Splash!

OMG, guess what just happened?! I fell, full-body, backwards into a rock pool. Like the whole of me, Annie Field, WAS IN A ROCK-POOL. Fully clothed- jeans, new “hiking” shoes, t-shirt and hoodie. Bloody soaked through. There were no injuries, luckily and though my state was/is slightly tipsy I had the forethought to give Mick the camera as I scrambled over the rocks. Phew!

This afternoon we drove from Porto, north to the Galicia region in North West Spain. We are staying in a ridiculously cheap bungalow about 150 metres from the beach, hence my rock pool enthusiasm. As well as being famous for Pimientos de Padron this coastal region is famed for having the BEST seafood in the world. Here’s hoping.

Back to Porto for a moment. We attended our second football (soccer!) match while there. FC Porto V CSKA Sofia (Bulgaria) at Estadio do Dragao. I actually never blogged about the first, which we attended in Spain. Valencia V Vila Real. Both were a heap of fun and confusion.

The Spanish match was held in Vila Real, about an hour north of Valencia (south east coast). We bought the cheapest tickets available, the “away” end, which landed us with a bunch of passionate Valencia supporters behind a cage at one end of the stadium. We weren’t sure who the cage was there to protect but I’m certain the eight or so police in riot gear were only there to cheer on Valencia.

We drank beer and munched on salted pepitas (pumpkin seeds) like the locals and learnt a few swear words along the way. If somebody calls your mother a burro or a puta, feel free to sock em’ one.

The Portuguese match was in some ways more exciting. It was a Europa League match and I think the competition between two different countries added to the intensity and wild enthusiasm from the crowd.

There were drummers to lead the FC Porto fan club in their cheers, beating out a rhythm that reverberated around the stadium. At one stage the Bulgarians removed their shirts in a show of support (or something), which prompted a third of the police on hand to descend on them. There was even a pitch invader, who got a roaring applause from the audience.

Alas, no Portuguese swear words. The language is a tricky one, influenced by a billion different things. That sounds Russian or Eastern European. We’ve found it very confusing, it’s almost as though you read something on paper, think of the extreme opposite of how you would pronounce it in English, twist that around beyond recognition, spice it with a Russian huskiness and there! That’s Portuguese.


Live long and prosper,
Annie XO

If I was a head shorter, I could be Portuguese.

Yes, the following three rumours are true. We are slowing down, being bad tourists and getting lazy. Our time in Europe is grinding to a halt and, strangely enough we aren’t too fussed by it. We are still having a grand old time discovering new cities, new cuisine and new booze but after so long on the road the things that weary us seem to be outweighing the golden moments.

We are now about 80 days and 13000kms into the Western Europe leg of our trip. To experience the places we wanted to visit, our time has been split something like this, four nights destination A, pack up, drive 4 hours, unpack, four nights destination B, pack up, drive 4 hours, unpack... Repeat. It’s very taxing, mainly because we are not talking about unpacking two suitcases, we are talking a large sedan worth of stuff. A regular modern day gypsy caravan.

Though neither of us are particularly Christmassy, we are both feeling a little more homesick (for want of a better term) as people back home gear up for the holiday season.

Enough moping, in two and a half weeks we drop the car back off in Paris, pick-up a final felafel in Le Marais, spend a brief three days in London before hopping a plane to India. Then Melbourne bound on the 4^th of Feb (for those at home keeping tabs, we have cut HK off the itinerary, send money).

Now back to the good stuff. Since our last blog we have driven from Jerez in Spain, to the Algarve region of southern Portugal, where we stayed six nights (exception to the rule) in fairly rugged farmland. Our host was an eccentric Belgian/Sth African/Spaniard who was in desperate need of a good scrub. The property was beautiful, our favourite feature being the double fronted glass fireplace that divided the main living area and the bedroom.

While staying there we visited a sad looking bird sanctuary, apparently the site is an important one for winter migratory birds. To us it felt like a lot of money had been spent setting up the facilities, maybe twenty years ago, but since then funding cut and the entire sanctuary fallen into disrepair. I hope this is not representative of other important ecological sites in the country.

One afternoon we tried to walk from our cottage to the coast. It turns out that a lot of Portugal’s roads aren’t mapped on Google maps or our cars GPS. So without our usual pre-Google-mapped instructions or a map (paper maps are for old people) we headed south, backtracking often when we realised a “road” was actually somebody’s driveway. Amongst the awe-inspiring veggie gardens, the vocal dogs and a curious array of poultry; we saw a man knocking pine cones off a large tree. Fresh pine nuts (without the pine mouth) from the back yard? Sounds divine. I wonder how long the trees take to reach maturity.

After the Algarve we drove north through central Portugal to the Alentejo region. The landscape on our way there was dotted with eucalypts, we wound down the windows to enjoy their familiar scent. The roadsides were patterned with alternating groves of cork oaks and olives, herds of cattle and flocks of happy looking sheep.

Alentejo is also one of Portugal’s major wine growing regions. Our very gracious hosts even had their own vineyard (see review at end).

From there we drove north again to Porto, home of... you guessed it- PORT! My beau’s favourite post-dinner tipple. We only visited one of the major Port caves, Graham’s. They are owned by the Symington group, who also owns Dow’s, Warres (pronounced Wars) and a few others that I hadn’t heard of.

Of the six ports we tried our favourites were:

Dow’s 1985 Vintage, C- ribena-esque, N- rum-raison chocolate, touch of caramel, P- amazing acid and fruit, blackcurrant & cocoa

Graham’s 20 Year Old Tawny, C- Deep amber, N- coffee, treacle, butterscotch, P- buttered popcorn

In Alentejo we drank (amongst other things!) Herdade de Maroteira Syrah 2008, approx €18 (a princely sum for a bottle in Portugal) - C- Inky garnet, N- liquorice, dark chocolate (70% cocoa), incense-like spice, P- sweet raspberries, cocoa & burnt toffee, upfront fruit and soft tannin.

All Shook Up

We have just finished dinner. We cooked up fresh seafood we bought at the Mercado Abastas this morning. It took us three laps of the seafood section to pick a stand that had a good selection of everything we wanted and a person manning it that didn't look too intimidating. Seafood is shockingly cheap here and we were blown away by the sheer size of some of the offerings. We saw a section of swordfish that would have easily been 30cm in diameter, lots of big tuna and whole sharks. I'll take some photos on our next visit.

I started by sautéing finely chopped garlic, leeks and dried chili in a decent amount of extra virgin olive oil. Then we added pipis, mussels and half a glass of cava. After letting that simmer for a minute or two I added sliced pieces of squid and half a tin of diced tomatoes. A minute or two before serving I chucked in some hacked up pieces of sea bream (neither of us have filleted a fish before and we only had a chef's knife on hand) and freshly minced parsley and lemon rind. Oh there was also some al dente pasta thrown in but that kinda got lost in the mix.

Not to toot my own horn too much, but I have to say it was pretty darn good! My enjoyment of the meal was probably elevated by the top soundtrack, we were joined by Elvis, Roy Orbison, Buddy Holly and Little Richard.

We drank Juve y Camps Reserva de la Familia, Brut Cava, 2007 €13. C- pale straw, fine but not very persistent bead, N- very savoury notes of yeast capsicum, P- very dry, hint of green apples.

Rebañar

At 10 pm last night we headed out for dinner. We are trying to get into the rhythm of Spanish life and the rhythm here is in distinct contrast to our Melbourne “clocks”. Though not too dissimilar to Italy, the lateness of the Spanish dinner time is hard to get used to.

Restaurants tend not to open until nine in the evening and even then, nine is considered “tourist early”; locals preferring to eat from ten until midnight. The people we’ve spoken to about it, mostly expats running holiday rentals, tell us it makes much more sense in the summer time, when the sun makes it too hot to eat earlier. We also keep forgetting the 3-4 hour lunch break in the late afternoon, which closes shops and most tourist destinations. I’m sure by the time we figure it all out; it will be time for a new country and a rule book.

Back to last night’s meal. We googled (often problematic, as you sometimes get stuck at tourist traps) and found a restaurant called Bodeguita de Boca. Jerez is a small town, so it didn’t take long to find it. The blurb online said that it was a friendly restaurant run by a mother and son. They weren’t wrong. As we ordered a selection of hot tapas from the menu, our host yelled out “MAMA! CINCO TAPAS CALIENTE!” into the kitchen.

The five tapas we had were, a Spanish omelette with jamón and mushrooms, a rich and tender piece of bull’s tail, a sweet red pepper stuffed with tuna, a melt-in-your-mouth piece of Iberian pork cheek and chicken nuggets. As the son had selected the tapas for us, as he served each one he described in Spanish and one or two English words what they were. As the last was served we looked to him for explanation “nuggets from my mother” he said, we looked at him amused and searching for more information, he simply said “chicken”. Much giggling ensued, both from us and him, not helped by the fact that he repeated the nugget line a few times, just for laughs.

He taught us a new word whilst he cleared the table, rebañar, which means the scraping of the last delicious morsels from a plate or bowl. Putting it into practise we sopped up the last of the hearty sauce that accompanied the pork cheek with slices of thick white bread. Yum.

Xo

Don't call me Shirley

Welcome back! Despite best intentions I have not updated the blog in a while. For fear of backlash I will attempt to update you and get things back on track. Working backwards from today, the following Spanish towns/cities have not been blogged: Jerez de la Frontera (arrived today), Iznãjar (near Cordoba and Granada), Madrid, Valencia and Barcelona. I'm not going to go into great detail, because, frankly, I can’t be bothered but hopefully the following titbits will entertain.

Side note: I’ve always spelt and pronounced titbits as tidbits. Thank-you, spell checker, I might never have known.

We are, as my fingers hit the teeny tiny keyboard of our netbook, warming our steaming rain soaked feet in front of a gas heater in Jerez. For people who know Mike well, you might be surprised to hear that yesterday he bought a woollen scarf and gloves (no Tina, this does not mean you can start knitting him things) to go with the knit sweaters he bought last week. You probably heard about the winter chill that has hit the UK, I think that Spain is copping the tail end of it. It’s cold! Cold enough that Mick’s “winter” things are not doing what they ought. To us it feels colder than we’ve felt in Melbourne in many winters. I’m hoping (secretly, Mick is worried about the car and driving) that it snows. I want a Christmas miracle dammit!

Mick has just poured me a glass of one of our last bottles of Italian whites. Poderi Capecci, San Savino, Ciprea Pecorino, €8, 2009. Made from a new (to me) grape variety called Pecorino, which a pathetic amount of googling has not rendered me an expert on. The two things I can pass on with some degree of confidence are: 1. it’s an early ripening variety and 2. It’s an old variety that has fairly recently (last 20 years) been rediscovered and revitalised for a modern market (Stefano from Illuminati introduced us to it).

C- Pale yellow, hint of granny smith green, N- herbal notes, lemon and passionfruit, P- sweet fruit balanced by crisp acid, minerally tang on finish. It goes brilliantly with salty green Manzanilla Olives.

The last few nights we were staying in Iznajar, a small town on a big lake between Cordoba and Granada. From there we took two day trips to each of the more major cities, mainly, as it turned out to visit building from their Moorish backgrounds.

In Granada we spent a sunny afternoon at the Alhambra. The guide books state it is the most visited destination by tourists annually in Spain. I’m not convinced of its worth. It is a small fortress town, built a long time ago by the Moors (13 century something, who at that time were Muslim). One of the guides told us to spend at a minimum of three hours walking its cobbled lanes and mosaic-ed palaces, our feet were sore and it was cold, so, we didn’t. Also, being the most visited place in Spain meant that there were far more tourists there than our comfort levels could tolerate.

Compared to Cordoba’s Mezquita the Alhambra lacked a little awe. The Mezquita is only one building and a courtyard, but it blew us away. Give me a mosque over a church any day! Also built a long time ago by the Moors (North African Muslims who invaded southern Spain...) the mosque is a vast space, the roof is supported by endless arched columns, the sides house mini “chapels”  and in the centre of the whole thing there is a later built cathedral (go figure). Low lighting and a faint scent of cypress pine incense almost made me swoon with joy in the endless space. The might of man is surely (don’t call me Shirley, RIP Lesley Nielson) evident in this structure.

More on Madrid, Valencia and Barca (as we like to call it) tomorrow.

Lots of love.

Razor clams and Toilet Bowls.

On the 15^th of November we drove to Barcelona, Spain.  On day one we ate a meal that I thought was going to be up there with one of our best. One of a long list suggested to us by our hosts, we picked it because it was the closest to our apartment. Simply decorated, the decor reminded me of a 1970’s doctor’s surgery waiting room (or what I imagine one would look like). Though it lacked a certain style, the table settings (crisp white cloth napkins, a selection of glassware) hinted at something a little more refined.

As it was lunchtime (Paella o’clock) and it was our first meal in Spain (The Zombies didn’t really count) we ordered Paella Mixta for two, Pimientos de Padron and a starter of grilled baby squid. I was actually leaning towards fried baby octopus, but the waiter insisted we get the squid (with a wink and a knowing smile).

The squid was oh-so-tender, tiny (the size of a squished brussel sprout (new season)) and the best I’ve ever eaten. Slightly smoky from the grill, it was dressed with olive oil, lemon juice, flaky salt and finely chopped parsley. I could see Mick’s eyes widen with revelation at each bite. I’m not exaggerating. I'm sure that if every farmers market in Victoria traded their Dutch pancake stall for a stand that sold these by the plate, they would do a roaring trade. Who eats those little pancakes anyway? I’d much rather baby squids on the ends of my toothpick.

Pimientos de Padrón are small green peppers from Padrón, a small green town in Galicia, North Western Spain. To prepare them, you cook them with a little olive oil in a hot pan until blistered, garnish with salt and serve. To eat them, you hold them by the stalk and bite off the flesh and seeds. They are sweet fleshed, delicious and are known as the Russian Roulette of the pepper world. Although for the most part they are not hot (not even a hint of spice) occasionally you’ll come upon a killer. The Galician saying goes "Os pementos de Padrón, uns pican e outros non". The translation is something like the “Hot & Not” column in your favourite glossy.

I might interject for a second (can you interject yourself?) and mention how proud Mick is of me; I haven’t gloated on any form of social media about my absence from retail Christmas preparation. Don’t worry my gloating is equally balanced with jealousy over missing summer and Christmas with friends and family.  Paul Kelly’s “Who’s gonna make the gravy” made me tear up today, even though I haven’t made gravy for my family, in, like forever. And I’m not in prison...

I digress; we washed this all down with one of my favourite crowd pleasers- Torres Sangre del Torro Blanco “Vina Sol” €6, or twelvish dollars at your local bottle shop (wink). The paella wasn’t really what we expected. As yet, we haven’t had another in Spain to compare it to. Maybe the Australian incarnations are nothing like their traditional ancestors. Or maybe we haven’t had a control “authentic” Paella in Australia. This one was, rich, smoky and had a colour that we can only describe as HP brown. Chicken, pippies, langoustines and calamari (could have been razor clams, but us novices wouldn’t know the difference) were peppered through the aromatic rice mix. Moreish as it was, it was certainly not the saffron bright, tomato flavoured and zesty dish we were expecting.

JW, I implore you, please point out my grammatical errors. I know they’re there.

This meal, potentially top of the list... Sadly, gave us food poisoning.

We had a Jerry and George moment as we argued the pros and cons. Did the deliciousness outweigh the illness? I am inclined to say it did. It was totally worth it. I’d eat there again without hesitation and if anybody questions me, I’ll tell them it was just a coincidence. Bad sushi or somthin’. Cross my heart.

Love youz.

The Walking Dead

Last Friday we hopped a plane and side-tripped our way to Barcelona. It was quite surreal, but I think that might have been the exhaustion we were suffering from.

Don’t tell my dad, but the reason we had such a substantial side trip (east coast Italy to northeast Spain) was because we got dates wrong. We were a month off kilter.

C'est la vie, I say. We had a brilliant time. The trip was in honour of one of my Dad’s old friends, Jim Rodford (The Kinks, Argent), who now plays bass for The Zombies. The band was formed in the mid-1960s and their album Odessey and Oracle (1967) seems to be gaining more popularity as the decades roll on. Jim very kindly added our names to the guest list, met us for a drink before the gig and though I had heard them all before, took the time to tell us tales from the good old days.

My Dad's mum Peggy, had worked with Jim's mother in St Alban's, England, when the two boys were but babes-in-arms. Dad returned to the motherland (the family had emigrated to Australia when he was four) years later after a stint in the army, met up with Jim, now playing for the Mike Cotton Sound, joined them on tour as a roadie and the rest, as they say, is history.

Mick gracefully played amateur photographer for Jim's fans as we stood at the bar, prior to the gig. Requests for signatures and photographs though alien to us, must be familiar and comforting to a band that will celebrate it's 50th year in 2011.

The gig itself was incredible, having grown up on their tunes, I was in awe from the first strike on the organ. I didn't even let the stoned blond girl thrashing her lustrous locks into my face, time and time again, ruin my night.

So, now we are back in France, in the Côtes du Rhône region, to be precise. After getting back from Barcelona we spent a few days near Turin, drinking Barbera d'Asti, Dolcetto d"Alba and the more famous Barolo. We visited the newly opened Barolo museum, perhaps I used the word surreal too early in this blog. We learnt nothing about the wine, but rather got an insight into some madman's view of the world.

Chin chin!

Everything is Illuminati.

Last Wednesday we were hosted by the Illuminati wine family. We stayed an extra couple of nights in the wintery Le Marche region, just to attend the work organised appointment. We met up with Stefano Illuminati around midday for a tour of their facilities, a tasting and what was described as a lunch that was to be “nothing special” in the organising pre-emails.

The winery and vines are actually in the Abruzzo region which borders Le Marche to the south. Stefano sheparded us into his Porsche for a tour of their expansive vineyards, pointing out the different vineyards (Montepulciano being the star, the white Pecorino an up and comer), trellising techniques (they use both espalier and canopy styles) and described with ardour how the business has grown since his great grandfather established it over one hundred years earlier.

Discussing his forefathers brought Stefano to a more surprising topic of discussion. His and his peers worry for their children. He told us that unemployment in Italy is an escalating problem and quite movingly expressed his concern for the future Italy and how it will be for his two boys. He told us how lucky we were to be born in Australia, we shrugged our shoulders and half heartedly agreed.

His family have been doing business in Australia since 1987, he told us. “My father loves your country.” On Dino Illuminati’s first visit back in the 80s, he was determined to find a long lost friend. He arrived in Adelaide (he knew that much) with only a surname and the name of the Italian town where they had grown up.  He found the man, much older, bed ridden and suffering from Parkinson’s.

Finding his long absent friend, who had not quite found the better life in Australia, had emblazoned Dino with a curious infatuation; “Viva Australia!!!” he said to us later when we met him. Indeed.

Our “nothing special” lunch with Stefano was an absolute joy. He took us to La Sosta, a local trattoria run by friends of the Illuminati’s. As we were seated, he disappeared, only to come back moments later, having ordered our lunch with nonna in the kitchen. The menu they had created for us featured fresh local produce.

For antipasti we had fried Mozzarella (OMG), Ascolano Olives, a cow and sheep’s milk pecorino (cheese this time), locally made Prosciutto crudo and bruschetta (toast) with peppery green extra virgin olive oil drizzled over the top. The olives were particularly interesting; large and green, they were filled with a mix of cooked meat and herbs, then crumbed and fried. Very moreish, they went superbly with Illuminati’s sparkling white brut, a mix of Trebbiano and Verdicchio.

For Primi Piatti (“first plate” in Italian, most usually a pasta dish) we had two pastas, both served from the cooking pot on a trolley beside the table (lovely touch). The first was tagliatelle with FRESH porcini; the flavour was almost too intense for my taste, “almost” because the chef had very cleverly added just enough finely chopped parsley to contrast the pungent mushroom tang. The second pasta was equally delicious and simple; spaghetti with a light tomato and sausage meat sauce.

By this time we were in serious trouble, make no mistake when you hear someone say that the Italians are a generous people. Each of the dishes so far would have been enough to be considered a full meal by our normal “at home” standard.

The Secondi Piatti was a mixed grill, veal, lamb chops, sausage, pork ribs and pork belly, well seasoned and cooked to perfection. They were served with a simple cabbage and broad bean side dish, almost like a mash and delicately flavoured with garlic.

Well into our food coma, dessert is but a blurry memory to me now. I think it was trifle-esque, with a gaudy rose pink layer. It was the specialty of the house, so it must have been good.

Our meal was accompanied by the bottles left over from our earlier tasting. My favourite was the Pieluni, 100% Montepulciano; C – vibrant, dark, light-catching crimson, N – sweet black pepper, cherry and a hint of treacle, P – rich and velvety, elegant oak.

I will endeavour to blog again soon, tomorrow perhaps.

Until then. xo

Tutti i Santi Ognissnati

Tonight we are holed up in an Agriturismo (farm-stay) in Campofilone, Le Marche. There is a thunderstorm raging outside, stretching its vast electric fingers of far out across the Adriatic. The rain has been heavy; sporadically we have to mop the tiles by the door to stop it from creeping into the bedroom.

We’ll head out in about an hour to hopefully find some dinner. The majority of our afternoon was spent driving along the coast road searching in vain for an open Supermarket. We couldn’t figure out why they were shut. We now know enough Italian to know the days of the week, times, open/closed etc and all signs (literally) suggested they should be open. Hungry and confused, we wondered whether they just have extreme lunch breaks locally. A “normal” lunch break for Italy is midday to four-ish, the stores close up shop- most inconvenient!

As it turns out, when we returned from our fruitless hunt, today is a national public holiday. All Saints Day or Tutti i Santi Ognissnati in Italian. Why didn’t anybody tell us? Hang on, they probably did, we just didn’t know what they were rattlin’ on about. Today is also the first of the new season, making the storm very befitting.

On Saturday we left the West Coast and the region of Campania and drove north east to the East Coast and Le Marche. We started out early (painfully), to avoid the traffic and to cram in a four hour stopover in Pompeii before the five hour drive.

Pompeii was magical; it was like someone picked us up, shrunk us down and matrix-ed us into Age of Empires or Civilization. Not wanting to tackle the crowds we didn’t join a recommended tour group but chose to semi-wing it. Map and iphone in hand we had a wonderful morning adventuring through the roman ruins. Roman history, Pompeii included, falls into the category of things I don’t seem to know enough about. I am hungry for information!

The city is so well preserved by the volcanic ash that it isn’t at all difficult to imagine it in all of its glory. There are still many layers unexcavated, we even saw archaeologists on active digs at the site; one scrubbing down a clay vase in a city fountain. Fascinating.

A note to the squeamish: stop reading now.

Before leaving Atrani we ferried and walked our way to a few other destinations; Capri, Positano and Amalfi. In Positano we had a wonderful meal at a beachside seafood restaurant. One of us ordered the squid ink risotto, jet black, gloriously flavoured with Parmagiano and threaded with squid meat, it was devilishly good. Frighteningly though, it had a similar effect on ones digestive system, that eating too much beetroot at a summer BBQ might. 

Jelly legs.

Last night we set the smoke alarm off in our apartment. It was quite a surprise, as we think this is the first place we’ve stayed in that actually had one fitted. As the screeching beast drew our attention to the charred steak on the stovetop, we frantically waved tea towels (in the fashion of my dear mother) at it, opened the doors and windows and tried our darndest to placate it. Nothing seemed to be working.

As it continued bleating, panic set in. We are staying in Atrani, a minute (possibly Italy’s smallest) village perched on a cliff top in the Bay of Salerno (Amalfi Coast) and I’m sure the wailing monster could be heard as far away as Naples. We wondered whether it needed to be reset by the fire brigade or perhaps it was malfunctioning.

Almost defeated, I turned the aircon on while Mick prodded it with broom handle. Then as we turned to each other, looks of exasperation spread across our faces, me on the verge of tears (lie), it stopped. Just like that. If not for the buzz of the air conditioner, the hum of the range-hood and the gale force ocean winds battering our worldly possessions around the apartment, I’m sure a sense of calm serenity would have washed across us.

As I mentioned earlier, we are staying in Atrani on the Amalfi Coast. A spectacular coastline where mountains, ravines, lemon orchards, white washed towns and terraced vineyards all meet black pebbled beaches and the inkiest blue ocean I’ve ever seen.

Our research prior to arriving was minimal and although Mick has proven himself a very capable driver we were not at all prepared for the hair-raising drive along the coast road. It follows the curve of the coast and is two lanes wide. Not Australian lanes, small Italian lanes, which to my eye appear about 70% of what we are used to. Adding to this, people park their cars all along the road, in the curves, lengthways, sideways or anyway that fits; making a tight squeeze even tighter. If you are ever offered a free upgrade for a hire car in Europe- politely say “No thank you, that is unless it comes with a complimentary prescription of Valium”.

Our knuckle-whitening experience went like this. We turned a corner and saw a coach stopped in an upcoming bend. It seemed to be parked, as all of the cars on our side of the road were driving past it. As we got nearer, the space between it and the opposite cliff face shrunk before our very eyes. It seemed impossibly small for our luxuriously sized Citroën C5 Exclusive (Thank-you very much!). So much so, that I pointed out the obvious to Mick “Babe, we ain’t gonna fit through”.

By this time we were blocked in, the coach on our left (it was now painfully obvious that she wasn’t parked, she was stuck), a queue of cars behind us and a merciless looking stone wall out the passenger side. Even after folding in the side mirrors the space was still gut wrenchingly tight. I was envisaging a gaping tear down my side of the car, much like when the iceberg hit or when an alien, in an alien movie decides it’s high time he meets his prey.

We got through, like Destiny’s Child we survived. We didn’t give up. At one point, my side of the car was so close to the cliff my hand could not have squeezed through the gap. Fo’ realsies. A saintly ambulance driver (one of the growing audience) helped guide us through, millimetre by millimetre. We only started breathing again once we were well past the growing line of traffic on the other side. I wonder what became of the coach.

There are a lot of stairs here. That’s why this blog is called jelly legs.

Peace out.

Tainted love.

I am sure that we are sleeping on the hardest bed in Tuscany. It feels like stone bedrock covered with a sheet. For the last six nights we have woken up, time and time again throughout the night with achey limbs and clickey joints. This bed is essentially an old age virtual reality synthesiser.

Now I don’t want to whinge too much, but the bed has tainted our week in Tuscany. When I asked Michael what he thought I should blog about, he yawned. I yawned back. We just aren’t getting enough kip.

We thought we’d found a solution to my travel sickness on Wednesday. I would take the wheel. I was naively convinced that it couldn’t be all that difficult.

I only hit one thing.

Just a car; side mirror to side mirror, no damage done (to our car, I was too traumatised to stop) but I still hear Mick’s voice sometimes... “you’re too close, too close! TOO CLOSE!!!” *THUNK*

At least it wasn’t a puppy, right?

So, yes we are in Tuscany, staying in an otherwise lovely villa just outside of Chianti. The region is home to dirt roads, terracotta sunsets, Florence, loud Americans on vaca and a vast and mouth-watering selection of local food and wine specialities.

One of these I experienced last night. Out to dinner in Siena, I ordered Papardelle con Tartufo (it’s white truffle season FYI). As the dish was served Mick and I locked eyes and exchanged a “wow that’s a whole lot of truffle” look. Then the waiter returned to the table, at first we thought he had a parmesan grater but he proceeded to micro-plane sliver after sliver of whole fresh truffle over the already monumental pile. We had to stifle our smuggles (smug giggles) as we guestimated what the dish would cost to prepare and purchase in Melbourne.

I believe I acquired a taste for them way back when I first visited Tuscany with Ma & Pa. Excerpt from E-vine 1993.


Tuscan cheese on toast
A villa in Greve in Chianti. Our hosts, the Anichinis, invited us to dinner and offered an entrée of what looked like grilled cheese on toast. Absolutely delicious, and my ravenous eight year old daughter scoffed three or four pieces in a couple of minutes. I asked Signora Anichini for the recipe. 'First you lightly grill the bread, then drizzle a little olive oil on it, then you add generous shavings of fresh white truffles..." 

We drank:

Castel Giocondo, Brunello di Montalcino 2005. C- brick edge, heart of ruby red, N- anise and red capsicum, P- dry and velvety with just ripe strawberries and a herbal finish

Like a whirlpool that never ends.

So, dear friends, the inevitable has happened. Within a week of one another, my betrothed and I have both fallen ill. Not seriously so, just enough to ruin sketchy plans and annoy us.


Mick just has a cold.


Pfft.


My childhood motion sickness has reared it's ugly head and joined leagues with a bout of gastro. Unpleasant. Combine the two with a rather insensible ride on the Grand Canal water bus in Venice and the result has been three days of constant dizziness and "whirlpool" gut.


Not ever having suffered from motion sickness before, Mick asked what it feels like. I replied "You know when you've had FAR too much to drink, you lie on your bed and close your eyes and the world starts moving around you." "yeah, that's the feeling". Maybe I'll look into psychiatric treatment or hypnosis therapy when we get back. In my (medically educated*) mind, motion sickness indicates a weakness of character. Why can't my stomach, brain and the horizon just sort it out?


Onto more pleasant things. Lake Como was stunning, much larger than I imagined and we found ourselves once again in the good graces of Zeus. On Tuesday we took to the Greenway del Lago di Como, walking about 8 kilometres along the curving coast roads of the west bank. The paths take you down steep cobbled alleys, past crumbling stone piers and extravagant villas (George Clooney has a place on the lake).


On Thursday we drove east, through Lombardia to the region of Veneto. Veneto covers most the northeast corner of Italy, including Verona (where they laid their scene), Padova and most famously Venice. Somewhere in the middle of all that is the hillside village of Arqua Petrarca, a spot that has been inhabited since the Bronze Age. It is currently (the locals have their fingers crossed, or the Italian equivalent) on it's way to becoming world heritage listed.


Venice was one of those places that fell on my "Should probably visit, but can be sacrificed if necessary" list. I'm super pleased we didn't sacrifice it. Despite the tourist throng and the nasty tourist targeted shops, the city itself was lovely. Slightly worn looking, in a pre-loved way, the buildings lining the canals looked warm and sun drenched in spite of their cool blue roadways.


Taking a hand drawn map our host made for us, we headed off the beaten track and wandered through the Jewish Ghetto, visited Madonna dell'Orto (church with divine frescoes) and hunted down an antique jewelery store in the Dorsoduro. We sipped Spritz; prosecco, Aperol and soda (I think) while munching tiny tiny single ingredient panini's in a Campo for lunch.


Gaja Sperss 2000 (nebbiolo, half bottle)- C- deep purple, with a garnet edge, N- surprising rose petals and smokey oak, P- amazing length, liquorice and herbs


*high school biology

Salute!

We have a half bottle of Gaja Sperss 2000 breathing downstairs, I’m wrapped in a brand new cashmere (the real stuff) shawl, we’ve just been sipping Prosecco on the banks of Lake Como and I'm about to tell you how we are having a difficult time splurging. After scrimping and saving for so long, we are finding it extremely difficult to spend our money. Truly.

I guess that means our parents (and our Dolomite Accounts) trained us well.

Today’s wine and shawl aside, our trip has been riddled with moments of indecision. Pros and cons weighed and in most instances the object of desire being left behind (and quickly forgotten) for the next cashed up tourist. I think we are trying to find a balance.

We left Burgundy on Sunday morning and drove through Lyon towards The French Alps. We spent the night at a chalet style apartment with divine views of Mont Blanc.

The mountain seemed to make a mockery of Australia’s cherished peaks. Epic is overused in current vocabulary but I’ll use it here with no hesitation. Straining our necks skywards we could just capture the sheer immensity of the Mountain. For me, it made the scale of Everest and K2 inconceivable. Everywhere we turned cried out to be photographed and framed. It’s like we had view-finder goggles on. The valleys were scattered with timber framed alpine villages, some rising steeply up the neighbouring mountain sides. Milky green glacial rivers and streams ran along the motorways, often fed from waterfalls cascading towards the valley floor.

It’s a shame the weather gods did not favour us. Thick cloud cover continually rolled through the Alps, hiding the mountains and villages. Call me paranoid but this seemed to happen every time I got the camera ready.

After watching the sun rise from behind the mountain we gathered up our belongings and drove into Italy.

We are starting our Italian sojourn in Mezzegra, a small hillside town in Lombardia, on the west bank of Lake Como. Our townhouse is on a very steep property with its own olive orchard. Built in 1690, we are told it was where Mussolini stayed the night before he was shot.

Continuing a theme, we asked our gracious hosts Natalie and Mario where we should have dinner. As it was Monday and most restaurants were closed she suggested a local Trattoria. She called on our behalf and made us a booking. Trattoria Nana is the kind of local eatery you wish was just around your block. Fresh, cheap and authentic. As soon as we’d scoured the menu, picking up on the dishes Natalie recommended we try, we were already deciding to book for another evening.

We shared an entree to start, Pizzoccheri; a highlight of our trip thus far. As the smell of butter wafted towards us, we knew we were in for treat. Homemade buckwheat pasta, chard stalks cut fine, plenty of sage and potato cooked until soft all combined with an oozy, buttery and cheesy sauce. Wasn’t much to look at, but it tasted seriously good. Wash that down with a glass of vino di casa (Bonarda @ €4 for a half litre) and we were well on our way to foodie nirvana.

For mains we shared Coniglio (rabbit) and Cotechino (slow cooked pork sausage) and for dessert Tiramisu and Fromaggi Misti. Molto molto benne! The cheeses are made by the family who run the restaurant, some of the best I’ve tasted. Of the three served our pick was a three day old sheep’s cheese that you eat dressed with a little extra virgin olive oil. It was zesty, had a fine crumb and really made the local oil sing.

It’s dawned on me that those of you who receive the blog via email, might not be enjoying our photo stream. Click the link to the blog home page to have a look.

Over and out.

And... we’re back.

For all ye naysayers who thought I’d gone down the path of many lost and forgotten bloggers. Cop this.

We had a self imposed holiday from our holiday. If we wanted to sleep in, we did. If we couldn’t be bothered with another wine tasting, we weren’t. We decided the pressure we had put ourselves under not to “miss” anything was making our adventure less enjoyable by the moment.

It is Autumn in the Northern Hemisphere and this, I’ve decided is my favourite season. It’s the perfect mix of the last rays of summer and the invigorating chill as winters flexes itself forward to greet us.

We are staying in a Gite next to the Suze River near the town of Arnay le Duc. It’s a story book perfect, not-quite-a-village nestled deep in a green river valley. Despite our Burgundian location, the area where we are staying is strictly beef country. The local Charolais breed are ivory coloured beasts, large and majestic.

Burgundy (Bourgogne) is however, more famous for its wine (of which, we have sampled plenty). The region is famed for producing the crème de la crème of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. Autumn here heralds the harvest season and the seemingly endless crosshatch of vines changing from impenetrable green to a fractured tapestry of golds, umbers and lipstick reds.

I think I should abandon D.H Lawrence now. This is all getting a bit Sons and Lovers-esque.

Our host Liz is an eccentrically entertaining ex-pat Brit (who was schooled in Griffith, NSW) who moved here three years ago. She is worryingly forgetful and has a kookily familial manner that makes you forget you barely know her.

She recommended we eat at local restaurant owned by friends of hers. Patrice and Marianne run a restaurant from their home. Les Poulettes des Tables has the ambiance of your fondest childhood memories, children running up and down stairs, mewing cats greeting the guests, friends and family dropping by, plenty of good food and wine and a open armed generosity not often shared with outsiders.

Their main business, Patrice explained was actually artisanal linens. The restaurant was simply an outlet for the couples other passions. Enough to make Tom and Barbara green with envy.

Now I won’t tell you everything that we’ve done since my last proper blog, or else we’d have nothing to talk about upon our return. But I will share another curiosity we noticed at a restaurant in Lille. Chez Max was tres chic, to the extreme of serving pop rocks with fois gras. When the waiter handed us each a menu we didn’t flinch. It wasn’t until we started choosing wine that we noticed our menus were different. Mick’s had prices while mine didn’t! They had his and hers menus!

We figure it is meant to go down something like this. The lady orders to her heart’s desire, whilst the man (the money) sits there uncomfortably trying to calculate how much he thinks she is worth and wishing he hadn’t bought the paper that morning. It wasn’t even a snooty Michelin starred place or an archaic French institution.

Wouldn't sit well with the liberated (cough) and equally paid (cough cough) women of Australia.

We tasted-

Hugel Jubilee 2004 Riesling. C- golden hay, N- nectarine and lime, P- dry but rich, well structured, honey, lemon and a hint of melon.

Etienne Sauzet 2008 Puligny Montrachet 1er cru. C- Pale gold , N- ripe peach and lemon blossom, P- crisp lemon acidity, balanced by a rich honeyed creaminess

Slump

I think I've hit a blogging wall. I'm not sure what's exactly at the root of it, but I have an idea.

I think it stems from the sameness of our last five destinations. Since leaving Champagne the towns we have visited have been beautiful, scenic and historic. Troyes, Bruges, Brussels, Antwerp and Strasbourg. Each rich with museums, cathedrals, famous town heroes and local delicacies. Yet, the semblance of them nags at me. "Didn't I walk this same cobbled road last week?"

Nothing sparkles or inspires me.

That's not to say we're not enjoying ourselves. The food is tasty and the fresh produce markets make us both feel like kids in a candy store. Mouths open in wonderment.

Or maybe it's not them, maybe it's us. Maybe we have been away from home for just on a month and are starting to miss the comforts of familiarity. Perhaps the joy and exhilaration of the unknown is beginning to wear us thin.

Mick remembers a line from the tour-bus tour he did of Europe four years ago, "ABC" Another Bloody Church. I feel like they are sucking the awe out of me.

Woe is me.

Spreekt u Engels?

Goedeavond!

We crossed a border; well at least we think we did. There was no line in the sand, no customs and no passport control. Only ghostly stands of abandoned booths. Quite unnerving really. This is now the norm across the EU and for us, our crossing from France to Belgium could have almost gone unnoticed, if not for the sudden change in language on road traffic signs.

We drove to Belgium today. It’s only an hour from Lille (north east France) and is a UNESCO world heritage listed town. We haven’t had time to explore yet, so I won’t go on too much. Only to say that as we arrived in town the sun was shining down on the biggest antiques fair I’ve even seen. I think I’m going to like it here.

Back to Champagne for a minute.

On Thursday we were hosted by the generous people at the Martel Champagne Group at their winery in Reims. They own the likes of Pol Roger, Taittinger, Ruinart and two big local brands Casanove and Martel. Not having heard of Martel in the Champagne sense (there is a non-related Cognac of the same name) we weren’t sure what to expect.

We were welcomed by the Asia Pacific brand manager Renaud, the wife of the group’s owner Angeline and the facility manager Thierry (a cellar-master-esque role). A surprisingly illustrious trio for two lowly office types (no baby, your role is not lowly, I was just making a point).

As the introduction was made through work, there was a fair bit of shop talk. Highlights for non-industry types include a tour of their expansive underground cave system, a taste of whatever we wanted (I wanted the delicious oak aged (it works) premier cru Victoire) and a walking tour of Reims by Renaud.

The caves under Reims are an astonishing reminder of grand feats of the past. The ones we visited were up to 18 metres under the heart of the city and parts of them date back to the third century. The caves were dug out for the mining of chalk which forms the subsoil of the region. This chalk is also attributed to the mineral tang often found in Champagnes finest.

On our tour of the streets with Renaud, he pointed out the Reims Cathedral. Reims was the capital of France for a while (I have no idea how long for, or when) and the Cathedral was the largest in the country. When Paris was made the capital in (insert your researched date here.) a replica of the Reims Cathedral was built in Paris. Now the more famous and larger of the two, Paris’s Notre Dame was built in part, in the image of Reims Cathedral (don't quote me).

It was breathtaking and awesome (in the traditional sense of the word) and I was particularly taken with the Chagall windows in the back. His work always reminds me of a book I read as a child- The Thief and the Blue Rose.

Renaud recommended we try a local delicacy for lunch, so we headed to a local Bistro for a late meal. We ordered Andouillette, a pork sausage that is a speciality of Troyes (see previous post). I won’t go into to it too much; the thought of it alone makes my stomach churn. Only to say, to our untrained, close-minded Australian noses, the sliced sausage smelt of a particularly disgusting pig transport truck on a stinking hot day. Another awkward French to Aussie conversation ensued about why we didn’t eat it. Le sigh.