love those cupcakes

Out and about

Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire has long been on the list of places to visit so, back in May, off we went. It's a (just over) two hour drive from here and, with the Boy navigating, I managed to get us there without mishap.

Home for a long weekend was a beautiful mill house, right on the Rochdale canal, complete with heron on the roof and just a short walk along the towpath to the town centre. 

At the back of the house was a pottery (sadly closed whilst we were there) and stunning garden (a previous owner had been a landscape gardener) with the river at the bottom.   Inside, there was space aplenty for the six of us and Boo, an Aga in the kitchen to wrestle with (in our defence, the operating instructions from the owner were wrong) and boxes of toys, games and dress-up clothes to keep the littlest happy. 

Hebden was everything I'd hoped for and more.  As we wandered the town, with its array of independent shops (no big chains here), restaurants, cafes, vegan bakeries, micro breweries, an art deco picture house, bare feet, dreadlocks, notices everywhere for yoga, tai chi and meditation classes, the Boy said to me, 'You'd love to live here, wouldn't you?'.  Yup, sure would.

 

A day trip to Haworth by bus landed us slap bang in the 1940s.  This was a complete surprise.  I'd anticipated a slow stroll up the cobbled main street to the Bronte parsonage, but the village was teeming with folk and the dog was barking his head off so we didn't get close.

With over 25 miles of footpaths (we didn't walk them all), the National Trust's Hardcastle Crags is a wooded valley with streams, waterfalls and a working mill situated just a couple of miles north of Hebden Bridge.  Yes, one of us did fall in the water and no, it wasn't the littlest. Cue lots of squelching as we made our way back to the car park.

All too soon, it was time to pack the bags, load the cars and hand back the door keys. 

Hebden Bridge?

We can't wait to return.

 

Retreating, part 1

Turns out yoga retreats are a bit like proverbial buses.  Not even a sniff of one and then two come along with just sufficient time in between to empty the suitcase, do the laundry and repack.

The first retreat was a seven day stay in Croatia.  On the island of Korcula to be exact, about 20 minutes by ferry from Dubrovnik and reputedly the birthplace of Marco Polo.  This was in the company of my yoga teacher and five other women of various ages from my yoga classes.  

To say I was anxious about cavorting on a mat twice daily in sun and heat in the company of people I hardly knew is something of an understatement.  The night before we were due to leave British soil and airspace, I could think of a million reasons not to go.  But I went and I'm so glad I did.

Korcula is certainly very pretty.  We stayed in a spacious retreat house just steps from the sea and a short walk from the town.  There were regular visits from the owner's rescued street dog, a more gentle giant you couldn't wish to meet. 

The days were punctuated with two yoga sessions, a sunrise meditation and yoga on a platform at the water's edge and an evening practice on a terrace back at the house, in a local yoga studio and in the middle of an olive grove.  

Food (vegan, delicious and generally child sized portions) was provided by a passionately macrobiotic chef who looked like he could well be related to one Jack Sparrow. 

It was a caffeine/sugar/fat/snack free seven days, a bit surprising, really, how extreme this was. (There may or may not have been a sneaky G&T and a final, recklessly rebellious night of bugger it, we're overloading on carbs and wine.) I think everyone in the group found themselves quickly launched into full detox mode, some with more debilitating symptoms than others.  But we survived, albeit a tad thinner.

I have to admit that, even without my medical history, I'm much happier in arctic/antarctic climes, where the temperatures begin with a minus and the light is more muted.  But maybe occasionally it's good to step out of the comfort zone, to try something different.

I opted out of the 3 hour hike and 5 hour boat trip (in 30C heat? I think not) which gave me some welcome space to do what I'd hoped to do in my free time - write.  The project is still very much a work in progress but I've returned home re-inspired, a definite bonus.

The week I was so worried about turned out to be one of challenging stretching and bending, snotty crying (funny how yoga can set off the waterworks), laughing so much your herbal tea comes out of your nose and long, interesting conversations in just the best company.  

I love retreating, me.

 

Venturing

Over a weekend, the baking Boy ventured into the world of Italian patisserie, a la GBBO.  Making sfoggliatelle, to be precise. It looked a laborious and messy process but he ended up with some lamination and a tray of pastries.  And a new respect for the current series' participants.

Venturing once again into the realm of small knits for small people has produced mixed results.  A friend is about to welcome triplets into her family so I picked up the long rested knitting needles and various patterns which didn't appear too taxing, aware I need three of whichever item I decide to knit and that I'm currently bothered by a painful golfer's elbow.  No, I don't play golf, it's just my elbow seems to think I do.  A pair of boots turned out looking more or less like they should (they're not perfect but they're intended for feet) whilst a beanie hat was just tiny.  Far too tiny, unless my friend's daughter gives birth to three boiled eggs. 

It seems I've ventured into the writing world of Nigel Slater.  Never a fan of his TV shows (I prefer it when it's just the potatoes that look like a good scrub wouldn't go amiss), never having bought any of his books and skipping his column in the Guardian, I finally succumbed (his latest publication has the word 'Christmas' in the title and was half price in Waterstones, so of course a copy came home with me).  Surprisingly, I'm enjoying his words (I doubt I'll be giving any of the recipes a try as they're far from vegan friendly),  particularly those describing his obvious love of the colder, darker months of the year (which pretty much matches my own).

Today is the last day of October and I'm about to venture into the loft to retrieve the bag of spooky stuff.  There's a bowl full of sweet treats for anticipated little (and not so little) callers, a giant pumpkin has a face, a batch of vegan pumpkin cupcakes is awaiting a topping of gingerbread spice buttercream, pumpkin, butter bean and coconut curry is simmering away on the hob and a couple of seasonally scented candles will soon be lit.  In between answering the door knocks, I'm planning to watch the remaining episodes of the second season of Stranger Things (it's so very good and so hard to ration), followed by the obligatory viewing of Hallowe'en and a creepy book at bedtime (I really shouldn't do any of this as I've been having a few too many bad dreams of late).

And now I'm signing off for a few weeks as we venture east in search of Richard Parker and friends. 

 

Signing off

I've travelled as far south as I could get.

I've been as high as I could get.

Now it's time to head here.

Well, as near as I can get.

Back soon-ish.

 

Random snippets from the lakes

After a gap of far too many years, we decided to take a trip up the A66 to the Lake District.

Our base for the week was a gorgeous little cottage (originally housing for gunpowder mill workers) on the riverside in southern Cumbria.

 

With gently flowing water, trees and a bridge just outside the front door, 

it was the perfect location.

Interesting neighbours, too.

There were opportunities galore for filling lungs with fresh air, gazing at stunning scenery, tramping across fells, wandering through woods, sauntering around lakes and just drinking in the peace and quiet.

Throw in picturesque villages to explore, waterfalls to visit,

streams to splodge in,

signs to read,

the home of a poet to investigate, 

and we had the ingredients for a wonderful week.

Motoring up 'The Struggle' and Kirkstone Pass was challenging, 

ditto avoiding the many jaywalking pedestrians,

but the views of Windermere from the summit were worth all the braking and pulling over into hedges.

There were treats, planned (yes, I'm talking shopping) and unexpected.  On the last day, we made our way towards Ullswater

and Pately Bridge

and drove down an increasingly narrow and winding lane, looking for the farm I'd read about which sells yarn produced from the farmer's own sheep and goats.  The timing was ideal as I was roped in (I didn't need asking twice) to help with bottle feeding a pair of Herdwick lambs (oh so very cute). Sadly, their mother is no longer producing milk but one of the lambs hasn't taken easily to being bottle fed and he just hung back (honestly, I was this close to weeping).  Sadly,  there are  no pictures, it was all so spur of the moment,  but they looked pretty much like these youngsters.

So, that yarn I bought.

Along with several balls of Herdwick double knitting, there's the softest angora. 

Want to see it?

Cleaned and spun, of course.

The week away turned out to be the calm before the storm and returning home was a case of coming back to earth with a bang.  The previous day there'd been a full on, break the door down emergency with the aged aunt who is currently in hospital.  Intensive home care services will kick in after a short period of residential care which hopefully will be a change for the better given the escalating difficulties we've been experiencing.

I'm still in the process of arranging what I think is referred to as 'professional trauma cleaning' of Aunty's bedroom whilst the Boy and I have taken advantage of her absence to continue sorting her house (and thankfully there's been no further sign of her four footed tenants).  

I've insisted, given the evidence of 'trauma',  we turn up wearing homemade protective gear.  With no access to hazmat suits, we tie Tesco carrier bags over our shoes, wrap scarves round our faces and wield Fabreze sprays.  Now if only I could remember where the swimming goggles are stored.....

 

That was the week that was

 A good week, though if you're lucky enough to be still here, still breathing, every week is a good week.

This one started with flowers from the Boy on Mothering Sunday which were followed by a drive to Saltburn, a quick glimpse of the sea and a 'Little Creatures' felting workshop.  I opted to have a stab (literally) at making a penguin and, in the process, won the prize for breaking the most needles. (I broke so many I had to hide the bits in my specs case.) The penguin wouldn't win any prizes but at least he was greeted with only minimal laughter during show and tell at home.

A midweek baking session resulted in a half batch of Jamie's brownies which didn't hang around the kitchen long, though the other two here didn't really get much of a look in.   

A couple of books were read which, amazingly, I can still remember and recommend.  Wolf Winter has a small remote settlement in 18th century Swedish Lapland as its focus and, with skilful interweaving of reality and the spirit world, seeks to answer the question 'Who killed Eriksson?'  I'm a big fan of Patti Smith and Just Kids is her memoir, making good the promise to photographer Robert Mapplethorpe to write their story, from their meeting in New York in 1967 to his death in 1989 and everything in between.  

We watched Nightcrawler, a film about decidedly creepy petty criminal but desperate for a job Louis Bloom, who discovers there's a living to be made filming crime scenes for TV news channels.  This is a dark, edge of the seat thriller, at times cringeworthy, at times grisly, at times oddly funny, with a slimmed down Jake Gyllenhaal in the central role.  Recommended.

There was a short break in London, primarily to visit the V&A's Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty exhibition. Whilst I was hoping for more biographical detail, the exhibition (photographs not allowed, sadly) was well worth the trip and, to quote Ross from Friends, O is definitely for Oh, wow!  Afterwards, I met up with the Boy (who'd had an interview in Leeds earlier) and, with no definite plans, the remaining time in the capital was spent eating, nose following, pavement pounding (and acquiring the mother of all blisters), browsing, sign spotting, coffee drinking, dog admiring, book buying.

The week ended with a visit this morning to the market in the big park down the road followed by a rendition of the birthday song.  Yep, my amazing father in law is now just one year off a century. 

 

 

Home again

So, Iceland.

The country, that is, not the supermarket.

Home of fire and ice, volcanoes, glaciers, geysers, elves, Bjork and menus featuring fermented shark and sheep's head.  

We were based in the capital and the country's only city, Reykjavik, hiked across snow and ice, experienced daytime temperatures which didn't rise above freezing point and dropped to as low as -15C, searched in vain until 2 a.m. for a sighting of the Northern Lights,  marvelled at frozen waterfalls, oohed and aahed and dodged as columns of steam and water erupted from the ground.

Random stuff

• The population of Iceland is about 340,000
• Reykjavík is the world's northernmost capital 
• 60% of the population live in Reykjavik
• Icelanders watch more films at the cinema than any other nation
• Beer was banned nationwide until 1989.  Beer Day is now celebrated every year on March 1st
• Icelanders consume more Coca Cola per head than any other country
• The last names of Icelanders are derived from their fathers' first names plus the word ‘son’ for men and ‘daughter’ for women
• Iceland has one of the highest per capita rates of car ownership in the world
• Icelandic telephone directories list Icelanders by first name, alphabetically. To reduce confusion, directories also list people’s professions
• The rate of literacy among Icelanders is the highest in the world
• Contrary to popular belief, which may be fuelled by shops' displays of fluffy toy versions, there are no polar bears in Iceland
• The Arctic fox is the only native animal
• Geothermal water heats about 90% of homes 
• Cold water from household taps is pure spring water whilst hot water is provided by geothermal power plants and has a characteristic smell of rotten eggs
• Instead of just walk, trot and canter, Icelandic horses uniquely have five gaits
• Although Iceland is geographically and culturally part of Europe, half of it lies on the American tectonic plate and is moving westwards at an estimated 1-2 cm a year
• Iceland is home of one of the world’s oldest democracies. The Althing, the Icelandic parliament, was established in 930
• This was the first country in the world to have a democratically elected female head of state
• The majority of Icelanders admit to believing in the existence of elves and trolls
• At Christmas, Icelanders are visited by not one Santa Claus but 13.  The so called  'Yule Lads', with names like 'Spoon Licker', 'Sausage Stealer' and 'Window Peeper,  live with their troll parents and a big black cat in the mountains and take turns to visit the towns at night during the 13 days of Christmas. Every child leaves a shoe in the window, hopeful of being left a sweet or small toy and not a rotten spud  

(Parliament building)

 I love Iceland, me.

 

Week in verbs

Watching Wolf Hall (well, trying to more like, given the squint inducing candlelit scenes which make it almost impossible to see what's happening and also not being a fan of Damian Lewis) and Fortitude (having difficulty remembering who everyone is but at least there's lots of lovely snow and ice and the occasional polar bear, though we've had some of our own here this week, snow and ice, that is, not polar bears) 

Reading The Other Typist (link in the sidebar). New York.  1924.  Prohibition, speakeasies, rising hemlines, bobbed hair. Our unreliable narrator, Rose Baker, was abandoned by her mother, brought up by nuns in an orphanage and is working for the police as a typist.  Crime busting business is booming and another typist is taken on, the glamorously captivating Odalie Lazar. And so Rose's life changing obsession begins.  Highly recommended 

Celebrating the mister's birthday with pizza and Pinot Grigio

Baking a chocolate cake.  I didn't want to have the bother of making a buttercream for the layers and a ganache for the top and sides so came up with something which combined the two. 'How is it?' I asked. 'Chocolatey', replied the birthday boy.

Buying a new coat, a treat courtesy of some Christmas money and one of the last bargains of the sales

Failing to stop another book jumping into the basket in the shop when I'm supposed to be committed to reading from the book pile or the charity shop but as I paid for it with the remaining Christmas money it doesn't count, does it?

Realising I've been following a vegan diet for a year.  I'm not missing milk or cheese or eggs or butter, have gotten used to checking every label and asking questions, so am more than happy to continue, though have to admit it's not easy when eating out or on holiday

Sitting on my specs.  Fortunately, they were the spare pair

Enjoying the first bunches of daffs from the supermarket

Opening a box of posh soaps

Putting off packing for a little trip till the very last minute.  Back soon

 

Taste of Nepal

After saying a reluctant farewell to Bhutan, we took a short flight over the Himalayas to beckoning Nepal.

Random stuff: 

• Total population is somewhere in the region of 29 million
• The capital is Kathmandu, once thought by some to be the fabled Shangri-La
• An estimated 2.5 million live in the capital and its streets are heaving with people and traffic
• 8 out of 10 of the world's highest mountains are in Nepal, the highest peak being, of course, Mount Everest (Sagamatha)
• The word ‘Himalaya” in Sanskrit means 'abode of snow'
• Nepal has the densest concentration of UNESCO World Heritage Sites
• Kathmandu Valley comprises the three ancient cities of Kathmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur, home to seven World Heritage Sites
• Swayambhunath Stupa is the most ancient of all the holy shrines (there was probably a shrine here as far back as  the 1st century) in Kathmandu Valley.  It's also known as Monkey Temple because of the resident macaque monkeys which roam freely across the site 
• Nepal is the only country with a non-rectangular flag. The country's flag is maroon with two stacked triangles but we didn't spot it anywhere
• The traditional greeting is 'Namaste', said with palms together on the chest and head slightly bowed
• Nepal is among the poorest and least developed countries in the world with about half of its population living below the poverty line and many living in shacks
• Althugh officially secular, Hinduism is the main religion of Nepal (90%) with a dash of Tibetan Buddhism (5%) and a pinch of  Islam (3%) and a smidgeon of a few others such as Jainism and Christianity (2%) 
• Nepal is the birthplace of the Lord Buddha
• Kathmandu is ranked among the 20 most polluted cities of Asia and the city is often shrouded in a thick haze
• Nepal has over 80 ethnic groups and 123 languages are spoken
• Rice is the staple food with Dal Bhat (lentils and rice) the national dish
• November is rice drying time and the grain is spread on large tarpaulins.  Any available space in villages and towns, including the central square,  is filled with drying rice, watched over by women who periodically rake and turn it to ensure it is dried evenly   
• The favourite national snack is a plate of steamed dumplings or momos which can be either savoury or sweet. We were shown how to make these by a family in Kathmandu who invited us into their home to have lunch
• Kathmandu has the most worryingly chaotic tangle of electric cables and wires ever seen
• Nepal has the only living goddess (Kumari) in the world.  She is a pre-pubescent girl selected from the Newari community. The Kumari is revered and worshipped and, whilst there are several throughout Nepal, with some cities having several, the best known is the Royal Kumari of Kathmandu who lives in a palace in the centre of the city.  She appears briefly in an upstairs window at certain times.  Photographs are forbidden
• Sadhus are wandering holy men ('good men') who have relinquished worldly possessions and attachments including homes and families to dedicate their lives to attaining motska or enlightenment through meditation. The Sadhus cover themselves with ash or chalk, and paint their faces according to the deity they have devoted themselves to 

 

 

Into a tiger's nest

Built in 1692, Tiger’s Nest Monastery (Taktsang Palphug) is one of Bhutan’s most sacred sites. Perched at the top of a cliff, it stands about 3,000 metres (10,000ft) above sea level.  According to legend, Guru Rinpoche, also known as Padmasambhava and the bringer of Buddhism to Bhutan, flew to this exact spot from Tibet on the back of a tigress. He came to subdue a demon and then took residence in a cave where he meditated for 3 years, 3 months, 3 weeks, 3 days and 3 hours.  The monastery was built around the cave which is still there and open for viewing once a year.

No trip to Bhutan would be complete without a sight of the monastery and so we set off very early one morning.  From the car park, the white buildings of the monastery were just about discernible through the mist.  With no expectation of reaching anywhere near the top but, having been advised that reasonable views could be had at the halfway-ish point, the aim was to try to reach the cafeteria there.  

We eschewed the ponies which were available to carry people two thirds of the way and set off on the steep and at times (too many times) precarious path.  

 With frequent stops for water, a nibble of an energy bar and to catch our breath (hiking at altitude certainly affects the lungs more than the legs), we managed to reach the target of the cafeteria and, despite the lingering mist (and I was so grateful not to have to walk in bright sunlight and overpowering heat), were rewarded with a much better view of the monastery. 

 Of course, the ever present dogs were hanging around the picnic tables, hopeful of a biscuit treat.   And there were puppies!

 I could have quite happily stayed to play with the pups but was encouraged to press on upwards, 'just to see how much further we can get'.  

Eventually, we arrived at the start of the approach to the Tiger’s Nest - a rocky outcrop overlooking a vast chasm, with the monastery on the other side.  There were stone steps (and no handrails) carved into the exposed cliff face heading down into the ravine. Descending via the steps, a waterfall, festooned with prayer flags, came into view with the path continuing directly across it.  Once beyond the waterfall, gruellingly steep steps, over 800 in total, climbed towards the entrance to the monastery.

I'm not sure how it happened but, dear Reader, we made it to the top and in good time, too.   Photography is not allowed inside the monastery where we received a blessing from one of the monks and took a peek inside the original cave, thinking ourselves lucky that we'd picked the day of the year that it's open for viewing.

 The descent was much easier, for me, at least,  and I ended up about twenty minutes ahead of the mister, in the company of three German tourists.  

And, of course, a dog.