Denniblog

We’re just back from a nice long weekend in Borth and I’ve had to catch up with some domestic stuff.

More about Japan tomorrow. Meanwhile check out DILO (Day in the Life of) Sept. 23rd on Flickr. My set is here.

…and that’s the big-ass melons you get ’round the ‘hoods in summertime:

Those things are enough for a big family, and if you really want to get the party going, they can be infused with vodka. Since these buggers come in at up to 20kg, that will be a hell of a party!

Fortunately, they’re sold in wedges of perfect, deep-red sweetness. I bought ¼, and it was enough for five people.

Back when I met my husband, I used to smoke a pipe.

It was a habit I started—hooked on the sweet scent of my then ex-boyfriend’s pipe tobacco—shortly before setting off to Africa, and it has stood me in good stead around many campfires and in many a cosy bar on cold winter evenings.

For our first date, my hubby-to-be took me on a Sunday outing with the Oxford University Motorcycle Club. I rode pillion on his Yamaha RS100 along winding lanes to a quaint old pub in the Cotswold village of Great Tew. The pub is called the Falkland Arms, not with reference to the then recent war, but because the Falklands were named after the local lord of the manor, who no doubt frequented it.

Following an honoured tradition, the pub serves real Ale and cider and a selection of local wines and mead (I remember sampling the birch wine—not bad). They also sold clay pipes and a selection of fruit tobaccos to be enjoyed by the open fire.

Alas, no more. Two weeks ago, we celebrated our wedding anniversary with our last ever pipe smoked on the premises, at least inside. (Well OK, on the premises, taking the British weather into account.) And yesterday, my husband, some mates and I puffed our last in our local around the corner.
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Busy with other projects.

We spent a magical weekend in the countryside, but more of that later.

…as they made us all shout from the central stage during yesterday’s Chinese New Year festivities in Trafalgar Square. Hopefully, this will be a prosperous year indeed, as this is the golden year of the pig.

London’s Trafalgar Square and Soho were inundated yesterday as the Chinese Association and Mayor Ken Livingstone laid on the biggest Chinese New Year celebration London has yet seen. The city was lavishly decorated with red lanterns and cultural performances on stage alternated with raucious lion-and dragon dancers parading through the streets. The crowds in Soho—normally quiet away from the tourist magnets around the square—were so dense that police had to be grafted in to keep people moving. I hope that more will return to sample Chinatown’s many delights in the future, but on this day, getting into a shop or restaurant, or even to the stalls lining the street, was near impossible.

The weather put a bit of a dampener on the event: it was so dark that taking photos was near impossible, but at least we were spared a drenching. Still, I long to move away from dim Britain, and celebrating Chinese New Year brought back the travel bug. That evening, one of our mate’s colleagues regaled us with stories of 3 months spent backpacking through China. I can feel my feet beginning to itch, yet again.

But until that time, I’ll have to make do with occasional dinner at the Wong Kei.

Jack frost was still around when we arrived in Borth for our Christmas break. The sky was clear, so I decided to go for a morning stroll. None of the others joined in. Soon I would know why.

The seaweed along the tide line was coated with frost. Borth is always full of surprises, and this time it was the many goose barnacle remains that were washed up (centre of photograph).

Poking around in the floatsam, I soon felt my fingers grow stiff. Although some hardened anglers lined the shore, it was way too cold to stay out for long. With the frost still paving the seawall, I decided to return to the warmth of the open fire back in the house to join the others for tea.

We spent the afternoon in Aberystwyth, doing some last-minute shopping. On the way back, we contemplated going for another walk to look for the submerged forest, but the tide was in. Moreover, stormclouds had begun to gather. But then, suddenly, the sun broke through, as if a celestial spotlight had been turned on

“Oh, that often happens here,” my sister said. “A hole appears in the sky and the sun shines through. Just over Borth, nowhere else.”

Winter descended suddenly, but stealthily. Yesterday morning, the perpetual fog had crystallised out of the air and dusted every tree and every branch with a thick layer of icing sugar.

I had to go for a walk to take some pictures. Ninety minutes later, my memory card was full and my battery empty.
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To return to blogging to go Christmas shopping.

What better location than a traditional Christmas market, situated on the medieval streets of Bath?

During a break in the current monsoon, John invited me to tag along to one of his management meetings, held in a nearby hotel. As we drove through the hills towards the town, Bath—with its many crescents coating the slopes like layers in a cake—presented an amazing sight as the sun poked briefly through the clouds. Alas, by the time I got to the city itself, the clouds had drawn back in.

That didn’t matter much, because a traditional Christmas market was in town. Among the many rows of quaint wooden huts, there was the ‘Raincheck Bar’ serving mulled wine and plum strudel, bratwurst and Stollen. Aside from the German influence, there also was a British organic sausage ‘n’ Burgers stall and an Austrian retro-bar serving hot Goulash soup and shots of ethnic Schnaps.

It left precious little time for shopping.

Shopping was my excuse for being here in the first place. I mean, how can I get any writing done when I have Christmas shopping to do? There are only 20 days left, you know…

Alas, the display made me wish I had children to buy presents for. The toys, baubles, hand-made garments, picture books etc. were cute to-die-for—but not quite right for my hirsute husband or biker-chick big sis and her squeeze.

I left Bath behind with a warm glow and logged on to Ebay to buy the presents.

I went to Oxford last week for a memorial service (sorry, no pictures—I have still not got a camera or any news from the insurers for that matter. Anyway, the essence of the place is best captured on a misty autum morning or in winter with the streets nearly deserted and a dusting of frost on the roofs).

I’ve noticed three things:

• The place turns more into a theme park with every passing year;

• The students get younger with every passing year;
• Lots of them were wearing subfusc, so it’s finals time. It’s also the last week of term. That means with the end of exams, the weather will turn lousy again; it always does.

So far, we had the most wonderful June. It’s still lush and green and I’ve got to drag John into the woods when he’s back at the end of the week.

Oh, damn…

Today I finally relented and fired up the gas fire in the lounge. The light outside is grey and although the leaves are still green, autum started last weekend when the first trees in the woods began to turn yellow and red.
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