Tag: Yale Stephens

A Happy, Lazy, Well-Spent Day in Glasgow

September 8th, 2022

I’m happy to report that in the big scheme of things, I haven’t actually done much today: although thinking back on that statement, I suppose I might have. I’ve just enjoyed being in Glasgow; there’s been nowhere to go, nobody to see and nothing to do that I haven’t wanted to. I’m tired but satisfied, and of course the adventure continues further north tomorrow.

If there’s a place in Britain outside London that lends itself to just ambling around and seeing where one ends up, it’s Glasgow; not too labyrinthine and not too structured, Glasgow is good for meandering and pottering. If you want to look at something, you can; if you want to stop for coffee or something to eat, you can; if you want to go shopping, you can do that too. I’ve done some of all of this today, happy for a break in my road trip, although another — a weekend on the whisky nirvana of Islay — awaits in two days’ time.

I shared with readers last night my excursion to the retail shop from which a large purchase of tweed was investigated yesterday; I should have named the store — it’s Walker Slater, with stores in Glasgow, London and Edinburgh, although it sells internationally online, and staff are happy to take calls from overseas to answer questions before orders are placed.

I would encourage anyone interested in fashion and/or looking good to give tweed a chance, and give Walker Slater the opportunity to make that happen. Have a look at their stuff; it’s absolutely gorgeous, and they cater to ladies as well as men. As an aside, the only aspect of my dealings with them to date that pissed me off was their flat refusal to sell and freight to Melbourne a tweed-covered three-seat English Oak sofa in their Glasgow store to which I took a liking. Surely such a request was reasonable? 🙂

Me at Walker Slater in Glasgow in the coat I’ve bought, with a shirt similar to those I bought in Yorkshire on Sunday.

Anyhow, I spent longer than I should have at Walker Slater today. Between continuing to roam the shop looking for things I should either buy or try on before I head off tomorrow, and speaking to my parents in Australia before their bedtime about things that might be good for my two kids (who are also my parents’ only grandchildren), I think I was there for a solid two hours — and between what was bought yesterday and what was added to it today, there’s close to £1,000 in tweed products on its way back to Melbourne: some of it in my suitcase; most of it in the safe hands of Britain’s Royal Mail. It might even beat me home.

And — happily enough — if I’ve forgotten anything, or get the urge to buy more, Walker Slater’s Edinburgh store is a ten minute walk from where I’m staying next Wednesday night. Splendid!

The downside to all this time buying new clothes is that having decided overnight to get my Glasgow Coat of Arms tattoo — the bird, the tree, the bell, the fish — and having forgotten to ring the tattoo place before I headed out, when I went there after my visit to Walker Slater, the tattoo artist was booked out for the day. So perhaps that particular decision was made for me, in a sense, although I don’t have to get my car out of the car park tomorrow until 3pm despite hotel checkout being at 11am, so you never know…it may indeed be that if I don’t change my mind this happens on my return to Melbourne, although I do think there’s something to be said for getting a Glasgow tattoo in Glasgow. Watch this space.

Thus thwarted, I grabbed my work computer and headed to a cafe I found on the bank of the River Clyde, and did some work my boss messaged me with for an hour or two; the coffee in Glasgow is at least passable (remembering we’re spoilt for it in Melbourne) and I drank too much of it, safe in the knowledge that if anything went wrong in the world then just upstream — in the Firth of Clyde — one of Britain’s Trident submarines would be lurking out of sight, armed with up to 16 five megaton nuclear warheads with a range of 9,000 miles. Who wouldn’t feel safe?

But most of the day, as I indicated at the outset, was just spent wandering, ambling, meandering, happy to be in Glasgow and with nary a care in the world for once. One job yesterday’s field trip around Glasgow revealed was that my comfortable old brogues had reached the end of their useful life: I knew the soles had worn very thin, but the rain yesterday scored me a right shoe full of water. A ridiculous sale at a retailer in Glasgow got me more than serviceable replacements for £50 — a 50% discount off marked price — and so really, I’m going home with an awful lot of new stuff too.

And seeing I’m always very happy to endorse good businesses (which I do unsolicited and without notice to the business in question: it’s purely my own recommendation), dinner was a splendid find: Amore Ristorante Pizzeria, just outside Glasgow’s Merchant City precinct.

If you’re in Glasgow and looking for an excellent place to eat, pick this. Inexpensive, good food, large portions.

I’m happy to eat something other than traditional Scottish fare in Glasgow; I know the week ahead will be filled with venison, grouse, salmon, and all the other delicious things produced in Scotland, particularly in the north and in the clean, cold waters around it.

I made an error last night in picking a place masquerading as an Italian restaurant, which even arrogated to itself an Italian name (which will not be mentioned in this post): suffice to say the fare on offer was food-grade effluent, a waste of money, and an affront to the cuisine it purported to peddle. The only thing missing, thankfully, was a case of botulism.

So readers will appreciate that attentive, smiling service in pleasant surrounds counts for much; most will also appreciate that a “starter portion” of mussels in a rich, garlicky tomato and onion sauce with garlic bread — for £8.95 — raised an eyebrow when it arrived at my table with 29 mussels (and a further three that didn’t open, which should always be regarded as inedible). Incredulous at the generosity of the serve, I wolfed it down. It was nothing short of sensational.

Mussel starter at Amore Ristorante Pizzeria, Glasgow: before…

…and after…

A main course of traditional lasagna was more realistically portioned, but generous nonetheless; containing pieces of real beef and topped with real parmesan (not that awful dried stuff some of these places inflict on their customers), it too passed with flying colours.

Lasagna at Amore Ristorante Pizzeria: the parmesan is finely grated, not the dried stuff, despite its appearance.

But dessert…ever since I discovered tiramisu in Melbourne’s “Little Italy” — Lygon Street in Carlton — in the mid-1990s, I have rarely not ordered it when it appears on a menu; this could have been sensational, but there was little (if any) booze in it, the Cottee’s (or similar) chocolate syrup over it was a tacky and unnecessary addition that detracted from the dish, and mint sprigs — as renowned British food critic Matthew Fort has oft opined — should never appear on a plate as in most contexts, they’re inedible.

Supermarket chocolate syrup is a tacky and unnecessary addition to a fine dessert like tiramisu.

So eight out of ten for this: a splendid dinner to end a lazy, happy day in my family town.

And deep regret that tomorrow, it’s time to move on from here.

AND ANOTHER THING: it’s funny what you find in supermarkets these days; I went to Sainsbury’s this afternoon to buy additional bags of Bassett’s Jelly Babies for my kids as I’m stockpiling them (the BEST jelly babies in the known universe): £1-£1.50 at retailers in Britain for a 190g bag; $8 (£4.70 at today’s rates) for the same thing in Australia if you can ever find it. Anyhow, check this out.

59p buys you more of a mouthful than you might have bargained for at Sainsbury’s.

59p at Sainsbury’s.

No words.

And suffice to say, I didn’t buy it…
The Longest Trip To Kent In Recorded History

August 28th, 2022

Yesterday was a fun — albeit frustrating — day on the road, starting with picking up a hire car at Heathrow shortly after 1pm, and then heading off from Chiswick on the 70-mile drive to Royal Tunbridge Wells just after 2.30pm…and arriving shortly after 7pm. It doesn’t take a mathematical genius to deduce this was a slow trek to Kent indeed.

And yesterday, there was a punchline, too: more on that later.

It may be that I lulled myself into a false sense of security: an inspection of the map at home in Melbourne showed that provided I found the entrance to the M4 Motorway after collecting my car, the exit to the Chiswick High Road was simply a matter of keeping my eyes open.

It was supposed to be a Fiat (and thank God it wasn’t), but this “environmentally nice” hybrid is gutless on a freeway.

And so it proved.

But that same planning session — I freely admit — coincided with a laissez faire assessment of the subsequent challenge of navigating away from London; getting out by car had been a cinch the last time I did a road trip here, and armed with a huge touring atlas book I bought in 2008, Google Maps, and various internet-based directions services, I was confident I could be in Westerham to visit Chartwell, the former residence of Sir Winston Churchill, before it closed at 4.30pm.

Wrong.

Lesson one: don’t trust online maps and directions…they’re hard enough to decipher at the best of times, and one becomes so obsessed over street names and where to turn that any progress actually made evades recognition.

In fact — following Google closely — I missed the turn out of the Chiswick High Road to head south, missed the first three turns and had to do U-turns for a second crack at them (and U-turns in inner London are logistical exercises in themselves), and ended up back at my hotel in Chiswick through another incorrect direction…and had to start again.

Eventually, 90 minutes later, I was confident I had departed Chiswick.

And this milestone (and it had indeed been but a few miles at this point) coincided with the realisation that if I simply ignored the street directions I was being given — and focused instead on heading toward each suburb as directed by various street signs, as I knew their order well even though I didn’t know the roads — then actual progress could be made. Soon enough I had made it through Twickenham, Kingston, Surbiton…moving steadily but inexorably toward the M25 Motorway and England’s south-east.

But even here, I’d sabotaged myself.

The one stop I made on my sojourn through London’s salubrious southern suburbs — at a pub near Kingston, and as much to reassure myself I was finally heading in the right direction as anything else — elicited the advice that I should get off the M25 at the Sevenoaks turnoff, after which the route to Tunbridge Wells would be clearly signposted.

It wasn’t, as I discovered 40 miles later.

A call to the hotel I was staying at elicited further directions that also proved circuitous, and finally — after yet another stop at yet another pub for yet another set of directions, I was given a reliable route to take that had me at the target 20 minutes later: nearly five hours after setting forth on a 70 mile field trip.

But I said there was a punchline: there was a surprise waiting for me when I finally arrived at Royal Tunbridge Wells.

Not the sort of hotel you’d expect to find in oh-so-proper Kent. “Howdy partners,” indeed.

I knew I’d booked an American-themed hotel to stay in for the night at Tunbridge Wells, but I was astonished to see this: it would have been the most natural thing in the world to encounter such an establishment in the Arizona of the 1800s. Or, at least, if it didn’t appear to have been built in the car park of a massive Sainsbury’s supermarket (I later learned the supermarket was built around it).

The punningly-named Smith and Western Hotel is situated in a disused train station abandoned decades ago.

Having been for a walk after I arrived to the Lower Pantiles — where a friend of mine opened a restaurant six or seven years ago — I decided to eat at the hotel’s restaurant, the Cattle Shack; I had half a rack of barbecued pork ribs, served with a delicious coleslaw laced with chopped chillies, as an entree. I can count on the fingers of one hand (with plenty of room to spare) the number of times I’ve eaten ribs before: tasteless, stringy and tough, they’re something I couldn’t be bothered with. But these were highly recommended by the cheery waitress who served me, and proved such a revelation I’m now contemplating experimenting with cooking them when I get back to Melbourne.

The main course was a perfectly grilled cajun salmon fillet, which came with fluffy Mexican-style rice and some sauteed vegetables (including jalapenos…yum). But the dessert, a lemon meringue pie (I did say I can’t resist ordering lemon tarts when they appear on menus) was about 90% meringue, and what little lemon filling there was had the consistency and appearance of Clag, which many of us will remember from primary school.

And I didn’t partake of any of the American beverages on offer at the bar: as a result of my excursion to the NHS in Hammersmith on Friday, I’m on antibiotics for a few days, and alcohol isn’t a great idea at such a time.

“Ranch rooms” indeed: Cherokee, Navajo, Apache…mine was called Mohawk. No room numbers here.

On the whole though, this place was fun, vibrant, unpretentious and very pleasantly staffed, and if Claire’s boss ever reads this, give her a pay rise 🙂 . There was one noisy, noisome individual on staff who seemed to find it acceptable to flatulate fragrantly as he ferried food to customers (and Mr “American Cowboy in Training,” with the long, dark, greasy hair, I’m looking at you) but as Catriona Rowntree once told me — speaking of her own travel adventures — I’m not going to mark a good place down because of one dickhead.

The only other point I’d make is that while the rooms were brilliant, there was no air conditioning, and the heat-retaining old red brick building makes this an unpleasantly warm night in summer: something to keep in mind.

Make sure there’s a stock of toilet paper in the room when you arrive, too: the half-roll I was provided with was pretty miserly.

Overall, I’d give the Smith and Western eight out of ten: it isn’t fine dining and doesn’t pretend to be; it’s a good concept well executed. As for its resident farting lummox, perhaps he should clean up his act, for everyone’s sake. But that’s not my problem and it’s not feedback I’m willing to provide directly. Just think about that for a moment…

And what of the restaurant in the Pantiles my friend started? It was nowhere to be seen. I am going to have to try to find out what happened there while I’m in England if I can.

The Pantiles, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent.

Today, after heading up to Westerham to see if I can get into Chartwell, given I missed out yesterday, I’m heading to Exeter — a 200 mile drive that, by rights, should take less time than my trip from Chiswick to Tunbridge Wells yesterday — but we’ll see…stay posted.

The Duke of York, Tunbridge Wells: wouldn’t you change the name, at least for a while?
Back in a Land of Hope and Glory

August 24th, 2022

What to do, by way of record, on a major overseas trip?

There are predictable options like Facebook, or Instagram (which I’ve never used, and won’t now either); but as a writer at heart, and with significant experience using WordPress in the past, a blog is surely the best bet.

So welcome to my travelog: a chronicle of the month that is my Return To Britain 2022, 14 years after I last set foot on British soil: a delay that will not be repeated once I return to Australia in late September.

Why am I here, based initially in the splendid London suburb of Chiswick?

Overwhelmingly, of course, this is a holiday: the first holiday I’ve had since my last visit to Britain in 2008, also a month-long sojourn in the UK; so much has happened in that time — the arrival of children, a failed business enterprise, a change of industry professionally, a marital break-up, the shifting of personal goals, a pandemic that added extra years to my delay in coming back to the United Kingdom — and the break is both long overdue and (if I may say so) hard earned.

But there are things to do, alongside the usual tacky tourist-y things like visiting iconic attractions, or joining the throng outside the gates to Downing Street (which I did yesterday) in the hope of catching sight of some action.

There are old friends and business associates to catch up with, which I’m doing during my week in London, and it’s great to see their familiar faces again for the first time in a long time.

And even in the few days since I arrived, there’s a sense that some of the people I’ve met will stay to become new friends too. Travel is great like that. I’m already helping one plan out a visit to Melbourne in November, which of course will include a catch-up.

I have some work to do while I’m here; quite distinct from what I do for a living, writing crime fiction has long been something I wanted to do, even since well before I was thrown out of the Supreme Court of Victoria one day 20 years ago after wandering into what I didn’t know was a sealed court hearing a case under permanent suppression orders, looking for story ideas (the door to the court, quite literally, was open when I arrived that morning…a point which did not amuse the judge when he demanded to know how I got in after spotting me in the back row, scribbling furiously in a notebook. But that’s another story). At the time of posting this I’ve written two-thirds of my debut crime novel — planned as the first in a trilogy — and with the third in the series intended to be set in Britain, primarily on the smuggler/shipwreck coast of Cornwall, there’s a couple of days’ detailed research of the place next week that I’m looking forward to enormously.

And that’s in addition to further work on the current manuscript, which I’ll also do as I make my way around the Kingdom.

On a personal note, there’s some head-clearing to finish off; completing the process of jettisoning permanently the baggage from a shattering, desperately sad experience that has haunted and tormented me very deeply for the past couple of years or so. Wonderful people can cause untold emotional trauma to others, even without wishing to, and sometimes the worst way to do so is by attempting to do nothing at all in response to a heartfelt overture of friendship. In short: so-called “ghosting,” as I believe poor behaviour is called these days, and in the case of someone I thought was a genuine friend the realisation she was in fact nothing of the sort — never mind anything else I thought of her — cut far, far deeper than the slight of not being accorded the courtesy of talking. It’s something I’m finally ready to consign to the dustbin of the past. And the past is past. A deep dose of the soul tonic that is Scotland, the Scottish wilderness, Scotland’s islands and its coasts, and some time among my ancestral Scottish countryfolk will help me round out the process of moving on from that once and for all.

And a deep dose of Scotland — even if I didn’t need it for the reason I’ve shared — is another powerful reason for my trip now.

And speaking of Scotland, I’m flirting with getting a tattoo in Glasgow next month: moi, with a tattoo! The idea is rightly ridiculous to those who know me well, but even so…I’ve never given a rat’s arse about what other people think (sometimes, admittedly, to my detriment) and I’m not about to start now. Glasgow is a fortnight away. The decision could go either way. Time will tell. It usually does.

Some may regard the idea of a personal travelog as an indulgence, a pretension, or a wank: good for them. To me it is simply a way to record the experiences, activities, images and reflections that constitute a trip for which I’ve waited a very long time. If you have stumbled across this site, I hope you enjoy joining me on my journey.

And on that point, I’ll probably experiment with the template this site is built on in the next few days; WordPress themes are great, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve set one of these sites up and chosen the wrong one to begin with. The content will remain the same, but the way it’s presented may…evolve. And of course, there will be plenty of posts and pictures as I make my way — once again — around the great UK.