Subiaco Farmers Market

Ever have the vision of what the inside of your fridge should look like? You know? The TV commercial version with the perfect dietary pyramid… except each layer is separated by plastic shelving.

Snippets of my fairytale lifestyle of pop up from time to time. Specifically at 8am on a Saturday morning when making my way to a farmers market. I have this notion – delusion – that when I purchase magical market produce the effect on consumption can nullify the effect of a hangover, or a byproduct of some other bad habit.

A sense of grandeur awakens within me at about the time I park the car. Progressive and positive ideas building into and upon one another, suggesting that life, for me, is changing. And for the better! Eating healthy, cleaner living, good choices, reading books. No… novels! Exercise, less alcohol, planting trees and being kind to people.

I can kid myself for hours on this stuff.

So on this particularly bright and chipper Saturday morning in the midst of spring, I’d veered toward the Subiaco Farmers Market. It’s an 8-12 gig running once a week on Bagot Street, just off Rokeby Road.

Of all the glorious scents wafting through the market space, the sweet perfume of ground coffee beans takes hostage of my poorly governed senses. Like a good caffeine addict, I push past pram, purse and pensioner (politely) to procure my macchiato hit. The barister of the day was like many of her profession. That is to say, a finely tuned, pressure tested instrument, accustomed to high demand and diverse patronage. She was persistent, and relentless with her standards of quality and consistency, despite the elements.

The rich flavour, complimented with a touch of dairy gripped the taste buds, sending subtle signals of stimulation upward. My brain broke the flavoursome event down for my fragile morning condition, gently informing me that something good just happened, and that all would be well.

A cluster of fresh fruit and veg caught my eye. With the small sip of coffee taking instant effect, those progressive and positive thoughts mentioned earlier were beginning to make plans based on things that just weren’t true. Like me thinking I could cook wonders, like Jamie Oliver! Well, bar the lisp and his tediously limited vocabulary, falling back on catchy exclamations like ‘Lovely!’

Perusing through the colourful flora collection, my stomach played whistleblower, pumping the breaks on all the bullshit. I would’ve thought the victory I’d had the previous night over a family sized Chelsea pizza – half and half – would’ve tied me over ’till Sunday.

The conundrum of buying food with an empty stomach is that you’re inclined to buy everything your inner British chef feels that he can cook, concoct or create. The pain erupting from my inner emptiness, having not yet fulfilled the basic human right of breakfast, was immense. And looking at raw ingredients that may someday be used to make something tasty was no longer inspiration for a British chef but instead an insult to a starving me.

Passers by would’ve though the drool dripping from my lip was related to hunger, and from what you’ve just read, so would you. In a round about way it was. What was actually taking place was that my brain, sustained strictly by coffee, had amplified my want for food and despite the amount of input it was asking for, could not process the input on offer. You see, I’d spotted the food vendors.

All the aromas I’d previously ignored out of want for coffee were now starting to flood back into focus. Bratwurst, Moroccan, Asian, baked goods, crumpets! Contemporary, classic, conundrum! Eat all or nothing. Live or die. Decisions, decisions. Indecision. The issue’s knowing you can’t have it all in one sitting – on one Saturday.

I did make a choice in the end, after accepting that I’d have to come back sometime soon to take on the remaining stalls. I left Subiaco with a card full of images, a stomach full of satifaction and a foreboding theological afterthought. How many of the deadly sins was I guilty of? It’s a good thing I’m agnostic on the subject. But for the good Christians out there…

Of course there was  greed and gluttony. When it comes to food, greed and gluttony go hand in hand; two birds, one stone. … You can also lust over food. Before the coffee I’d certainly be charged with wrath. During the drooling fellow marketeers would attest to sloth. I’d admit I was envious of whoever got the Bratwurst for their breakfast when I couldn’t possibly fit it in.

I guess the only one I got away with was pride. But on a hangover I’ve never been in such  a steady supply of self assurance as to be properly sinful.

Subiaco Markets, if you get the chance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Winds of Winter

 

Midnight had passed. The winds of winter howled against the window panes. The sky flashed boldly, but by no measure did it match the frequency of Bron’s sword flashing in the Battle of the Reach. A voice broke the silent last moments of the episode harping on about the actress who played Cercei and her once dating the bloke that played the wily Bronn. Probably the reason why they’ve never been seen in a Game of Thrones scene together and it probably would’ve been interesting conversation if it wasn’t the last 10 minutes of the episode (‘Please, shut the fuck up!’).  So, four guys nursing empty scotch glasses sat frozen, watching the (then) latest revelations from a 13′ Inch Mac Book Pro attached to a Bose Speaker on the outskirts of wine country. The Wifi had the strength of a napkin and if it wasn’t for the generosity of someone’s hotspot and a quick 1 2 with a proxy, this turbulent viewing would’ve had to’ve waited ’til Wednesday. Which was unacceptable.

The following morning I headed down to Boranup forest for some dawn photography. I was quiet when leaving the apartment as to not wake the lads. The car heater blasted cold air ’till I hit Caves Road before I felt the burn needed to subdue my shivering. Coffee isn’t an option at 6am in Prevelly. Spotify bopped through the speakers. Deep ghetto beats, track after track, provided the stimulus needed for pre-dawn adventures.

The cloud cover was dense, permitting little light to illuminate the looming giants. Boranup would have to wait for a blue bird. Maybe a quickie in November. I decided to head back fruitless and make moves toward an early breakfast at the town bakery before crossing some wineries off the list. There was a Redgate Cabernet Franc with my name on it.

Despite the scotch and late night Thrones, driving down the pitch black of Caves Road before dawn wasn’t hindered by lack of sleep, nor hangover… Just a lack of light and a  lanky tree that’d lost it’s balance.

I slammed the breaks resulting in a semi skid. 110km to 0km. Metres from the extremities of the fallen giant. Spotify was still rockin’ since the list was downloaded to the phone, but I was well out of service range. The Authorities would have to wait.

I tried to indicate to a passing local to slow down by rapidly flicking between high beam and headlight. The car did slow but when I went to make a U-Turn to further communicate, the fear of a Wolf  Creek run in seemed to scare the other driver into letting curiosity be. He soon turned off Caves Road down an unsealed road, never to catch a glimpse of the tree that had almost ended me, which would’ve indicated to him that I wasn’t the type to host Better Homes and Gardens.

Jamie had survived the threat of the big black dragon. I’d survived the threat of a big black tree. Life imitating art. He was my second favourite character, who won top spot by the end of episode 1. The dashing Lannister dropped a rung the moment we all found out that his efforts to kill Bran were half hearted.

I’d found out later that morning from some cellar door staff that Drop Trees would be commonplace in the months to come, when the ground was loose from rain and the spring winds became strong enough to push the vertical horizontal. One girl behind the bench fell into a daydream in my telling, wondering how long she’d have to put up with my story, and that if I hadn’t reached the break in time, would she have to listen to it in the first place.

 

 

 

 

 

7 Questions: A Buyer’s Guide to Single Malt Scotch Whisky

The category known as Single Malt Scotch Whisky is as complex as it is broad. The popularity of the Scottish style of production is immense, and even though methods are adopted around the world (Japan, India,Australia), nothing comes close to the taste of a Scottish single malt.

By legal definition; Scotch Single Malt Whisky is a single grain (barley) fermentation that’s distilled and aged in one location. Although the minimum age for a spirit – having met the above requirements – is 3 years in oak barrels, it is rare that you’ll find a bottle under 5 years old. The majority of the market resides around the 10 year mark and beyond. What’s special about a Single Malt is that the ageing in the different locations over Scotland, paying attention to topographic conditions and annual weather variance, gives unique character to each release. Not to mention the unique distillation techniques of each whisky maker and associated distillery. 

Before we begin, please keep in mind one thing…

Every person has an entirely unique palate.

There’s a whisky out there for everyone. But tastes are going to differ. So if you’re set on making a gift of whisky – expect accolades – these are some questions you’ll need to ask yourself that’ll help you select the appropriate bottle for any occasion. Whether it’s for a friend, colleague, business partner or boss, you’ll always want to pick a whisky that leaves an impression!

Question 1. Is this person worth giving whisky?

Did this one stump you? Seems a little elitist, right? Well, hands down you probably already love scotch whisky. Though, if you can, imagine a time when you didn’t. There’s a portion of the human race that simply won’t appreciate a good dram. Some of these people may even share the same air as you – a scary thought. And if the person that you’re intending to buy for won’t appreciate a succulent single malt, then perhaps consider a blend, or something completely different. Like a massage. Or a book.

Question 2. What do they usually drink?

Still set on a whisky? (I love you)

As it goes, the answer to the 2nd question will deduct over half of the bottles on the display racks. If your intended prefers rum, then perhaps pick a whisky matured, or finished in an ex-rum barrel. The result is a sweeter, smoother whisky. But maybe they’re a wine enthusiast. Punchier, fruitier whisky expressions are often aided by maturation in an ex wine cask. If they’re new to whisky, an idea would be to limit your selection to the 43% ABV and below bracket. Inexperienced palates may have difficulty processing higher proof whiskies. Of course leading up to the barrel aged beasts.

 Rum Drinkers: Balvenie Caribbean Cask

Wine Drinkers: Glenmorangie Nectar D’Or

Entry Level Drinkers: Glenlivet 18

Question 3. Are they on a pack a day?

A regular habit of smoking leaves the pallet numb to a variety of subtle flavours. Smokers tend to appreciate full bodied, more dynamic whiskies. Speaking from experience, friends who smoke lean toward peaty Islay malts and whiskies finished in rum and sherry casks. Have no fear; all this information is present on the label.

Peaty Bastards: Lagavulin 16, Ardbeg 10, Laphroaig Triple Wood

Dynamic Whiskies: Auchentoshan Three Wood, Aberlour 18

Delicate Whiskies: Bruichladdie Classic, Oban 14, Glencadam 10

Question 4. Are they into new experiences?

What do they order from the menu in a restaurant? Ordering Chicken Parmigana’s every Wednesday night will tell you a lot about a person; troglodyte. Consider how far they’re willing to branch out from their comfort zone. An adventurous sort who’s known for ordering Speyside malts may be persuaded by the subtle, spicy characteristics of Highland malts aged in american oak. Check out expressions from Oban, Dalwhinnie, Old Pulteney or Glencadam. And then, choosing something too outlandish for the parmi crowd and you’ll have wished you had answered question 1 with scruple and honesty.

Question 5. How close are they to you?

Like first dates, you never want to come on too strong. The urge maybe there, but you’d do well to restrain yourself. Limited releases are fun and of course glow with the notion of rarity. But by the same token can send the wrong message. The worst of which is the stink of desperation to impress; never attractive. The second, and in my mind just as bad as the first, is to make the person feel that they have to reciprocate the act at a later date with an item of equal or greater value. Bad blood brews quickly. You’re also conveying to them that you’re out for something greater than the gift of giving. And that is that you want something off them. Again, never the right impression. So again, tailor your expenditure to your relationship.

Question 6. What does the mercury read?

Simply put; strong and full bodied whiskies, full of peat, stone fruit and spice, that are sipped in the summer months send most cross eyed, if not blind. Buy for the season. Last question!

Question 7. What’s the occasion?

You’ll find there are times to splurge and other times to be a tad more economic in your selection. There are exceptions to the rule. For instance, always splurge if you’ll be drinking a decent portion of the gift with them (chess, not checkers). Certain occasions, like birthdays that mark a decade of life (30^th’s, 40^th’s, 50^th’s) and anniversaries require special attention. Rare bottlings and recent award winning whiskies tend to move off the store shelves on these occasions. But they also remain on the home shelf for some time… Generally until the next special occasion.

Absolute Stunners: Old Pulteney 21, Craigellachie 31, Ardbeg Uigedail 

And finally!

In a room of gifts, one can forget who gave them what. Do not – repeat –do not write your name all over the bottle to let them know who bought them the whisky. This will cause confusion as to whom the bottle really belongs, and then estrangement. Make sure you hand over your whisky with a bit of chat over what it is, providing they open it on the spot. If not, hint to what it might be. Always educate your whiskey friends when you can and you’ll always leave an impression.

Sláinte!

 

The Speyside Cooperage

Laphroaig Distillery

The Coopers pound their metal hammers down on metal braces, building the barrels that would nurture the whisky I would one day drink. This was the tour of The Speyside Cooperage. A tour for the whisky lover. And in that respect, one that should not be missed.

Bruichladdich Distillery

The Coopers’ resolve was set on strong foundations, built with blocks of brawn and brazen. They were likened to marauders preparing the ships for the next raid on England. In meeting the demands of a contemporary whisky industry – by means of the dark ages – the coopers of The Speyside Cooperage serve up 150,000 casks a year, constantly defying the momentum of the modern age. Our guide spoke of their stature with reverence and admiration, acknowledging them as the indispensable cog in the whisky machine. The bedrock of the dram economy.

The Speyside Cooperage

Oak is estimated to age for 70 to 150 years before a lumberjack ventures into the woods for a sniff. After a violent encounter with an axe, logs are sawed down into staves, then dried, strapped, and toasted, and made ready to mature new make spirit.

Once the Bourbon houses of Kentucky, and the maple lovin’ whisky barons of Tennessee have exhausted their want of the Quercus Alba, and other desirable species (variations of American White Oak), the relatively new barrels are flat packed and shipped to the parts of the planet that produce rum, beer, wine, brandy, and most importantly, Scotch.

Highland Park Distillery

The barrels will adopt many rolls in their lifetime. And in retirement shall serve as cheese boards, chairs, clocks, cabinets and virtually any piece of furniture one can fashion from wood. There is virtually no waste.

Kilchoman Distillery

I was made aware of a particular cooper on the warehouse floor. He was the fastest and most furious of craftsman the Cooperage had seen in 70 years.

The mad Scot circled the barrels, hammering down thick metal rings to bind the hogsheads, butts and pistons. The cooper’s neck had not been recognised as a generic human neck for some time; a result of overbearing muscle that had accumulated over a career, bulging from shoulder to ear.

He belted down metal belts like he was constructing the great Arc. Each strike invoking the will of the almighty, as if to subdue a rage fed by a troubled homelife, involving too many rugrats and – more to the point – an overbearing wife. The acute cooper muttered to himself constantly, often revisiting an argument he first had decades earlier concerning who the better Bond was. Other coopers of the Speyside Cooperage kept their distance. He was known for his paranoia and violent outbursts, suspecting his coworkers of harbouring a predilection toward Pearce Brosnan, the Irish git.

But at least Brosnan wasn’t English.

The Speyside Cooperage

The artisanal  itself didn’t change much after 350BC. Since the celts, coopers have always been in short supply. So if you’re looking for a sea change and are thirsting for something stronger than an Aperol Spritz, Scottish weather, wielding hammers, being hench, and essentially becoming a viking awaits. You’ll be warmly welcomed into one of the worlds oldest professions.

Bunnahabhain Distillery

The Mash Tun: Glenfarclas Distillery.

Glenfarclas Distillery

‘Nothing ever becomes real ’till it is experienced.’ John Keates.

About a year ago some serious drinkers and I embarked on a dedicated and elaborate whisky drive through Scotland. Among the many spots we had the good fortune to visit, the Glenfarclas family owned distillery provided the most accommodating and transparent presentation of whisky making in the Speyside region.

Months before navigating through the Scottish highlands, I spent considerable time in trendy north London cafes, cultivating a knowledge of whisky. Fuelled by strong macchiatos, I scrolled through tasting notes, blogs and bundles of whisky wank. But in spite of my studious nature, my pursuit was only galvanised the moment I inhaled the aromas of the mash room at Glenfarclas. Whisky started making sense.

This piece is written to remind you that even in the digital age, there are still some things you can’t google.

The Whisky Experience, Edinburgh.

How grain was able to produce flavours of fruit, flowers, earth and spice had fascinated me for years. The knowledge can be found in a study of brewing beer. Or if you’re not keen on study, have a chat with a brewer. There’s plenty about. Or if you’re not the talkative type, head to the bottle shop and pick up a 6 pack of Little Creatures, or Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. The nose and taste should give you some indication of what’s being written here.

Fermentation

The process is simple.

• Yeast breaks down the starch, converting starch into sugar.
• Yeast consumes the sugar for energy.
• After the spectacular feast, Carbon Dioxide, Heat, and Alcohol remain.

Somewhere in the mix, flavours hidden in the sugar are released, baring no similitude to what you’d expect of cereal.  Understandably, reading an explanation of fermentation isn’t nearly the same as standing in the big house, standing right above the bubbling, and breathing it all in.

Glenfarclas Mash Room

When walking in-between the giant metal mash tuns, while the guide lectures the group on the 1st, 2nd, 3rd and sometimes 4th wash, flavours erupted from the fermentation, wafting gently upward to your nostrils. Aromas of rich, ripe stone fruits with a foundation of anise and licorice root, complicated with herbal heather, crushed lavender and a kind of green apple sherbet creates a fantasy for your senses. Much like it would being on a tour of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Of course, Glenfarclas was a far better run, and a far safer establishment than any factory under the rule of Gene Wilder. The occupational health and safety nightmare began when he lead a fat Augustus Gloop to chocolate water, and expected him not to drink. The cheeky radge. Occupational health and safety officials don’t recognise malicious humour. I’m sure such practises were frowned upon in the 70’s ‘n all.

Glenfarclas: Barley fermenting inside the Tun

Take a care not to breath in too deeply when popping your head under the hood. Otherwise you might feel a little sting. Wafting is a skill learned during an introduction to chemistry class. Use it. You can throw the bunsen burner and the periodic table nonsense out the window. But the skill of wafting will serve you well in all your whisky tasting endeavours.

Glenfarclas Still and Spirit Safe

Each distillery has uniquely shaped stills. To trap and release the rising vapour, a signature design, tailored to the taste of each label lies within each and every distillery in Scotland. Each creating unique expressions of what the layman like myself humbly refers to as scotch whisky. It’s important to acknowledge the nose of the mash and still rooms. When else do you get the chance to smell the spirit without the influence of the wood? All the fruit and floral aromas mixing around the mash tun are concentrated, amplified and refined, over and over during distillation. And again, when you’re in the room, your senses are in a swoon.

Glenfarclas Bonded Warehouse

When recalling all the flavours sensed in the fermentation and distillation, pay attention to how the time the spirit has spent in wood has complimented those flavours. If you’ve gained nothing else from the tour, at least you’ll have that magical nose to remember.

Glenfarclas offers a number of tastings, all depending on how far you want to take it.

As far as recommendation go, I’ve always been a strong fan of the Glenfarclas 105 Cask Strength. Since I’d already had a bottle in the boot and still above the halfway mark, I bought a bottle of the Glenfarclas 17 before moving on. Both very different whiskies, yet both reminding me of the rich stone fruit flavours of the mash tun.

I don’t mean to deter the eager from reading up before a potential visit to Scotland. By all means, fire up the mac right now. You’ll ask better questions come tour time. The alternative is to learn while wandering through Scotland on a whole bunch of tours. By the 10th, 11th or 12th distillery, you should have the whisky story – from barley to bottle – committed to memory. Scholars call this practice ‘revision’. It’s encouraged.

Glenfarclas Distillery Store

Stirling Castle

The Bruce looked out toward England in defiance, as if to say to the unwashed “Try it, I’m atop a fuckin’ volcano, pal.” Stirling Castle had hosted the English, regicide, and Mary, Queen of Scots. Rumour has it that she was quite the football enthusiast, owning the oldest football in existence. We’re talking soccer here, mind you. Would’ve been better if it was a rugby story. Soccer’s the Glenfiddich of the Sporting world.

Our first location on the whisky drive was historical. Thankfully, you can go anywhere in Scotland and be confident that any Google search of your next destination can include the preceding phrase’the battle of’ with lengthy results. The thirst for blood and gore is the pretext of many conflicts Scotland has entertained.

As a military stronghold, the view was exceptional. The air was clean, and so lacking in toxins that I found myself reevaluating my life expectancy. I wondered about young Mary, who spent a good chunk of her life in the castle. Summers would’ve been outstanding with that pig skin soccer ball and the probable affection of some peasant boy frolicking about in the northern garden. It’s well sheltered from prying eyes. I guess being put away early on left her to concentrate on more regal matters in later life. Peasant boys; the back bone of medieval Scotland.

The stories of Stirling Castle were mundane.  I’ve always been a fan of the highly inaccurate, Mel Gibson version of Scottish history. Love isn’t worth having unless it’s under threat of Prima Nocta, backed by an English ruling class, and lead by an English tyrant king. It just isn’t. We’re coming up to the 7th season Game of Thrones, kids. Standards of entertainment have risen.

Apparently there was some family tree business heading in the direction of Wallace monument and the surrounding hills. Nothing could be found of a previously owned property of some corpse relation, but we did find a pint of Belhaven Best in a farmland local, and a view of sheep. Might as well’ve been in New Zealand.

We picked up a couple of whiskies at Edradour distillery to ease the pain of driving through the lowlands in a route that included the castle and St Andrews GC, and even a Glasvegas Weatherspoons, but no distillery. Fair play, though. Distilleries that produce single malt are hard to come by in the lowlands. Goin’ off memory, I recall only three in action (Auchentoshan, Glenkinchie, Bladnoch). The whiskies bought: a 10yr, fully matured in an ex-Super Tuscan Cask, and one fully matured in Barolo hogs heads. They didn’t last the week. Most of it was inhaled in Pitlochry, overlooking the town in the comfort of a strategically placed B+B.

The following day we would be heading to the Speyside region. What was embarked on in the following weeks was a masterclass in single malt whisky. Sturdy livers and a stiff dependency, built upon years of bingeing and beating personal bests were expected of such a trip. Full breakfasts with double portions of black pudding and body weight based workouts kept the whisky at bay; kept the single malt from taking over. There were times where I felt the rapid growth of a pot belly, a pale complexion, a new found passion for the Hearts FC, and an afterthought of two starving, neglected children searching the tins for shortbread in a council flat kitchen back in Glasgow. Of course this was all in my head. But the physical strain of copious whisky consumption was only matched by the mental erosion. 17 days and 20 distilleries. The intake suggested I was drinking to forget, like a troubled youth, or a school teacher. Rest assured I’m neither of those. I tend bar. And this is part of the job. The others are just alcoholics.

Siena: Intro to Sangiovese

We arrived 10 days late. Il Palio had come and gone and all we could see of it were reruns showing on giant screens in Piazza del Campo. I should clarify; Il Palio is not Italian for Paleo. There’s no relation to the study of the level of human development in the stone age, nor is there a connection to new age dieting (notice the substitution of ‘e’ for ‘i’). Il Palio’s an annual horse race held in Siena, Italy. The event involves ten horsemen barebacking trusty steeds around Piazza del Campo while onlookers lose their minds, much like they were backing the winner of the Melbourne cup with amazing odds. But not just one person; the whole crowd acts like this. The bareback riders ride in the respective colours of the Contrade, which are basically ancient subdivisions of the city that are no longer legally recognised. Il Palio is held twice a year and from what I’ve heard, we shouldn’t’ve missed the race. It lasts only seconds, but like La Tomatina, or the Running of the Bulls; it’s the tits.

Back to the screens. While couples drank prosecco and nibbled on cheese and assorted meats, all glanced at the broadcast at times in idol conversation in a vague, noncommittal, visual study of the old marketplace. Gambling enthusiasts who’d not known anything of Il Palio, and thinking the screens were playing the races in real time, hoped there was still time to put a bet on. Creatures of habit ducked away from their food, drink and significant others in search of a bookie. The little things we can’t do without when abroad. For me it’s the booze. For others; well, I guess whatever vice hangs over one’s shoulders. Normality found in the regularity of partaking in activities that will probably ruin us. The sun grew tired. Dramatic shadows grew dark and long in the late afternoon. Tourists and Italians alike found themselves harmonious in the twilight hour. Gothic lanterns, modernized with an electric current, provided sufficient light for the paved city streets. In mid August the air was thin, dry and warm. Appetites pushed past what a meagre meat and cheese board could offer, especially after half a belly of assorted still and sparking white.

It’s an awkward time of night, wondering if the adventures of the nocturnal hours will give rise to hangovers and promote lethargic movement the following morning.

I was driving the following morning so my drinking was capped. I called it after three bottles for safety. Dinner involved truffle and rabbit, pasta and house red, and Tiramisu,  spread over a starter, two mains and a dessert. A silly amount of dishes for a normal human, but for those who didn’t bat an eyelid to that description; you’re my people.

The additional costs attached to a simple contract of a car rental outfit is something to be aware of. The ‘In the event of’ chapters detail the loss and damage scenarios so vaguely  that you’ll tend to overlook the associated penalty rates. A Sat Nav, for example could cost a small fortune when a trusted friend proves himself untrustworthy with inanimate objects… Turns out it was at the bottom of his backpack for safe keeping. He feared theft in Italy, and thanks to him I now fear stupidity above all things.

The English I was travelling with decided that a lake south of Siena was worth visiting. It wasn’t. I sat impatiently over two strong macchiatos in a nearby cafe and waited for the British lizards to absorb enough warmth to carry them through to the next 30 degree day in the UK. The air was a thick chalky smog. A large kennel of canines was oddly placed adjacent to the lake. Maybe they served a municipal function, but I wouldn’t’ve been surprised if the facility was the local pound. They sounded rabid and their barking was a blend of high pitched shrieks and howling, and could be heard for miles. I was reading the sequel the ‘The Three Musketeers’ entitled ‘Ten Years After’. The novel failed to grab my attention through these tense and aggravated circumstances. I switched to one from Brett Easton Ellis. His tempo can be airy, but there’s always a good brutal massacre or overdose on the horizon to hold your attention. At least a level above classical fiction.

The small town of Montepulciano was packed with tourist scum.  I’m perpetually amazed at how many times I’ve referred to tourists as swarms, or packs of the undead. The town, resting on a hilltop was very easy to navigate and could be explored within hours. I was perplexed by the simplicity of Montepulciano because I’d seen a number of classifications with ‘Montepulciano’ on the label. So many classifications based on a town this small couldn’t be possible. In recent research I’ve found there to be numerous expressions of ‘Montepulciano’, but are completely different wines from alternate regions in Italy (not mentioning New World Wine). The town of Montepulciano was home to a very singular style of red dubbed Vino Nobile di Montepulciano.

Made predominantly from a Sangiovese clone, this style can have up to four other varietals  in the blend (two being white). What’s unique about Vino Nobile di Montepulciano and what gave me a tickle about visiting the small town was that only the vineyards surrounding the town were legally permitted in the making of the style.

When I found there was a Montepulciano grape varietal, that was about the time I realised my brain had become completely cooked. Some people take drugs for the same effect. I just have to Wikipedia Italian wine practices; cheaper.

As a novice in the shops, remember that these wines are very confusing when put up against each other, but the taste is noticeably different. Know that they come from varying  regions and although both contain varying amounts of Sangiovese, Sangiovese clones or grapes that closely resemble Sangiovese, they’re very different wines, noticed most in the comparative cost. Vino Nobile di Montepulciano contains the greatest amount of Sangiovese. And for my tastes, is generally the tastiest.

I’d visit the town again, if only to buy a bottle or two to take home for the night times. I had a couple of glasses over lunch anyway. I found similarities between my time in Italy and my travels in Argentina. I found I had a better understanding of the produce of the Mendoza wine region while getting pissed in the restaurants of Buenos Aires. That is to say, I tasted better expressions of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano in Siena rather than in the actual town of Montepulciano. Funny that.

After a spot of lunch and a very awkward situation involving a girl from Grimsby in a small Tuscan town, we set off to Montalcino in search of a very delicious Brunello di Montalcino.

As we walked through an even smaller township, on another hilltop, we discovered the life of the ageing class of Italian men. One bar on the outer edge of town, away from the ruin, hosted some lads that probably met before primary school and floated the same handful of jokes first told in their twenties.

We ventured to the last stop on the hill, past Enotecas and Pizzerias, to La Forezza Di Montalcino. If I’d more time on hand and wasn’t driving into a Tuscan Sunset back to Siena, I’d’ve done a bottle of the 2010 Il Palazzone Brunello di Montalcino. Dried berries, dark chocolate, tobacco and leather. It’s what you want in life.

Cruising back into the late afternoon sunset, the upcoming meal in Siena was all I could think about. Maybe a stroll through Via Camollia for some more heavy gamy meat based classics. And probably after a shared bottle of San Gimignano at the Air B&B, or a standing Prosecco in Piazza del Campo.

I gained great amounts of weight and knowledge from my time in Tuscany. In reflecting on other tours of Italy in previous pieces, these quick stints help sketch out future travels through this fascinating part of the world for far grander experiences. Back home now in Perth, Australia, I feel a little more confident walking into a bottle shop and searching through the Old World Wine selection. At least I won’t have to defer to the expertise of 19 year old kid that spent the previous night on student discount lager and Skittle Bombs.

The 5 Towns

 

And just like that, I was awake.

Dulled senses fed me fragmented clues as to the location of the noise. The gadget hummed in short bursts for a couple of seconds, rattling away on the wooden floorboards decking the 3^rd story of our La Spezia apartment. The phone was somewhere among the artefacts of the day before. Antics involving an empty bottle of Montalcino d’Abruzzo, an empty gelato cup (the largest size) and a pile of soiled travel clothes. It was the first sleep-in of our holiday and I was expecting at least another hour. Who the fuck was messaging this early?! I could barely read the screen. The fog of alcoholic fumes was thick. The hangover had bared it’s fangs. But if I’m remembering right, the bite never came. Maybe it had been postponed. One of those dormant terrors that would hunt me down at a later date, or infuse itself with an equally sever future hangover. A combined and concentrated effort in a very committed attempt on my life. Before the silencing and final bullet I’d know my liver had sent it’s upmost regards. Bang!

In describing the ferocity of the natural disaster that struck Norcia earlier that morning, I take peculiar relief in the knowledge that the fault didn’t lie with man. I was nowhere near the epicenter when disaster struck and had shaken the earth so, that entire towns had fallen to ruin. 300 dead.  Despite sleeping within the Italian borders, I hadn’t felt so much as a tremor. Just the urgency one feels when trying to find their phone, half asleep, and quietly dizzy on account of the booze. The message was from a dear friend, hoping that my response was imminent, and that I wasn’t burdened by intermittent and sporadic phone signal due to a town of rubble atop my head.

Our holiday group was small and dynamic. Two carnivorous alcoholics of whom, at this juncture, were experimenting with fruits and vegetables on account of their discovery of what role grapes played in the making of wine. And as an offset to the head first and ask questions later mentality; two vegetarians. Both lacked the argumentative edge to convince others of their cause. They buckled often and were quick compromise. A better-suited categorization for them would lie somewhere in the murky oceans of Pesceterian doctrine – with a drop of pancetta. They were destined to crumble. We were on the coast of Italy, and soon to be in Tuscany. It was an up-hill battle for any dietitian budgeting on flavour for the sake of pets they’d never met. Lovely girls apart from that.

In tackling the Cinque Terre under the constraint of an afternoon, you’ve the choice of beginning in Riomaggiore and working up the coast; or from Monterosso, and back down to La Spezia; South to north. North to south.

Our apartment was close to the harbour in La Spezia, and was an ideal location for restaurants and waterholes. As close to the drip as we were, our commute to the rails – La Spezia Centrale – was a meagre 15 minute hike. Our location was ideal.

Finding a bite to eat in the mornings was painful. Breakfast pastry has never been my thing and I’d rather starve a couple more hours than burn down two of yesterday’s custards or croissants. We’d sussed out a few days later that the best option was to hit the local market in the early morning before our adventures and construct a platter board. Of course, our selection was in respect the group’s ecological footprint. Striking a balance between ideology, and nutrition. On the morning of the 5 Terre – days before our platter epiphany – I knocked back two double macchiato’s before heading up to the rail. The coffee in Italy has three times the amount of kick of the Costa’s in London. I was buzzing.

Please refrain from judgement, fellow snobs. I drink Costa because there’s simply no good coffee in left in Covent Garden. Not since the lads in Neil’s Yard reached the end of their lease. The closest I get to a decent coffee’s maybe the Timberyard in 7 Dials. But the queues on that mother are unbearable. Just like Costa, they still manage to burn an espresso. The only difference is they take longer doing it.

Speaking of waits; we lined up for an age at La Spezia Centrale waiting for the self-service ticket machine. We pushed and shoved and shoulder-checked to maintain our position in line, and all in vain. Our bitterness grew with every stop heading toward our destination. With every stop we became increasingly more aware that the 8 Euro return purchases weren’t warranted since the carriages of the coastal service weren’t monitored. For the sake of righteous tourism, I’d advise to pay the unnecessary if only to help boost Italy’s economy. That leaking boat that the north of Italy – with your help – keep afloat.

Monterosso was a massive mistake. We should never’ve gone there. Nor should anyone who indulges in exploration, foreign culture, or are in hopes of living a vibrant life. It’s a trap. The beach is a sieve. All whom are captured in it’s netting better have a few days to explore the 5 towns, otherwise all experiences will be under the one umbrella (paid for) with a crime novel. You’ll be well read in the works of Lady Cornwell and Mr. Grisham (gripping) and you’ll go home thoroughly rested. But you’ll be kidding yourself when trying to convince your mates that you had to hop a plane to Italy for the experience.

Pebbled shores, pensioners and pedestrians, pick-pocketing gypsies preying on peons. The beach was as vile. Any beach in the Mediterranean covered in umbrellas always is.

Sitting on the shelly shore this sour setting waiting for life to recommence, I recollected what I’d previously read up on the Cinque Terre. Specifically the articles and blogs that detailed how one could explore the 5 towns in one day – lies. Upon reaching Vernazza (second stop) the miscalculations travel bloggers had made when writing their itineraries became vivid. These schedules were designed for the ‘glass half full’ or ‘bucket list’ types, And definitely did not apply to normal people. These oversights concerning human productivity were as plain and unpleasant as the sight of the pounds of pale flesh populating the thoroughfares of the small coastal towns. Knowing our nocturnal habits, our crew would’ve been spent by midday on the proposed itineraries. I was distancing myself from what I’d read of the Cinque Terre, and quickly negotiating terms with the reality of our situation.

I hope the following serves as advice for any whom travel this route, or have difficulty mediating the theoretically advised approach to a foreign location and the reality of it when you’re actually there.

I ran into Vernazza like I was fleeing from someone big. I was feverish with desperation. There were many intricacies of the town to appreciate. The desperation came from the time constraint. In fact, the entire trip would be remembered as a sizzler reel. A preview of a trip I would do one day, later on. How much later?

A thought best not dwelled upon.

I’d entered a tricky labyrinth built upon a hill and cloaked the shadow of the afternoon sun. Houses lined alleys, paths weaved into one another, and stairs sprouted from dead-ends. All ascended toward the apex and into the blinding sunlight in hopes of a wet horizon.

Corniglia was a character building experience. Once off the train, we embarked up a path of which no end was in sight. The paved trail zigged, then zagged, then did a bit more of both, over and over, and upward.

Many took one look at the vertical endevour and immediately turned back to the train with sights on Monterosso, right back to the umbrella they’d just left on the beach. With any luck, the gypsie hadn’t sold it on and the grooves in the sand they’d spent an afternoon shaping remained.

Visually, Corniglia was on par with Vernazza. The one advantage Corniglia had was that it was built on a cliff, awarding a view of the horizon to be the entirety of one’s vision.  We found a small Panini bar on the very edge of the cliff, slightly tucked away and remarkably inexpensive. I was starved.

A capri Panini went down like poetry. The tomato was picked from the highest vine on the highest hill, had witnessed the fall of a civilisation and the rise of Facebook. The mozzarella; so meticulously sliced and expertly layered into the sandwich that tasted so good, it was like people had being using the word ‘taste’ for years, and only now did I know what they meant by it.

The white we drank was of the Cinque Terre, and was so chilled and delicious that I was prepared to undo the top buttons and call it a day well spent. In the realms of reality we couldn’t do this, due to a small family with impressionable children whom sat next to us, somewhere in the middle of our tomato worship.

A belly full and three glasses later, we began our journey down hill to the final chapter of the day.

Umbrellas and Beach Gypsies were replaced with the stale smell of urine and fried fish. The grease dripping from takeaway polystyrene and used napkins stained the main drag. Euphoric, Eurotrash techno blasted from cheap tinny speakers causing them to peak on every beat. Perverted men with tanned and leathered skin ran the small bars and served cheap spirit laced with sugar and long-life juice. They’d hit their prime in the 90’s and existed their 40’s, desperately trying to keep a dream alive that should’ve died two decades ago.

The coast at least was still pure. Large rocks deterred most mouth breathers, as there’s little beach to speak of near the small port. The dark water was the colour of sapphire and possessed the clarity of crystal. A group of youngens tested their nerve, egging each other on and over the cliffs into the depths. A few made the jump, others didn’t, and contemplated for an age before their eventual decline.

Under the light of the setting sun, everything was golden. I lay on the platform against my rucksack, sipping an icy Birra Moretti watching it all unfold. Going the other way was a local girl. Dirty blonde hair, cut off denims, bronzed and slender. She lit a freshly rolled rollie before returning the tobacco pouch to her bag, somewhere between a copy of Shantaram and a beach towl. She seemed ideal, and I even more, content with the vision, and the knowledge that I’d never see her again.

The Italian girls of London often connote a thick underscoring of severe drug habits under a head of dreadlocks. Lost souls, far way from the scrutiny of family, free to flock about in the city that collectively resents judgment and labeling. I was far away from London in that moment, glowing under the Mediterranean sun. Yet I was mulling it over all the same.

… And for no apparent reason, Dennis Hopper popped into my head, sat bloodied and beat under the guard of 4 or 5 intrigued Mafiosos. He was bang in the middle of telling the tale of where the present day Sicilians would look when tracing their family lineage. I chuckled at the recollection seconds before the arriving train bound for La Spezia blocked my final glimpse of the blonde. If I needed to know where I was in Italy that day, and knew no better than the tale told in True Romance, at least I would’ve known I was somewhere above Sicily.

Cognac

Rémy Martin

It was an overcast morning in the town of Cognac. We were sat in the carpark, having just turned the engine off after a hard hour of poor navigation and a constant shifting of blame. We were 15 minutes early, meaning we weren’t late. But tensions were still high, and the ears that had bled were still raw from the raging abuse bouncing around the tight confines of the Peugeot rental.

The rest of the colour spectrum came back into play about a half hour later. The Rémy Martin tour had just begun and we were the only ones on it. I didn’t notice her at first. I was still seeing red, and still wiping blood away before it coagulated and began to fester. Our guide was asking us which famous architect may’ve designed our surroundings, which at the time was a very famous resting house for the Rémy Martin blend.

To me, asking such a thing would be to assume an acute appreciation of French architecture. I couldn’t fathom how someone could be so presumptuous of a humble tourist trio. That was of course until some prick mentioned old mate Eiffel. Of which, when mentioned I naturally slapped my forehead, because if it wasn’t for my mood at the time, and not retaining full faculty of my emotions, even a cunt like me could’ve got that. But anger was still high. We were, after all, still throwing daggers at each other from across the room.

I’d buried my head into the camera for a time. It was on the topic of agriculture that I’d finally calmed and began taking note of what was being said.  Our guide was talking about terroir; she who’d been with us since the beginning of the tour, and she, who I’d not so much as glanced at. I tuned in about the time when she said something like ‘There’s no word in English that is the equivalent’.

Terroir: the complete natural environment in which a particular wine is produced, including factors such as the soil, topography, and climate. [Google] 

In addition; I’ve heard ‘terroir’ used frequently in the Rum, and Agave world. … Not so much with Whisky. With Whisky it was more ‘Location, location, location’.

So, to a degree she was right. But one could use a term like ‘location specific’ and still be on the right track. It was the whiff of superiority, sniffed when she said this so smugly that was irksome.  Despite the element of mysticism she was bringing to the narrative, Cognac wouldn’t be as strong today if it weren’t for English demand over the years. With tempers high for different reasons, a prejudice was born, and it flooded my vision. In my head I’d created a divide between the French and I. Driving on the wrong side of the road, shit rugby team, overpriced wine…  In my head, it was war. The fucken’ French. The arrogance!

… And then I looked up from my camera and saw her for the first time. And all that animosity evaporated as quickly as I’d conjured it. She was a hottie. Like a 10… And just like that I loved the French. Her with her waist long black hair, petite frame and charming demeanour.

Our affair would be passionate as we’d explore a bridge between two worlds; two lifestyles. A marriage of ancient courtship and larrikinism. But where would we live?  The big question came up, and after that, it was all I could think about. She resided in Cognac so she’d probably wanted the quiet life with access to French wine and dinner conversation. I on the other hand needed a coastline with a bit of movement. I don’t speak French, which over time could be remedied. But initial communications would’ve always put someone out. I was just getting into brandy, but I’ve always been a whisky lover. Who’s to say how long the Cognac romance would last? Perhaps until the end of the tour. Maybe until the end of the trip… Too many questions.

And that brings us up to the Louis the 13^th Bottle. We found ourselves in a dingy, dark warehouse, where all the florescent light shuddered in solitude among ancient shadows. It was the dwelling of the 7 dwarves, before Snow White took up the broom and mop. The spiders were clearly drunk. It didn’t take a skeptical eye to notice the grey and matted webs weren’t right. They looked like the 3D version of a scribble, scribbled by a retarded toddler, under the guidance of a demented geriatric. The webs were never cleared away, just built upon. Old webs clung together to form the forgotten wedding dresses of all the brides left waiting at the alter. Time was passing in these tombs, but stood still like the recollection of a powerful memory. Only the drunken spiders would notice the shift of season… Impossible to be sure, of course. What coherent thought passes through an arachnid’s brain, of whom has never known sobriety?

Why Louis the 13^th?

When she asked, all I wanted to say was some literary remark in reference to The Three Musketeers; the novel I was on at the time. In the race to find the right wording in fashionable time, too much time had passed and she’d thought it best to answer her own question as it had become uncomfortable. And thankfully she did. I’d have been completely wrong. And any reference to the Three Musketeers would’ve been in poor taste.  I never want to come off as lame; at least not as a first impression. Anytime after that is oddly fine with me.

It was something to do with Louis’ involvement with the forest of Limousine, by the way.

As we pondered Cognac history, who knows what those spiders were doing? Their webs were worth for shit and their tempered hunting skills left them the laughing stock of the still house. Smaller insects, expecting oxygen, instead found ethanol, and as a result found themselves steering directly into these mediocre nets; lightweights on the booze in Cognac spider terms. The spiders in Cognac are functioning alcoholics, pretending their hunting practices were planned; like any drunk with any trick shot.

The ‘Dreamweaver’ track from Wayne’s World wasn’t heard, nor did she sport an 80’s glamour glow, nor were any unicorns present. Just my parents and I. This left a sour taste in my mouth, and below the heart burn, a concentrated knot of bile and burden. You cannot be forward with any girl under such duress.

If this chick were in London, consider her pursued. The dregs of London would rarely produce someone so promising. Around France, I’d imagine infatuation at first sight is commonplace.

As far as cognac tours went, Rémy Martin was the highlight.

Baron Otard

‘Otard’, like ‘half-tard’ or ‘full-tard’; both severities of ‘re-tard’. From the phonetical analysis, I expected little, and was right to do so. Our guide was very special. The stories she was spitting conflicted with a known, widely accepted and well documented history. And even if the history books were a fabrication, she was in no position to argue against it; not with her base intelligence and attachment to script. According to her, it takes 20 years of tutelage under a master distiller to even merit consideration as successor. But if 10 years are required to learn viticulture and distillation prior, we’re looking at 30 years of hard slog. So if the master distiller at Rémy Martin, who gained his position at 34, meant he would have began pursuing his career at the age of 4.

Piss Head.

We travelled a touch further south in order to find a family owned distillery, to see what benefits a small production had over the big; if any. Necking a quick coffee in the quaint town of Segonzac, we mulled over a small tourist map, trying to find one of three destinations that’d been previously recommended to us.

We were friends again, the fam’ and I. Completely civil. It should be noted that Strawberry Letter 23 by The Brothers Johnson, Long Cool Woman by The Hollies, and the Heartbeats rendition by José González were three tunes that had aired in times of peace.

In the café, we were getting suspicious looks from the locals. The entire café setup reminded me of the false wall you’d find on the set of a game show. It seemed everyone was pretending to live the quiet life, but there was a greater agenda present that we would never know anything about. Even the coffee fell in accordance with their rouse. The bar wench gave me a assured smile, conveying that serving coffee was taken into consideration, and that I’d need to do better than order a couple of hot beverages to remove the curtain that concealed their operation; whatever it may’ve been.

Cognac is a far more convoluted map to draw. Hundreds of small productions and hundreds more consumed by the big hitters, producing for the global market. I’ve nothing against either way, but unless you visit the smaller productions, you’re not going to grasp the diversity of the category, nor the reasons why there’s so many restrictions in place to earn the cognac appellation.

Michel Forgeron

It was two in the afternoon and all that could be heard when we arrived was the occasional struggling automobile stuttering along. A farmer behind the wheel abused the mechanical beast onward and upward.

We’d interrupted her lunch. Out of the slippers and into some Croc-like casual wear, the old duck wiped the foie gras from the corners of her mouth with one hand and conducted her speech with the other. What she’ll never read here, and what I have the most comfort in confiding in you, if no one else, is that I don’t care how many generations they go back. I’ve always been under the assumption that if they’re talking too much about reputation and history, they’re trying hard to deter you from the quality of the product. Be warned, you’ll get the family history speech in every Chateau you walk into. It doesn’t matter how good or bad the taste.

All things French are based on reputation, whether it be the foie gras, the town floozy, or Cardinal Richelieu. Reputation to the French – in terms of cognac and wine – reflects the quality of the producer. And in viewing the appellation of Cognac, you’ll quickly begin to understand why.

The old broad scaled the ladder resting against a 12ft resting barrel in a matter of seconds. With the dexterity of a Disney cartoon she scooped a pint full of ageing cognac and whistled back down the ladder to give us all a taste. It was delicious. I poked fun at my mother, being a considerable amount of years shy of the old duck, and her still standing in admiration of the duck’s vitality. We were all in admiration of her, regardless of a certain parties taint of jealousy.

 

Do try Michel Forgeron’s Hors d’Age. The expression stands as the finest cognac I’ve tried to date. And do go visit the old duck. She’s running a second childhood in there.

Cognac, if you get the chance.

Paris: Get Involved

The last half hour was the hardest, working the Saturday night before a Sunday morning departure. Neglect cramps the work ethic. You find yourself smiling longingly at a work colleague of whom you cannot stand, in the knowledge that you won’t have to see the cunt for a few weeks. It’s a dream cloud you’re captured by, born out of a need for something to occupy you for the remaining minutes; remaining seconds.

… Then some slapper cuts her foot wide open, more booze than blood sprays over the dance floor. She’s ignorant of many things, we were assured. But surely dancing barefoot and in mid Soul Train would not excuse the senses of sensing. The numbness produced from binging on Prosecco and Disaronno for half a day clouded any messages from the nerves present in the foot that weren’t severed. And fell on deaf ears to all pain receptors in her robust and ill educated cranium. In true Essex fashion, her tip off was the red splatter patterns appearing on the strained white fabric, tightly wrapped on the orange legs of her and her nearby friends. As we know in the London hospitality trade, the colour red isn’t as distinguishable on orange coloured skin. There was no katana in her grasp; Just a Prosecco flute. Her friends weren’t the enemy ninjas of the Crazy 88, but they cautiously backed away from her all the same. She wasn’t Uma Thurman blonde. More a platinum, cheap blonde. It all looked like a Kill Bill setting to me. I was mopping up blood with blue roll and pink sanitiser in the last hour of my shift. The whole time the pig spent demanding a complimentary bottle of Prosecco, as way of apology, while a poorer soul than myself played doctor with her gashed appendage. By a smidgen of determined glue, an eyelash coated in mascara hung from her eyelid. Her posture was gravitating to one side on account of the apparatus. No one, not even her boyfriend had cause to ruin a good joke, and left it ride for all to see.

A quick Boilermaker and I was on my way back to Hackney for a three hour kip and a shower before departure.

Properly fatigued, I hopped the tube to St Pancras International to meet the parents. It wasn’t until the last sip of my second strong flat white that my senses started to realign. I was burning through all power reserves, but now at a stable pace. I began to notice the surrounding foot traffic. An uneasy mix of the foul, morbid faces of the unfortunate looking Londoners, mixed in with the more aesthetically pleasing peoples of the nearby continent. On a Sunday, the St Pancras terminal serves as a filter; English returning to England and Europeans to Europe; uglies and beauties respectfully. We were passing through a sieve, and thankfully, and naturally, we fell with the latter. The uglies would turn to stone with visions of each other in our absence. I could care not. They hadn’t chosen their fate yet, but in the upcoming weeks they soon would. All hopes of beautifying the English race were coming to an abrupt halt. And there I was thinking misery loved company.

Paris:

The pathways alone accommodate for such a vast amount of foot traffic that if you were to walk against a hoard of tourists, led by some cunt with a brightly coloured hat, flag or umbrella, you’d have the luxury of passing effortlessly in judgment of the starry eyed bubble catchers. In any other city of the world, you’d have to move like Mufasa to dodge the stampede of idol minded beasts.

You remember the close on Mufasa, don’t ya?

I remembered the Gypo’s clicking and whistling for tourist attention from my last visit 22 years ago. Back then they had a fabulous catalogue of knick-knacks and brightly coloured, fragile playthings. These days, all they’re packin’ are miniature Eiffel towers from a very meagre colour gamut; the plight of the tinker. The Peaky Blinders crew’ve come a long way since their humble beginnings.

Mum kept asking if I’d remembered much of Paris from when I was a kid. Apart from spitting off the Eiffel tower, hoping to hit one of my gypsy targets, I have to say I didn’t remember all that much. I would’ve done the same again, but there were way too many bodies lining the fences of the top most viewing platforms. I would have spat through them – they’d deserve it – but then I’d have to hear them whinge about it while looking for the culprit. Once you buy the lift ticket to the top, you’re committing to an hour of waiting lines for elevators and stairwells. They’ve made it so you can’t even jump off the relic in a time of need. It’s a turbulent and uneasy wait. At any point a nearby New Yorker may’ve brought up Trump, which is never a polite conversation topic with the unintentional eavesdropping that’s practically inevitable up ol’ Eiffel.

The Arc de Triomphe was fabulous. We had a fantastic view from the vantage of a tour bus as we circled around it’s perimeter. To climb it was silliness. We’d exhausted ourselves after two days of solid tourism. And the notion of a quick kip in between sights on the top deck of a tour bus was ideal. Do take headphones. They give you a pair but they’re mono based and don’t do music justice, no matter how ghastly your taste. You’re supposed to plug the basic set into the side of the bus, and learn monotonous, fun facts of the city as you journey along. In my weary state, being subjected to Wikipedia’s audio summary of Paris… I may’ve never woken up. I do regret not downloading the Amelie soundtrack as it could’ve been that kind of romanticism that’d be able to cut through the smog endured on the upper deck. It could’ve been the crème de la crème. But I polished off so many expressions of crème brûlée in Paris that it’d be considered overkill to enrich the experience any further.

Weeks after we left the great city there’d been flooding in the Louvre. This was deliberate. Some pissed of Frenchman’d had his fill of foreigners and wanted the tourists gone. This was the one city that I found I could tolerate the unruly crowds. I suppose for someone living in Paris, tolerance levels varied. ‘Artwork be damned’ he wailed in an aristocratic French accent as he loosened the pipes. Of course the government took great pains in hushing this aggression, blaming the whole incident on the turbulent elements and – dare say – global warming. A similar attitude plagued Britain, only the angered parties played the politician rather than the vigilante. Of course, the English vigilantes’ve come out since the great vote. … They’re into property damage too.

We came back from a hearty meal, capped by a tasty Château du Tariquet. It was near midnight, our eyes were red from exhaustion and exposure to exhaust, and singed by the beauty of buildings, tapestries, oil paintings and fine sculptures. Our bodies were bruised from shoulder checking our way through the confines of Paris, and we’d only hoped the opposing parties hurt more. We were drunk on St Emilion and Armagnac, but high on life. The coffee may’ve been bitter, but always came with option of crème brulee or croissant. Always there existed a collection of culinary combinations to conquer all skepticism of French culture and custom.

Sitting in a late night bar – the last stop before the hotel – we noted a couple of plump tourists some tables down with two bum bags resting on the table top. With their coffees getting cold, the pair found new inspiration in the utilisation of their recently purchased miniature Eiffel Towers. Instead of wallowing in self pity over a susceptibility for trinket consumerism, these two conducted Eiffel Tower swordplay, making light sabre sounds as they went. Once ‘Luke’s’ hand was struck from limb – the likely closure point – I made eye contact with one of them. Their nationality was unknown, as no words were spoken, and Star Wars is relatively universal. We awarded one another a respectful nod, as one would give in respect of a worthy adversary. The battle would continue the following morning, but for that moment in time, we were at peace. We’d made what we could of the city, in our brief stays. And I’m content, knowing each exploration was – in our own ways – original, despite doing the same shit everyone else did.

Paris. If you get the chance.