale eyeballs us before ducking beneath the inflatable and we crouch in fear of tipping.
Our last shore day begins at Deception Island. Sailing directly into the caldera of an active volcano, we make our way to Whalers Bay, its striking black beach strewn with remnants of an early 1900s whaling station. Embedded timber boats rest in front of ash-smudged hills. Despite this being the worst day of weather we’ve encountered this trip, I decide to take the polar plunge. With the defibrillator unnervingly close by, I strip down and dash into the zero-degree water. It takes a few moments to register the pain and hardly longer to race out screaming expletives and causing the puzzled penguins to scatter.
Our final hike at Yankee Harbour delivers my hardest challenge yet and, crawling along on my hands and knees, I wonder if I’ll actually make it. A deceptive icing sugar layer hides slick blue ice. It’s impossible to get a stable foothold, and unsuccessful climbers bowl others over in their wake. Nervously I kick at the ice to leverage each step. Once at the top, the inevitable slide down looks intense. After teetering like a rollercoaster carriage at its highest peak, I push off, my stomach lurching during the vertical fall. It is an awesome pay-off for the marathon hike up.
The days of non-stop activity leave me completely exhausted and the thought of the return sea crossing is almost a relief, despite the fact I’ll miss the continuous documentary that’s been played through my porthole. I book a massage and, as the sea builds, the masseuse tries to time deep strokes with each roll of the room. I concentrate on her heavenly hands rather than my unsettled stomach.
Soon the ship is again battling through waves that rise above the fourth deck. Apparently, although they look rather extreme, these conditions are classed merely as moderate. The Drake, I believe, is an essential rite of passage. Cross it and you’ll discover a glorious continent, more desolate than I envisioned, despite the gazillion penguins in residence. Out here there’s no phone reception or internet connection; you’re totally removed from the rest of the world. It is blissful isolation.
A decade ago, Downtown LA was a ghost town. The clock would hit five and its army of office workers would march back to the ’burbs. Oh, how things have changed. The seeds of renewal were sown in the 80s when a law passed allowing people to live in warehouses. Creative types began slinking back to the city centre, fostering communities fiercely protective of the area’s artistic and industrial history. Since the turn of the millennium Downtown’s population has doubled, transforming it from a place you’d never dare wander at night into a cultural hub of more than a dozen unique districts, where revellers stream between the newest bistros and bars.Books galore at The Last Bookstore.
4.30pm
Before frying your senses during a night soaked in booze, whip your brain into shape with the contents of the Last Bookstore, the world’s largest independent bookshop. Scour shelves of poetry and graphic novels or sink into an armchair and chew through a chapter on modern art. If you’re shooed away – it’s technically a shop, not a library – hide out on the second level among stalls selling art and curiosities and soak up the aroma of ageing paper wafting from 100,000 pre-loved books stored in the ‘Labyrinth Above the Last Bookstore’. Last Bookstore 453 S Spring Street lastbookstorela.com
5pm
Wander the Broadway Theater District, a strip peppered with charming but shabby Art Deco architecture and capped with Grand Central Market, an entire bacon-scented block dedicated to multiculti cuisine. The first theatres opened on South Broadway in 1910 and the district flourished as studios cranked out flicks to feed America’s love for the screen. As the twentieth century trudged on, Downtown sunk into decline, the cinemas’ curtains closed and there they sat, decaying, until the recent stream of life saw many converted into churches, swap meets and shops. When you hit the market stop for a US$3 snack from Tacos Tumbras a Thomas, or find Wexler’s Deli for the tastiest smoked salmon and pastrami in LA. Grand Central Market 317 S Broadway grandcentralmarket.com
6pm
Put Downtown in perspective with a trip to the top floor of Perch. This multi-storey affair features a French restaurant, balcony and bar on one level and a patio crowning the upper deck. Elaborate floor tiles and fairy lights twinkling on trees give the rooftop a provincial European vibe, but look past the glass barriers and the scene could not be more inner-city urban. Settle on a couch with a glass of Californian pinot noir and watch planes soar over the high-rise offices swelling around the deck. Perch 448 S Hill Street perchla.com
7pm
You’ve been up, now go down, beneath the concrete and into a 1920s boudoir where fairies dole out absinthe and black-and-white films dance on the wall. To access the Edison you first need to locate an unmarked door on a side street and clear inspection – that means no flip-flops, hoodies or torn jeans – before making the grand descent down metal stairs. A century ago the space housed a power plant, and ancient machinery still sits in place between leather armchairs, lush drapes and Art Deco fixtures. The Edison 108 W 2nd Street #101 edisondowntown.com
8pm
The streets of Downtown are a playground for bumbling TV cops and murder mysteries, so get with the theme and try your skills as detective. Two local establishments – Philippe The Original and Cole’s – opened in 1908 and each swears they gifted the city the famous French dip sandwich, consisting of tender strips of roast beef layered in a baguette and served with a dish of the juices. Both claims bear equal clout, but scour the garlic-scented dining room at Cole’s and uncover a secret worthy of attention. No, you won’t solve the who-made-it-first mystery but an unmarked door hides something even better: the Varnish. This speakeasy holds 60 at best, so put your name on the guest list, head back to the bar and slam down a pickleback (whiskey and pickle brine) while you wait. Cole’s might be bustling, but the Varnish is all sultry jazz, dark wood and apothecary bottles of elixirs. Settle into a booth and a waitress channelling Frida Kahlo will whisk cocktails and ginger beer topped with piquant cubes of crystallised ginger to your candlelit table. The Varnish Backroom of Cole’s E 6th Street
9pm
Ask a local where to eat and Bestia will spill from their lips before you’ve had time to exhale. Grab an Uber and cruise to an almost abandoned lane on the cusp of the Arts District. From the outside Bestia’s warehouse doesn’t look much chop but the interior has all the right trimmings – red brick walls, concrete floors, exposed piping and feature light globes. Hard furnishings make the joint roaring loud, but the Italian nosh is so good it’s worth a mild case of tinnitus. Order the roasted bone marrow and take pleasure in the somewhat macabre experience of scooping the rich mess from a femur cleaved in two onto a bed of handmade gnocchetti while ‘You Can Do It’ jostles the sound system. Bestia 2121 7th Place bestiala.com
10.30pm
Move over flashy cocktails, craft beer is on the rise, and where better to sample a flight of the stuff than at an Arts District brewery? Giving new purpose to a warehouse that once made wire for suspension bridges, Angel City Brewery produces a range of beers and even grows its own hops on the roof. Sure, the way they play with flavours is a purist’s nightmare, but for the rest of us a brandy-finished beer or sake-based ale tastes a treat. At one end of the establishment vats brew about 8000 barrels a year and the remainder welcomes guests to chill out as they please. Don’t be surprised to see people hanging with dogs, artists sketching, chess contests and punters lobbing beanbags at a platform in a battle of cornhole. Angel City Brewery 216 S Alameda Street angelcitybrewery.com
12am
Within stumbling distance of the brewery stands a modern take on the 1980s arcade, where reliving your youth costs only a quarter. A line marks the entrance to EightyTwo, a rotating trove of old favourites including Donkey Kong and Space Invaders. Make your gaming sesh a touch more adult with on-theme cocktails sporting names like n00b and Kill Screen, or pep up with a Wizard Mode, a mix of rye whisky, cold brew coffee and vanilla-infused black tea. When you need a break from tinny electronic tunes, head to the garden for a breather but don’t rest too long ’cause 25 cents will never again buy this much fun. EightyTwo 707 E 4th Place eightytwo.la Sausages galore at Wurstküche.
1am
Switch back to beer, but the imported kind this time. Styled as a Bavarian beer hall, Wurstküche pours 23 European beers from the tap and serves an impressive selection of snags. A cabinet at the entrance displays raw sausages waiting to be cooked to order and piled high with your choice of fried onion, sauerkraut, sweet capsicum or hot peppers. If you’ve recovered from dinner order the favourite: the Rattlesnake & Rabbit with jalapeño peppers. Totter down the corridor to the hall and plonk your rump behind a long wooden table adorned with pillars of ketchup and mustard. Wurstküche Corner 800 E 3rd Street and Traction Avenue wurstkuche.com
1.30am
LA starts powering down at 1.30am and bolting its doors soon after, but don’t throw in the towel just yet – you’re needed in Little Tokyo. On the second floor of a nondescript shopping centre, Max Karaoke keeps on going, every night of the year. Bring your own grog, stock up on salty snacks at the front counter and spend the next couple of hours serenading the city with your newfound love for DTLA. Max Karaoke 333 S Alameda St, #216 maxkaraokestudio.com
Thomas Ulherr will never forget his first airline meal. It was horrible. "I was just a boy, accompanying my parents to Greece for a holiday. Dinner arrived in a plastic divider tray and it was typical of airline food at the time: meat with sauce with some starch on the side and a jelly for dessert.”
Ulherr was already familiar with the pleasures of cooking fresh food sourced from his grandparents’ garden and didn’t immediately recognise the gloopy substance staring back at him. “It looked bad. It smelled bad. And it took me a long time to eat.”
How times have changed. Airline food no longer resembles prison rations and Ulherr has progressed through the world’s great kitchens and is now the corporate executive chef for Etihad Airways. Since joining the award-winning airline he has focused on taking its food to the next level. Improvements across the industry have been driven by three things: advances in in-flight galleys, competition among airlines and a global food renaissance.
We live in a world that worships food. Celebrity chefs are the new rock stars, cookbooks hog best-seller lists and reality cooking shows spawn like salmon and attract huge global audiences. Serving up lumpy meat and microwaved veggies is no longer an option. The top airlines hire world-class chefs who source only the best produce and wines from around the world and have expert staff prepare and cook much of the menu in the air. “At Etihad we don’t compare ourselves to other airlines,” says Ulherr of the United Arab Emirates’ national carrier. “We look at restaurants and hotels for inspiration.”
That means changing the entire menu every season. It means working with 700 chefs to produce consistent meals in a string of industrial kitchens. It means stocking in-flight pantries with premium produce – caviar, Moët, rib-eye, grain-fed chicken – so that first class guests can order whatever they want, whenever they want. It means vegetarian meals and hot and cold dessert options are now standard for economy guests. It means Ulherr may work on signature marmalade for three years before it’s ready to fly.
It also involves understanding the science of food. Part of the reason plane food used to taste so bland is that altitude blunts our taste receptors. It also changes the acidity and alters the flavour of different foods in different ways. This needs to be precisely calculated and compensated for in each and every dish. A pinch of spice can make a world of difference in the sky. “A recipe that works well in a restaurant may not work at all in the air, so we are always testing and asking, Will it fly?” explains Ulherr, standing and displaying his generous belly to demonstrate a personal commitment to research and development.
Asked to share a favourite recipe, he picks an exotic beauty: creamy tom yum spaghetti with farmed Abu Dhabi caviar. Like many good recipes it has a story behind it. Ulherr originally dreamt it up to impress a wealthy sheikh who routinely ordered caviar on his Etihad flights. It was a daring departure but the sheikh heartily approved.
On first glance it’s an unusual composite of international cuisine: tom yum is Laos’ famous spicy soup; spaghetti, of course, is all Italy; and caviar originates in the Black Sea. But in a way the dish represents the ultra-cosmopolitan and lavishly wealthy UAE. After all, this is a country where foreigners account for some 90 per cent of the population and whose capital, Abu Dhabi, is being shaped and styled by international architects and designers. It’s also a city where wealth and status are highly valued, so it’s no surprise to learn that caviar is a popular dish.
Caviar, you may recall, is the preferred snack of that dashing, international man of mystery, James Bond. During On Her Majesty’s Secret Service the British spy deftly dispatches a hefty henchman before snacking on some sturgeon eggs and coolly declaring: “Mmm… Royal Beluga, north of the Caspian.”
Scriptwriters for the next Bond adventure may want to update their cultural references. Abu Dhabi’s farmed Yasa Caviar is steadily gaining a reputation as one of the most coveted in the world. If you can get your hands on some it works wonderfully in a creamy tom yum sauce over spaghetti. Thanks, Thomas Ulherr.
Creamy tom yum spaghetti with farmed Abu Dhabi caviar
INGREDIENTS
30ml sesame oil
75g lemongrass, white part only, finely diced
150g shallots, cut into rings
1–2 cloves garlic, cubed
10g galangal, finely diced
15g ginger, cubed
75g shiitake mushrooms, cubed
50ml chicken stock
30g Thai chilli paste (or tom yum cube)
650ml cream
Arabic lemon salt, if available (use sparingly)
5 lime leaves
1 large lemon, rind finely grated, reserve juice
1 large lime, rind finely grated, reserve juice
pasta of your choice
30g caviar (or lobster cubes or prawns)
Red chilli oil
15g red chilli, seeded
75g red capsicum, quartered and roasted
50ml olive oil
10ml sesame oil
Green chilli oil
60g fresh coriander, washed, dried and chopped with stems
15g coriander seeds, roasted in olive oil
75ml olive oil
10ml sesame oil
METHOD
Start the sauce the day before you’re planning to serve it. Heat half the sesame oil in a pan and add, in this order, lemongrass, shallots, garlic, galangal, ginger and shiitake mushrooms. Add chicken stock and simmer for 10 to 15 minutes. Process mixture while it is still hot to form a smooth paste. Pass mixture through a sieve. Add the chilli paste then the cream. Season with lemon salt. Simmer for at least five minutes before adding the lime leaves. Let the sauce rest for at least 12 hours.
To make the oils, blend the ingredients for each, rest for four hours then strain through a cloth.
When it comes time to serve, remove the lime leaves from the sauce and simmer until it has slightly thickened.
For the pasta, combine the lime and lemon juice with the remaining sesame oil to make a marinade. Boil the pasta in salted boiling water until al dente. Drain and mix with the marinade. Plate the pasta, add the lemon and lime rind to the thickened sauce and pour over the pasta. Add the caviar, lobster cubes or prawns on top.
Garnish with the red chilli and green coriander oils. Serve.
The rowdy crowd abruptly parts like the Red Sea and a big bearded bloke runs full pelt out of the darkness straight towards me, his whole head apparently ablaze. On his shoulders he’s carrying a burning beer barrel, and flames flicker ferociously in his wild eyes.
“Oh bollocks!” I yelp, suddenly aware that these eloquent words could be my last. Transfixed by the vision of this demented-looking figure bearing down on me, I’ve left it too late to get out of his path. A wall of over-excited onlookers surrounds me and there’s no gap to duck into. It feels like the running of the bulls, with angry bovines replaced by immolating men. And there’s nowhere left to run.
At the last minute, burning man performs a preposterous pirouette, as elegant as it is unexpected. The inferno intensifies with the oxygen rush that his flourish creates and the spectators let out an appreciative roar. Another man steps forward from the throng and the blazing baton is passed to a new runner, who immediately charges up the street, scattering people asunder and leaving a comet tail of sparks in his wake.
A quick self-check confirms I’m not on fire and – except for a few eyelashes that have disappeared in an acrid-smelling puff of smoke – most of my hair is still where I left it before arriving at Ottery St Mary’s Flaming Tar Barrels festival.
I should have known what to expect, I suppose. There’s a clue or two in the name, to be fair. And the town – normally a sleepy ever-so-English hamlet in the heart of bucolic Devon – has put up more than a few signs warning that tonight will be different. Tonight – like every 5th of November in Ottery – the townsfolk will party like it’s 1699.
Still, I wasn’t expecting the festival to throw off the health-and-safety straitjacket in quite such spectacular fashion. I’m awed. And impressed. And a little bit scared – in roughly equal measures.
Impressed because beardy burning-head dude is proof that you can get away with almost anything in supposedly polite and reserved Britain if history is on your side. The people of this idiosyncratic isle have never shied away from bizarre festivals and events that pose a pretty good threat to limb – life even – so long as there’s a tradition behind it.
This holds true, even if the actual origins of that tradition have long since been forgotten. No one really knows how many years people have been running around with burning barrels in Ottery – or, indeed, why – but it’s thought to date back several centuries (at least as far as the foiling of the Gunpowder Plot in 1605, and the subsequent execution of Guy Fawkes).
Andy Wade, who’s been involved in the event for 30 years, tells me that many places in England’s south-west used to hold festivals where burning barrels were rolled around. “But one year – a long, long time ago – some bright spark in Ottery obviously decided that things would be a lot more exciting if you picked the barrel up,” Andy says. “And our unique tradition was born.”
For centuries, it was just the good folk of Ottery who enjoyed this festival, but in more recent years it’s achieved international fame – along with other eccentric British events like the one that sees people breaking their legs chasing a wheel of cheese down a steep hill in Gloucestershire, or eating stinging nettles in Dorset. This is the kind of thing people watched before reality TV was invented, and I for one glow with nostalgic appreciation of such sensational spectator sports.
For a few mad minutes, caught up in the combustive energy of the event (and feeling the effect of several courage-laced pints of scrumpy), I feel like I want to do more than just watch – I want to have a go and really glow. Fortunately, however, I can’t. Charging around the streets of a small village lined with thatched cottages and wielding a blazing barrel is an honour reserved exclusively for locals (whose houses are, after all, most at risk).
I must be content with the rush produced by getting as close to the action as possible without actually going up in flames. At the beginning, during the children’s event (yep, there really is a kids’ version – the loads are smaller, but they burn just as hot as the big boys’ barrels), this is relatively easy. As the evening wears on, however, the streets get increasingly crowded and just being here becomes an adrenaline sport.
Actually, the shenanigans aren’t quite as explosively anarchic as they may seem from the outside. “The runners are extremely experienced,” Andy explains. “They come up through the ranks, starting with the kids’ barrels when they’re eight years old, then progressing to the intermediate barrels. Then, if they’re big enough and ugly enough, they move up to the men’s barrels.”
The whole thing clearly creates a real sense of local pride, and the community spends months preparing for one night of fire-starting festivities. Throughout the year, 17 barrels are regularly daubed with tar, part of the priming process for when they’ll be set ablaze during the evening of 5 November.
Traditionally, each barrel is sponsored by a public house, although only four of the town’s original pubs remain – The Lamb and Flag, The Volunteer, The London and the Kings Arms. The barrels are lit outside each of these alehouses to an itinerary published in a little booklet that is available on the night.
Officials then roll the barrel around until the flames really take hold, at which point a designated carrier steps forward and hoists it onto his (or her) shoulders and starts running. There’s no competitive element as such – the challenge is simply to keep hold of the barrel for as long as possible (even when it’s disintegrating around the holder’s ears) and to make sure it stays alight.
Inevitably, every year there are complaints from people who feel the event is unsafe. Andy’s message to them is simple: “The atmosphere is light-hearted, but barrels do get run through the streets. If you don’t like it, please stand back. And don’t touch or interfere with the barrels – the boys really don’t like that.
“Visitors have to remember that we don’t make any money out of this – the collections that take place on the night just about cover costs. Every year getting insurance is a problem. Of course there are injuries, but more of these are caused by factors other than the barrels – like people boozing too much and falling over.”
Although the barrel runners aren’t allowed to drink until they’ve finished, the crowd picks up the slack on the cider-swilling front. The older the night gets, the more boisterous the atmosphere becomes. And if detractors think the event is crazy now, it’s a good job they weren’t here a few years ago, before health and safety became such a big issue.
“It was proper mayhem when I was young,” Andy reminisces fondly. “People used to get cidered-up and there was plenty of fighting over the barrels. Things used to get sorted out on November 5.”
For the people of Ottery, it’s more about the perpetuation of a proud tradition than staging an internationally known spectacle. “Many of these guys come from families that have a connection with the event going back generations,” Andy says. “The fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers of these lads carried barrels. It’s an honour to be a barrel runner. There’s an Ottery-born bloke who comes back from Australia most years to take part.”
And for the rest of us non-Otterians, it’s one hell of a shindig. A free one too. So long as you don’t mind donating a few eyelashes to the cause.
Glasgow’s multifaceted and charmingly rugged West End has moved through an intriguing transition over the past decade. Prior to the recent explosion of hip independents and a burgeoning gastronomic scene, pockets of well-heeled affluence posed amid student clusters, social-housing blocks and culturally diverse districts. Now, while a plethora of cultures, tastes and classes exist independently, the rich milieu has softened around the edges, blending harmoniously and contributing to the vibrant atmosphere that makes Glasgow the city it is.
My mother tells wild tales of her days as a student nurse in the 1970s tearing up the West End in her grandmother’s mink fur coat and burgundy suede platform boots. I love to imagine the chaos caused and exactly how the many hotspots that featured in her paisley-printed escapades looked back then. A surprising number of Mum’s old haunts are still standing, albeit many under their second, third or umpteenth guise. There are shadows of Campus, her favourite Gibson Street dress shop, still visible in the quirky coffee shop Offshore Cafe, where laptops line the bustling window-ledge bar. When Mum visits Glasgow our fondness for a shared glass of wine near an open fire, a dog lazing by the hearth and the authenticity of a coat hook beneath the bar is shared perfectly at the Ubiquitous Chip, a Glasgow institution on Ashton Lane, established in 1971.
Naturally, a great deal has changed cosmetically since that era, although as long as the people of the West End remain, the feel of the neighbourhood will never diminish. For the locals are the true lifeblood of the area. Stretching from the M8 Motorway, which separates the west from Glasgow’s cosmopolitan city centre, the West End spans a relatively vast scale, all the way from Finnieston, perched on the edge of the River Clyde to the north, to Great Western Road where an array of ethnic cultures has settled. Here, it’s possible to sample Eastern cuisine and alternative therapies in the vicinity of many temples of worship. Precisely how far West Glasgow’s West End reaches is debatable. I imagine the boundary to sit where Hyndland’s leafy periphery meanders into Clydebank, a region renowned internationally for its shipbuilding and the one and only Billy Connolly.
Like many districts in the world’s finest cities, Glasgow’s West End is best explored on foot and, for me, this presents the perfect opportunity to venture out of the atelier where I work with a visiting friend, client or simply with my camera, sketchbook and the weekend papers.
Traversing a few blocks to Great Western Road, I like to take a leisurely Saturday morning stroll westward as Indian grocers lay out their wares for the day and a steady stream of weekend brunchers begins trickling into the cafes – including the Cottonrake Bakery – that dot the street all the way to the Botanic Gardens. When you reach the Kibble Palace, be sure to peer in on tangles of colourful plant life under the exquisite glass ceiling.
At George Mewes Cheese pause to breathe in the heady deliciousness and select a ripe little number, then head for an artisan brunch of coffee and eggs royale at Cafezique on Hyndland Street. Locally sourced seasonal produce and freshly baked breads, patisserie and cakes baked at sister eatery Delizique, just one door along, take centre stage here. If seats are few within the cafe, the deli boasts a selection of tables where guests can brunch, lunch or sip coffee among glistening stacks of focaccia, Portuguese tarts, raspberry brownies and monstrous meringues while gazing at the masterful chefs in their open-plan kitchen.
Suitably fuelled, trundle by the farmers’ market (held on the second and fourth Saturday of the month), where local producers present delicacies such as venison medallions, hot smoked salmon and delicious Scottish cheese truckles.
Only 10 minutes’ walk away is the majestic Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, an otherworldly treasure trove of arts and fascinating exhibits (it also stocks signature scarves and interior pieces from our brand portfolio). Gazing at works by the Glasgow Boys – a group of artists, including George Henry and James Guthrie, who practised Impressionist and post-Impressionist painting in the 1880s and 90s – and Scottish Colourists is a joy I will never tire of. Posing for fun shots by the taxidermy exhibits and hopscotching over the impressive expanse of chequerboard floor evokes many cherished childhood memories – most poignantly, the moment I fell in love with painting on a high school art trip. Depart via the rear revolving doors – or perhaps they’re at the front, depending on how you interpret the famous story of the building’s planning history. Legend has it the Kelvingrove was built back to front, leading to the suicide of the architect at the helm.
Head along Kelvin Way, the tree-lined boulevard separating either side of Kelvingrove Park, then journey down Gibson Street under the gaze of the University of Glasgow cathedral, dazzling in the sunlight. Drop by Thistle Gallery on Park Road, which often hosts an exhibition launch on Saturday afternoon. It only opened in late 2014, but already the gallery has become a neighbourhood staple, and I’m honoured to have them represent me as an artist.
By this stage of the afternoon it’s time to wander back to the atelier (Iona Crawford Atelier) for what has become something of a Saturday afternoon ritual. After they’ve toured the garment and interiors showrooms, design studio and gallery space – pausing to try on garments in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror or take measurements for a specially tailored piece – we serve our guests a champagne afternoon tea. Warm game pies, finger sandwiches, scones with jam and clotted cream, lemon drizzle cake and millionaire shortbread are all handmade and freshly baked, either within my father’s butcher shop and bakery or by my dear mother in the farmhouse kitchen where I grew up in the Stirlingshire countryside.
Worth exploring in the afternoon is Finnieston. Within the past five years or so, it has established itself as one of the hippest spots in the West End – indeed, in all of Glasgow. Contemporary bars, restaurants, cafes, chic blow-dry salons, vintage boutiques, independent design firms, art galleries and delicatessens continue to throw open their doors each month. The catalyst – in my eyes – was a restaurant named Crabshakk. Shunning the trend for overcomplicated, overpriced seafood served in stuffy, often dated surrounds, the ’Shakk took a pioneering approach. Whether a stool at their buzzing marble-top bar or around a cosy table on the bijou mezzanine level, every seat in the house is red hot. Guests can turn up, casual as you like, and order anything from moules marinière and mineral water to exquisite fruits de mer and a bottle of the restaurant’s elegant house champagne. Much to the delight of Glasgow’s ’Shakk loving aficionados and the ever expanding army of Finnieston foodie fanatics, Crabshakk launched a sibling in 2012 which, like the Cafezique/Delizique pairing, is situated only a skip and a jump along Argyle Street from the original. Serving small plates of seasonally sourced and exquisitely prepared seafood, Table 11 Oyster Bar is a great place to grab a quick plate and a glass of wine, or settle in for the evening, grazing the inviting menu until late-night pintxos (Spanish snacks) hit the bar. If an end-of-the-eve sing-along takes your fancy, the Ben Nevis is an amble across the road. Here, locals and visitors pile in, instruments in tow, jamming into the wee small hours and sipping malt from the impressive whisky gantry. Although when only cocktails can cut it, nothing beats the Kelvingrove Café’s speakeasy vibe or an exquisite Intermission martini at Porter & Rye.
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