May 2017 – ARUNDHATI BASU

On Almost Not Making It

We almost did not make our flight to New York. The traffic jams on the motorways of London are notorious. If you are stuck on the M1, because there always seems at least one accident in the works, know this that you shall surely miss your flight. As my parents experienced much to their horror when they were returning to Calcutta from a holiday in the Blighty.

Now the thing is when you are not in someone’s shoes, even if it be your parents’, it is difficult to absorb the enormity of a situation. The proverbial sitting ducks, they went ballistic, the hours flying away dizzily enough – as it always does the day you are about to catch a flight. They were still sitting on the M1. Could it be? A bad bad dream but yes there they were, caught in a cab with somewhere to go, yet with no choice but to sit tight on the motorway, miss their flight and hyperventilate alongside. This even as they had left hours before they were supposed to from Northampton.

The day before we were to catch the flight, my mother said with a nervous laugh, “M (pet name alert), get out well ahead. You know what happened to us.” I did the usual thing that daughters do, roll their eyes, and note impatiently: “But obviously, ma. What happened to you was a freak incident. It does not take place all the time.”

Now indulging in a cliche, because cliches work my dear friend, do not go around counting those chickens. They may hatch but is there a guarantee in life? Non.

Two factors worked simultaneously in our favour as we set out for the airport. The most important was the fact that we had decided to part ways with British Airways this once and opted for Norwegian Airlines. It is a low-cost long-haul option that offers a world of comfort. Do ink it in for your next search for cheap travel tickets. You shall see by and by, why.

The second crucial factor was that the system of British Airways had developed a major snag that morning and it had crashed. The upshot of it is that many were caught aboard BA planes with no idea of what was happening, others could not fly out of Heathrow for their bank holiday trips to Europe, some were trapped in Europe with no way to fly back home to the UK. And our flight was delayed by 45 minutes. It was thus that we made it to Gatwick with 15 minutes left before boarding began. I am sure BA is not about to forget it in a hurry. They have to after all pay up 500-odd euros of compensation per couple. Do remember that little fact if you were caught up in a situation the last weekend thanks to BA.

There is a silver lining in most every situation, you see. You have just got to remind yourself of it in life. We managed to sidetrack the M1 accidents, felt grandly astute, but how could the M25 be left bereft without its share of accidents? So we sat in the car for aeons. Our bums froze and Adi engaged his maws to showcase magnificent yawns, worthy of a sleepy lion, behind the wheel. When an opportunity arose for a divergence, like eager beavers we jumped at it.

This meant that we were on the A roads soon puttering through beautiful villages at 20 miles per hour in West Sussex country. Doing what we do best. Smiling in indulgence at the chocolate-box cottages and acres of green where cricketers in white huddled together for to-do about serious matters such as how to lob the ball and catch the batsman unawares (I kid, okay? A serious cricket fan would lob the very ball at my nose for even suggesting that lobbing or underarm bowling still takes place, goodness gracious me). Charming parish churches of middling height stood quietly besides timber-framed cottages and jolly little pubs showed up to tickle us for a last pint within those wondrous dark rooms of joy, but no we resisted.

The larger picture had to be kept in mind there.

2017-05-30 10.22.31 1.jpg — Part of the larger picture. Food served with clouds on the side. If you fly Norwegian Airlines, premium economy, as we did, you shall be pampered.

2017-05-30 10.22.31 2.jpg — Grilled chicken with risotto, sugar snaps and sundried tomatoes on the side. Don’t sniff your nose at the sugar snaps, you ungrateful wrtech. Yes they look a little worse for the wear, but then you are as hungry as a bear.

2017-05-30 10.22.30 1.jpg — The motto in life

2017-05-30 10.22.30 2.jpg — Salmon salad. If that was Norwegian farmed salmon, apparently I had greedily gobbled up tons of chemicals on the side along with potato salad and itsy-bitsy greens.

2017-05-30 10.22.29 1.jpg — Not to be looked at with a gimlet eye

2017-05-30 07.45.47 1.jpg — New York beneath a dream sequence of clouds

Processed with VSCO with hb1 preset — This morning when Adi left for his first day at work post Memorial Day. My perch alongside.

It was how we did not miss the flight after all, made a dash for the gates to board, and then sunk with relief into the arms of comfort (wine, delicious food and movies) to be swept into New York’s abysmally drab John F. Kennedy airport of pesky hustlers and expensive yellow cabs. To my amusement, we were rewarded with a disgusted ‘chhi’ apropos a female Chinese hustler who lost a possible pair of cows to a yellow cab in which the able African-American driver informed us sagely, “You should be allowed to make the choice.”

A ride through the glitziness of Manhattan and he was emptying out massive four suitcases and two strolleys at the end of the journey. A wink was accompanied with some advise, “Now don’t you go unpacking tonight, just order yourself a bottle of red wine and relax.” Who am I to ignore the wise? Both of us just fell into bed and had a long 10 hours of sleep before we woke up to our cosy little service apartment with a view of my neighbours in Jersey City – who can, through the bay windows, surely espy a bespectacled girl scooched over the table on her bar stool as she clacks away and sips on tea.

Welcome to the joys of city living.

May 30, 2017

Arundhati Basu77 Comments

Northampton to New York!

This is a shot from a certain October sunset from 2012 when we had gone on a glamping trip to Cornwall. Who would have known that the signs were there somewhere.

Adi has a bit of the blues but I am bloody excited. I am ready to meet the world in New York.

See you from the other end of the pond, my lovely readers.

May 27, 2017

Arundhati Basu60 Comments

Pints, Trains, Snores and Friday Nights

Friday nights and drinking are an art that has been perfected by the London working crowd. You will notice this that all workers are done and dusted with work by almost as early as 3pm. The process starts around midday when they gather in clusters outside office, smokes and cups of coffee in their hand, nattering away. That is what Fridays should look like – the prospect of the weekend starting off, armed with cups of coffee and all-important conversations that hinge upon … you take your pick of what they should go like. Go wild.

A Friday evening decides the tone of the night. Will you be relegated to the guest bed or the couch? For your own bed shall be out of limits. Let there be no doubt about that.

That is If you make it back home by morning.

Take my husband’s colleague. He boarded a train from London after a substantial evening of pints to get back to his home in the suburbs. Sleep took over. The worthy man woke up and found himself in the seaside town of Brighton. What a frightful mess you would think. You would also think he would have been alert to the possibilities of what lay after. Think again. He nodded off. Yes once more.

Life is a series of dramatic incidents on any particular Friday evening that starts with an innocent drink. When our friend woke up a second time, he found himself in Brighton, fell asleep, woke up and found himself in Brighton all over again. A vicious cycle alright but brought to a halt the third time when his wife turned up at the station. The aftermath would not have been pretty.

Then there is the husband. After an evening of drinks post work on a Friday, he called to say he would be home after a couple of drinks. Two drinks being the operative words here. Our friends, part of the merry party, called to assure me that he was hauling his behind out of the pub soon. Contrary to what it sounds like, I Do Not sit with a cudgel at home.

That was 8pm. This was 11pm. Barring an evening of books and Netflix, a twinge of conscience made me put through a call. It turned out that Adi had just then got onto a train.

Midnight came and went. Radio silence. Several frantic calls. Now booze, sleep and trains make for best friends forever. Adi, it turned out, had been on a train to Gatwick. No prizes for guessing, but he had slept off in between. Now, Gatwick is an hour away from Euston, the station from which Adi catches the train back home to Northampton. By the time he had reached London again, the last train for Northampton had left the station. Voila.

The story did not end there. This talented husband of mine declared that why he would sleep the last few hours of the morning at the station. Alarm bells started ringing in my head. I was picturing him, a drunk man in a suit by the side of the road, snoring away with his mouth open, not unlike a hobo.

Oh not a scene to be endured even though my thoughts for this pesky creature were not too kind at the moment. After a session of extreme nagging (it is a tiring job, isn’t it?), he tottered over to a taxi and spent a not-too-moderate sum to get back home.

The clock struck 4 when my warrior reached home.

Sympathy had run dry and the guest bed was the perfect repository for all drunken snores.

Lest you are in London on a night out, this time with the errant partner/friend, do give these spots a look-in.

Shoreditch

In ultra-hip Shoreditch, which some poor sod ranted about as being too hip (as if!), the East Enders welcome Friday with a bang. Boho-chic fashion, hipster beards and a chilled-out vibe reigns supreme. The mind boggles to think that the place is supposed to have got its name from some mistress of a 13th century king of England who lay dead in a ditch here. And Shoreditch came to be – her name was Jane Shore. What a pathetic insert into the happy evening we are contemplating, I admit, but then in London it is easy to think that the bench you are sitting on belonged to some earl who sat on it as he played the violin, releasing mournful strains by the minute.

The streets of Shoreditch are awash with colour and you can spend your time watching movies on rooftop cinemas or shop away and scout street art in its various alleys with a tripod and trusty DSLR in your hand. Better still, you can catch a drink in one of its gastropubs and do some pub-hopping. Be a busy bee in short.

The Owl & Pussycat

Now you would be forgiven for wondering, ‘Why are people spilling over onto the streets? Did the pub throw them out for bad behaviour and they therefore stand around like punished schoolboys and girls. Only with glasses in their hand?’ No these fine men and women just like to stand and drink, okay? It is a London end-of-the-week ritual. This 18th century pub here is a fine place to sit and nosh away, if you get any space on one of its fashionable Chesterfields. If not, just take yourself to the beer garden at its back for my sake and join the many who stand around dreaming away or eavesdrop on others who pontificate about changes in life with a glass of wine in their hands.

Dirty Burger

The name does the job. A small joint but when you are down a few pints you know what burgers can do. So I shall just quietly step away from the burger. Go on. Make it sloppy.

Boxpark

A converted shipping container that is filled with options for when you want to eat and drink alongside ‘cos why should you do one thing when you can multi-task. Chomp and guzzle.

BBB

That stands for Beach Blanket Babylon. Why on earth would they think of beach and Babylon together? My imagination is at a loss. Also because I did not end up inside. But if you do, let me know?

Dirty Bones

Some more dirty stuff. Here you can truly get working with your hands. Now stop overworking that ripe imagination and wait for the bowl of spicy chicken wings to make its way to your table. Magic.

Indigo

You could look in here and try the gol gappas. Water-filled balls that is. Translations sometimes can put a smile on your face. The spiciness and tanginess of them can act as the perfect antidote to an evening of Bacchanalian pleasures.

Euston Tap

Lastly, I have to slip in this wonderful little institution outside Euston station. Now Euston is the gateway to London for some who arrive by train from various parts of the country. The location of Euston Tap is strategic. No time is too early or late for a pint. You can choose to slowly get sloshed before taking your train or you can arrive at Euston and get started at this craft beer pub. The only thing is you have got to remember – and this is vital – is to get on the train to make it back home, okay?

Processed with VSCO with a5 preset — **Euston Tap. Where life looks rosy with a drink in each hand.**

May 26, 2017

Arundhati Basu45 Comments

Chasing Illusions in Gudvangen

Google Gudvangen. ‘Has she gone crazy?’ you might interject. ‘Here I pop by her post and she asks me to google the name?!’ Humour me for two seconds.

Atop the wikipedia page (you do not have to click further) dedicated to the small Viking village in Norway, you find yourself staring at an image of marvellously lofty peaks. The main peak in it has been squished and stretched up to look like a model lengthening her svelte body. Then you notice later, much later, that the topmost peak seems to show you the middle finger.

Somebody’s idea of awful humour.

The day we reached Els’ cottage in Norheimsund we drove straight up into the county of Sogn og Fjordane. Gullible us inched closer and closer yet the peak did not materialise. Something was terribly wrong. The GPS informed us that we were there.

If you can look high and low for a peak, we did the job alright.

Then there we were in the middle of a valley that looked like it had been scooped out of the surrounding steep mountains, parts of which carried patches of fresh snow. A row of waterfalls gushed down in slender threads of white from the mountains, at the foot of which stood a handful of white and red cottages and a harbour.

Welcome to Gudvangen. Not least like the photo we had seen. The jaws dropped once in disappointment – I cannot lie about that – but then it did drop once again in recognition of the tranquil beauty towering above us.

Dwarfed by the mountains, I stood there and wondered about what the Vikings must have felt when they arrived in this scenic spot on Nærøyfjord and transformed it into their market place. Did their seafaring nature make them glad that they had chanced upon this sublime Norwegian landscape? Or were they intimidated by the mountains that stood guard around the valley like antiquated sentinels. Who knows, but they did not survive the 12th-century onslaught of black plague. People returned to Gudvangen only when hundreds of years had passed by.

Some of these Viking graves are to be found nearby. Hiking paths lead you into other pretty villages but it was too late for us to start on a hike. We never got the chance to do any hike (Trolltunga or Gudvangen) given the rains holding sway over the next few days that we spent in Hordaland. We did however bask in the shadow of those mountains as we popped into Gudvangen Fjordtell, a hotel that makes you think you are entering a Viking home, its roofs charmingly sheathed in grass. Inside the hotel’s cafe, I bought a wrap, the price of which was pure extortion. Then in Norway, you are holding onto your purses in vain if you decide to venture into any eatery.

An astonishingly expensive wrap in our bellies and mixed feelings of satisfaction and dissatisfaction (strange bedfellows) mingling in our minds, we left Gudvangen, the village whose name translated, reads, ‘God’s fields by the water’.

Roads that take you into Gudvangen, flanked by dramatic mountains.

One of the highest waterfalls in Norway is this, Kjelfossen.

Ferry dock where cruise ships roll in from time to time

2017-05-08 10.58.18 1.jpg — Hamlets that pop up after you have left Gudvangen behind

Where to Stay: If you want to do hikes in the area, it would be a good idea to stay in Gudvangen. You have all of two choices: Pitch up a tent or mobile home at Gudvangen Camping. Prices range between NOK 500 to NOK 800 per night. Or put up at the Viking-inspired hotel called Gudvangen Fjordtell.

What to do:

The Magic White Caves of Gudvangen

Take a ferry trip between Gudvangen and Flåm

Hike the mountainous paths for views over the fjord. From a tiny village called Bakka, which is about 5 km from Gudvangen, take the path to the steep mountain of Rimstigen. It is a steep hike which takes two hours one way.

P.S.: The misleading wikipedia photo that I talk about right at the beginning is that of Lofoten Islands, the dramatic archipelago in Norway, and for added misery beat this, it is a photoshopped version of it.

May 25, 2017

Arundhati Basu66 Comments

Country Hiking in Norheimsund

In the Hardanger region of Western Norway — made up of serene fjords, gushing waterfalls and statuesque bridges leading the way to chains of hills linked up by a series of tunnels — is the village of Norheimsund. During the Nazi occupation of Norway, the village served as a training camp for the Germans. There would have been fortifications along the bay once, but now they have been replaced by houses built the local way with wooden panels and slate roofs, small windows peeking out from cheerfully painted facades. Old fishermen’s cottages still stand in isolation close to the fjord, and along with a handful of stores and small harbour, Norheimsund tempts you want to sit on the pier for a long, long time. Chuck in a few cafes, a church and a school too, and you have the essence of a quiet village that was our nest for four days.

Now I have a confession to make. We started on a hike in the countryside around Norheimsund and *whispers* we abandoned it after a fair bit of trudging up steep hills. Why, you might wonder, is she a big wuss? I am one but only when it comes to water and haunted cottages. I am willing to take on hiking challenges of any nature unless you ask me to climb up paths made up of tiny slippery rocks — which I abhor with all my heart (because of late we have ended up on such hikes).

The skies had opened up the day before, letting loose their wrath upon the earth. The path was immensely boggy. My shoes kept sinking in and I felt slimy and damp. It did not help that my beloved insisted on sending out leech alarms, leeches that were apparently creeping up my leg and getting fatter by the minute. Now try as I may, I cannot and I will not develop a fondness for reptiles and creepy crawlies knowing fully well that they are our fellow creatures too. So I shrieked and shrieked (like an exasperating girl) – here I have to quickly point out that I do not scream anymore, but when I was living with my flatmates in Delhi I used to be a banshee. Every time one of my flatmates’ boyfriend turned up at the door, I would open up and scream. We had no keyhole, you see. Yet could that be a valid excuse? Or was it a subconscious urge given that he would finish all the food in the fridge. I wonder.

Adi and I huffed and puffed as we climbed up while an old man in his training shoes ran up the hill we were climbing. Did he just run past us? Overcome by incredulity, we quickened our pace and examined pretty mushrooms as we made our way through the woods. After a while, we found ourselves walking along a water pipeline and found sheep atop the hill, chewing and meditating. What do you think sheep contemplate about as they graze or when they sit and reach out for more grass?

I had mentioned in my last post about the sturdy Norwegian sheep. I sat near them and wondered if they might scuttle like the English sheep. But no, they sat there, their faces stoic. They looked at me. I looked at them. A silent communion disturbed by the sniggers of an errant husband.

It was after this point, when we had a spectacular view of the village of Norheimsund below us and islets sticking out from the waters of the fjord, that we decided to turn around. It was a most dissatisfying feeling. The kind of feeling that nags you when you have abandoned a hike midway.

Do you have any such stories of abandonment? It might just make me feel better.

Tunnels and green hills maketh a lovely marriage

May 24, 2017

Arundhati Basu81 Comments

Into a Norwegian Artist’s Retreat

Here was an artist who did the Charleston jig, all in a bid to tell us how her Pointer got his name. The Pointer is a dog, a hunting hound that gets its name from its inclination to point its muzzle towards the game. Now imagine if you will, this beloved mistress of Charleston the Pointer, a grown-up woman lifting her chin up, arms pointed into the air as if she was about to release an invisible arrow off an equally invisible bow.

On this note of welcome into her home, we knew that we had landed a prize of sorts here — Els and her beloved Pointer, Charleston. I don’t know how well Charleston does the Charleston but he has a name to live up to. He also has a mistress who is quite capable of making him dance.

Now we had Els’ cottage to ourselves for four days. That red cottage with Homlagarden painted on its entrance, as you see in the lead photo, is perched strategically by the fjords of western Norway in a village called Norheimsund.

This was our big Norwegian holiday after our weekend stint in Stavanger when we had hiked our way to Pulpit Rock. My aim was to get our behinds to Trolltunga and sit on the troll’s tongue, legs dangling above the fjords. But that was not to be because just as in Stavanger we struck lucky with the weather even though the forecast had promised thunder and showers, our second Norwegian break was made up of enough mist and clouds, drizzle and downpour to make our hiking shoes hang their heads in shame.

What is life if our best-laid plans are not to be laid aside?

We reached Bergen on a fine day in August last year. Fleecy armies of clouds invaded bright blue skies, and when we got out of the airport to be greeted by this sight, we were injected with fair reserves of delight, natch. Could there be a better natural elixir than blue skies and billowing clouds on any given day?

Soon, in a rented hatchback, we were puttering down tunnels that ruptured lush hills for miles and miles, passed herds of sheep serenely trotting down roads, possibly out for their morning stroll. You will see in this post that the Norwegian sheep exude remarkable self-confidence unlike their English counterparts. We left behind the occasional church nestled in valleys along with a roll-call of black, red and yellow cottages. Some perched upon hills, others tucked in surreptitiously alongside placid lakes.

It made me rather musical. To trill out ‘My Day in the Hills’ ala Julie Andrews and trill I did till Adi asked me to switch to the phone playlist please. There was some harumphing on my part, but how difficult it is to hold on to a sulk in the face of such pristine charm, the lakes glowing emerald in the shadow of the hills and putting me in mind of a mysterious mermaid about to emerge from the waters.

This is how we found ourselves in Norheimsund, bleary-eyed after our early morning flight, but then there was that view of the fjord from our cottage. It drove our cares away in the batting of the eyelid.

We were in a quintessential Norwegian cottage on an organic farm. Chubby hen and monstrously plump turkeys strutted around in a red coop of their own, mini tractors stood like picture-perfect props with the blue hues of the fjord and hills merging into the background, patches of snow gleaming in the distance upon the hills. Inside our red cottage, we found the entrance decorated by Els’ paintings and a bay windows that opened up to the fjords. The ground level of this cottage housed her workshop and a carpentry shop.

Warm wooden interiors, a well-kitted kitchen with all manners of pots and pans that would make a gourmet cook smile like a shark, windows that looked out into the fjords and made us sigh. This was the idyllic start to a Norwegian fjord-hopping holiday, along with the presence of Els, Charleston and his mother, Kaisa.

The view we woke up to every morning from the bed

To Book the Cottage: Get onto Airbnb and key in Hordaland and Els. However, Els does not always let out her cottage (because it is not quite commercial), so essentially you could take a chance.

How to Get There: Bag tickets for as less as £39 on BA and Norwegian Airlines to Bergen. From the airport, it is best to hire a car for your stay because it is easier and economic to drive around the county of Hordaland.

May 23, 2017

Arundhati Basu56 Comments

Barmy Basset Hounds & Martins of Port Isaac

The thing with eating your ice cream on the sly is that you gotta pay for it later when your wife goes into an artisan fudge confectionery and arms herself with a sizeable waffle cone. Topped up by gigantic dollops studded with moreish caramel bits.

We had reached the village of Port Isaac (an easy drive from Padstow, Boscastle or Tintagel in Cornwall) when I needed to use the loo at the carpark facing the sea, the water guzzling cow that I am. FYI Cows can drink up to and over 90 litres of water on hot days. I came out of the loo and why there stood my husband quietly tucking into a mint chocolate chip ice cream. A sheepish look surfacing upon the visage as he spotted me. His supplier: the ubiquitous Mr. Whippy.

Then he offered me a lick. A Lick. It was your veritable ‘just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins’ moment.

Providence is a sweet woman. She took me by the hand and led me to a fudge shop. Behind the till stood Mr Meakins, the owner who had played a part in Doc Martin, the British medical comedy TV series that was shot in Port Isaac. In the show, the village is called Port Wenn.

Martin. There you have the first name in the title of the post come into play. The show is delightful, I promise. You shall not and will not egg me. I would rather you make me an omelette.

At the fudge shop charmingly called Buttermilk – which made me instantly want to tuck into anything I laid eyes on inside its old interiors – I was urged by Meakins to lay my hand on a few fudges but my eyes sparkled at the thought of the half-eaten beauty you see below.

2017-04-16 06.20.24 1.jpg — Ship Shape indeed

2017-04-16 05.55.57 1.jpg — Anchor on the slipway

The rusty old anchor which could easily challenge a gang of 40 beefy men to lift it is your introduction to Port Isaac. For this is a fishing village, aye, that traces its fishing roots back to the 13th century. Till the 19th century, men would have also been dragging carts of stone, ores, salt and limestone from the many ships that would have arrived at the small and busy harbour of Port Isaac — it was one of the few sheltered ones along the inhospitable Cornish coastline.

But here I get ahead of myself. Let me pause and retrace my steps to when we entered the village.

From the car park you walk down to the beach below and think this is it, but wait. Get out of that carpark onto the main road, then walk past The Angry Anchovy ensuring that you are not ensnared by pizzas and make your way down a steep and narrow road. Past weathered houses, ivy-caked stone walls and a parish church. At the bottom of the street an old school house pops up with a brooding slate exterior. You know you have hit pay dirt.

You are in Port Isaac, dear darling.

The home of British crabs and lobsters.

The main street winding into the town is flanked by 18th and 19th century cottages, some whitewashed with bright blue window panes and doors and others clad in dark slate fronts. A stone owl looked down imperiously at us from its perch upon dry stone walls as we we walked in the footsteps of the grumpy Martin Ellingham, who arrives in the village to be greeted by the likes of characters such as Bert Large and two grimy fishermen – they who almost drive him off the narrow country lanes after declaring him ‘Bodmin’. You would pounce upon that word if you are a Daphne du Maurier fan. The moors of Bodmin is where Jamaica Inn was (and still is) famously situated. If you were deemed Bodmin by a local it basically meant you were barmy (also that you could be a repository of murder and madness).

Opes, Cornish for narrow alleys between houses, issued warnings on signposts about big vehicles trying to barge their way in. Seriously, if you even thought of wedging yourself in a big car between those houses, I would say you deserve to sit inside while the rest of the world (like me) passes you by with ice cream cones held aloft as beacons of goodness.

Now if you gave me a house in Port Isaac, I would shut my eyes and take it off your hands. It is bustling and chirpy but there is an astonishing level of quiet that comes over the village as soon as you leave behind the harbour and start climbing up the opes where brooks gurgle by stone houses. There is a lifeboat shed in the village and a fisherman merchant’s smelly quarters where seafood is sold during the day but the real deal is as you climb up the hill. The village is spread out below you just beyond two breakwaters, pale turquoise waters and the coastline.

On our way up, we passed Martin’s cottage on the left, a little below which stood Bert Large’s whitewashed restaurant. Too many Doc Martin things in this post, you say? I would agree but that is because I am goading you into watching at least the first episode.

To come to the second part of this post’s title. We heard these baritone barks as we trudged up the hill. Not your average few barks. This was a remarkable volley that refused to stop. We peeked down through the gap between one of the houses and espied a podgy basset hound bent on playing Elvis for the day. Now people from Elvis country, hear me out. You had to meet Mr. Personality. After we had spent some time sitting on the hill and Adi had fooled around on the edges singing away so badly that I had to turn and run, we met this basset hound down at the harbour. He had a mate who was as quiet as he was mouthy. A few labradors ran around, but your guess is good enough to figure out who stole the show.

To agitate our basset boy, his amused master made a few faces and stooped to say a few things. Our ears ringing with his deepest of deep barks, the sight of his astoundingly droopy face, podgy body and pendulous ears carved into our minds, we left the village of Port Isaac with deep sighs. But wait, I can still hear his baritone woofs, can you?

2017-04-16 05.55.54 1.jpg — Opes of Port Isaac

2017-04-16 06.20.23 1.jpg — You see what I mean when I say that you should arm yourself with an ice cream and then work it off by just walking. These opes demand it.

2017-04-16 06.06.43 1.jpg — Climbing up the hill for a view of the village and the coastline

2017-04-16 06.06.41 1.jpg — The one. Who excels at pestering me.

2017-04-16 06.06.42 1.jpg — Between the breakwaters

2017-04-16 06.06.31 1.jpg — Taking a moment to savour the beauty of the moment…

2017-04-16 06.06.33 1.jpg — …before yodelling

2017-04-16 06.06.37 1.jpg — Caught in the act

2017-04-16 05.56.02 1.jpg — Port Isaac Harbour

2017-04-16 06.06.29 1.jpg — Bert Large’s restaurant is the whitewashed stone cottage on the left. Above it, the first stone cottage with the orange pipings was Martin’s cottage in the show, Doc Martin.

2017-04-16 05.56.05 1.jpg — Master in a conversation with Mouthy One

2017-04-16 05.56.07 1.jpg — The image we left Port Isaac with

Before I leave you for the day, here’s Episode 1 of Doc Martin. Humour me?

May 22, 2017

Arundhati Basu75 Comments

What You Put into Your Body

There is no fancy photo to go with this post. If I had to fish out a photo, it would be one of the inner workings of the human body and I do not quite like the idea of putting it all out there. Sometimes we just do not need the graphics of it all. Sometimes photos can take a backseat and they shall in this post.

The thing is I am bothered and confounded as is my family. You see my father-in-law has been unwell for some time now. This strong military man laid low is a strange thing to envisage because apart from being a toughie he has always been an active man, given his background, but even after retiring he has been going for his walks, playing golf…the works. Yet he fell ill recently. It turned out to be an oesophageal tear. What is that you might ask? I did too. I could not even imagine that it could quite serious till I learned that if not treated within 24 hours it can be fatal.

Firstly, the oesophagus is the tube that travels from our mouths all the way down to the stomach, so it can get ruptured if there is some kind of physical injury to the neck, violent vomiting, ulcers caused by reflux or even tumours in the throat. But he has had a few endoscopy tests and all has all been ruled out, except that he did undergo violent vomiting initially. The tear was stapled and yet there is dark blood still seeping out from some part in the body. The doctors are confused. Now they are going to run a colonoscopy to figure out what it might be.

It is awful to not know what is going on and even more so when you see the doctors’s brows furrow up in thought. The helplessness is frightful.

The point of this post is not that I want sympathy from you. Far be it from that. It is a difficult moment that wakes you up to the frailties of the human body. So my dear friend, please take care of the best thing you will ever own. That is your body. Please tone down the spices (imagine an Indian saying that and here you can roll your eyes at me), lower the chilli quotient in your food and eat well. If you have reflux, get it shown and do something about it, because nothing matters more than taking care of yourself. At the end of the day, that is all that matters.

May 15, 2017

Arundhati Basu83 Comments

Big Move & Blog Awards

Anxiety is a deadly thing. It makes little coils in your stomach. So the days went by and I wondered everyday about where we would find ourselves at the end of this month. A week ago we were enlightened. New York it would be. We might choose to live in New Jersey but that is yet to be figured out. I know, you true-blue people who live in the city get all worked up when someone (erroneously) deems New Jersey to be a part of New York. I am not taking a chance of being clubbed by a New Yorker lurking around the corner of one of those glitzy avenues.

Yesterday after a long long chat with the woman co-ordinating our move about flooded gardens, motherhood, full-time work, the joys of putting up the feet with pizza and no laundry when the husband is away, I had to make another important call. The council office for a parking waiver because there is that small matter of the mover’s vehicle which has got to be parked on the double yellow lines outside our building. Now my darling, you never do that, e’en by mistake – park on double yellow lines that is.

You get a billet-doux of 70 quid, from a patrolling officer who will sniff his way to your car just like I find my way to cheese and popcorn. The councilman was a jolly fellow. I promise you that I had not expected a laugh with a councilman on all counts. But do not underestimate the chattiness of an Englishman. He asked me promptly where I was abandoning this fine borough for. “New York! You are leaving this little borough for NEW YORK and you expect sympathy, eh?” Chortles. “Just drop me a donut in return for the parking waiver”. The dilemma remains: To do or not to do. I mean I have bought hapless men drinks in bars (because they sweetly informed me that it was their birthday) without meaning to hit on them (which earned them the wrath of their girlfriends and me a scowl) but a donut presents a different degree of sweetness.

Now to the important business of answering questions. Some time has passed since I have been tagged by four lovely ladies, Cheila, Grace, Jamie and thebeyoutifulgal (do take a look at their blogs if you have not already), but I take things slow usually, so here we go with the awards. Except for Cheila’s Liebster Award and thebeyoutifulgal’s Awesome Blogger Award nominations, I had already participated in One Lovely Blog Award and Sunshine Blogger Award before, but Jamie had taken time to put out some questions of her own so I wanted to answer them along with Cheila’s and beyoutifulgal’s.

Off we go:

Cheila’s questions:

What show are you binge watching right now?

Designated Survivor, Riverdale, Pretty Little Liars and Grand Hotel

2. What are you reading?

Another Time, Another Life by Leif G.W. Persson, How it Happened by Shazaf Fatima Haider and Behind Her Eyes by Sarah Pinborough (because how can you even be in just one world when there are so many waiting out there).

3. What do you usually go for if you’re cooking just for yourself?

Chilli garlic noodles

4. What’s your favourite eye and hair colour?

Hazel and black

5. What sports did you practice in high school?

Badminton has been a constant love. Baseball was fun too. Cricket did not leave its mark on me (I am shamelessly breaking stereotypes here – putting an Indian and cricket together is like arranging a sure-shot love match). I had a deuce ball fly into my face when I was about 10 and after it smacked me on the cheeks with the kind of hardness you can expect from a ball made of cork and encased in leather, it was a no-show for me at any cricket game.

6. How many hours a day do you spend on the internet?

I do not even count.

7. Do you choose your outfit in the day before or in the morning?

That very morning the bed will end up looking like a battleground, make no mistake about it.

8. Can you play any instrument?

Harmonium. Have you even heard of it? I am terrible with phonetic alphabets, okay? So where you would normally use ‘Delta’ to indicate D, I would think of ‘Donkey’ or ‘Dumb’, both words you should not be using with a stranger, and where you would use ‘Hotel’ for H, I would probably pop up a poor, unloved ‘Harmonium’. I did it once at a store here and the girl in front of me had the blankest look possible. That is the day that I realised that the harmonium needs to be left alone in its corner. It does not care about recognition, it will have you know.

9. Do you prefer hot weather or cold weather?

Cold though I do love spring. You have to understand here that I hail from India where temperatures on a hot summer day scale up to 50°C. But what I would take wholeheartedly is a British summer’s day with Pimms.

10. What is your favourite fruit?

Blueberries and mangoes

11. Can you swim? How old were you when you learned?

One of the many chinks in my armour. I learnt swimming at the age of 14 and I sucked at it because I could never raise my head to take a breath, but I Did learn it. Over the years, this necessary life skill has decided to abandon me. I have the wonderful Kristyn who has promised to teach me the art of one-legged swimming and I am waiting to become her protege and prodigy (in reverse).

Beyoutifulgal’s questions:

1.What impact do you want to have on the world?

I am not sure I want to have any impact really.

2. What is a skill you’d like to learn? Why?

The art of saying no without feeling like an ant.

3. What are you most grateful for?

For life itself. Most importantly, my husband, my family and this extended blogging family (you guys make me happy everyday).

4. If you had the opportunity to get a message across to a large group of people, what would your message be?

Let judgement take a back seat.

5. Which activities make you lose track of time?

Blogging, reading, talking and running.

6. What is the difference between being alive and truly living?

Scoffing a scone.

Jamie’s questions:

What is one unpopular opinion you have?

Hand over All the books in the world (Psst: I foresee stoning by hoards of book lovers in the horizon) and no one shall get hurt.

2. If people start moving to Mars, are you going?

No way. This planet has too much happening for me to leave it for all the luxuries on Mars.

3. What’s your favourite sandwich?

Ham and cheese

4. If you could live in a movie, which would you choose?

Sabrina

5. What’s your go-to snack?

Salted Caramel/Peach Melba yogurt with blueberries, pecans and pumpkin seeds.

6. If you could turn into an animal, which animal would you be?

Polar bear. My husband loves polar bears.

7. Coffee or tea?

Both! I could not decide which but tea relaxes me and coffee wakes me up.

8. What’s your favourite go-to outfit?

A flirty dress

9. Do you have any guilty pleasures? Share one!

Tsundoku. It is a Japanese word for someone who is a book hoarder and keeps buying them. The only exception to the definition would be that that I do read the books I buy, but after an extended period of time, because there is always a tall pile waiting on the bedside table.

10. Who’s your favourite TV show character?

There are so many but I will go with Sherlock Holmes.

11. If you got abducted by aliens, what would you ask them first?

You got popcorn?

May 13, 2017

Arundhati Basu91 Comments

Elvis Legs: Boscastle to Tintagel

The path of less resistance can lead to Elvis Legs. This is how. My husband was never much of a one for walking-hiking holidays (even though he used to love climbing mountains as a teenager). His idea of holidays were more in the realm of lazing and packing in the good grub. But then I happened to him. The day that took place he had signed himself up for legs that would shake like The King’s. A shout-out to Bruce who introduced me to the term.

Getting back to Adi, he is a hiking convert, and boy he gets attached to things in a pretty solid way. For instance, when he had change to classes as a wee boy, he turned down the prospect flat on its face. He would have nothing to do with leaving Claudette behind. She was the teacher and why I believe wee Adi had a crush on pretty Claudette. They had to wait three months before he agreed to leave her behind.

From Claudette to Cornwall is a leap alright, but may I ask you to do that? Last time, we had exchanged a few words over Boscastle and swooned over Hardy. Now I am going to swoon over Red Devon and Friesian cows, gorse bushes, meadows of blue bells, saw-wort (those pretty purple thistle-like flowers) and daisies. Stop sniggering. I see you.

Now we had chosen the hottest day of the week to go for our hike, which meant four hours under a sun that threatened to (and did eventually) peel the skin off our nape. There are a few warnings you have to keep in mind when you are passing through the pastures of our bovine friends:

Do not show threatening behaviour towards calves (approaching them in close quarters, making loud noises or walking between a calf and its mother) as you may provoke the mother to defend her young. The best plan is to walk along the hedges.
If cows approach you, do not run away as this will encourage them to chase you. Stand your ground and stretch out your arms to increase your size.
Avoid taking dogs into fields with cows particularly with calves. If you must and cows charge, release the dog from its lead as the dog will outrun the cows and the cows will generally chase the dog rather than you.

With no dog friend to distract the cow, you can imagine how tough it was on the animal talker in me. I did wave at the Red Devon cows lazing on the ridges, who you shall see in a bit, but there were young, cute Friesian calves in a field without their mothers, and That I could not resist. Adi, on the other hand, is a bit wary of the gentle girls and boys — ever since a whole herd gunned for us with alacrity during a stop at a random field on the way to the Lake District. The menace writ large on their faces made them look like anything else but creatures of bovine gentility. Five years have passed but Adi has not been able to shake off the trauma of it.

2017-05-06 07.56.21 2.jpg — Forrabury Stitches behind us. It is like looking back upon a maze of stitched-up greenery. A historic concept of open field farming that is part and parcel of Cornish country.

2017-05-06 07.56.25 1.jpg — The kind of views that line the length of the hike

2017-05-06 09.50.52 2.jpg — Lazy Red Devon cows

2017-05-06 09.50.51 1.jpg — Thankfully a few hand waves did not ensure a charging mum. Adi dragged me away before she became a larger entity in the picture.

2017-05-06 09.50.52 1.jpg — Islets along Trevalga that are home to seabird colonies

2017-05-06 09.50.55 1.jpg — Gorse and husband under the midday sun

If you choose to do this hike, the good news is that for the most part, it is of moderate intensity. Expect to climb up and down meadows filled with wild flowers and gorse bushes in bright yellow clumps to contrast startlingly with the waters of the Celtic Sea. The changing hues — from gentian to aquamarine, sapphire to turquoise blues — are mesmerising. Each stitched-up pasture is crossed via stone steps and then a leap across dry stone walls that network the length and breadth of the trail and throw in some serious climbing in bits and pieces. But it is the length of the walk and the hot sun that conspire to make you fantasise about chilled beer aplenty.

When we espied the silhouette of Hotel Camelot a few cliffs away, we whooped. The thought of draining vats of beer was a wonderful reprieve. We could have also had vats of mead instead but then we would have to go down to that fantastic Tintagel Castle, birthplace of the mythical King Arthur. And our legs, I fear, would not have made the steep climb back to the village from the castle. Instead we tucked into pasties from the pasty shop in town that was selling them at half price since it was closing time. Amusingly enough, they do things the old way. The woman from the shop hollers out in a hefty voice about a half-price offer a few times till old men come streaming in.

At the end of our pub stop for ales to wash down the pasties with lay another 3 hours of walking because we had not taken into account that the bus from Tintagel to Boscastle is not that frequent. So there we were with 10 miles of hiking and walking at hand to reduce our legs to columns of jelly and flop down at The Wellington Arms in Boscastle for another round of ale. Come to think of it, what would we do without ale? As our good man Franklin put it so sensibly. Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.