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!