It’s a month now since we woke up to this amazing sunrise squeezing up between the buildings of Parque Central, Havana.

Full of verve for the day ahead we were greeted with the Cuban version of Bucks Fizz as we entered the breakfast room. An omelette chef was on-hand, as all around tables bulged with fruits, pastries, cereals, cakes, cheese, cold meats and the usual cooked fayre. What was all that about a shortage of food?

Suitably fuelled, we ventured from the luxuriant cool of the hotel – for the first time since arriving – quickly accosted on all sides by men asking if we wanted to take a ride in their rickshaw or yellow Cuba Taxi; women asking us to buy dinner for them and their many children… It was akin to visiting the pyramids at Giza when we were pestered by hordes of locals to buy bags and ornaments, or just hold them – for a fee - and couldn’t properly enjoy the experience.

Tempted to bolt back into the hotel and up to the rooftop pool, we persevered, eventually stumbling into La Habana Vieja – Old Havana – rather than be tricked into Havana City with the lure of a non-existent Salsa Festival. It’s not that Cuban’s want to harm or murder us you understand, we were later told. It’s just that they want our money. The idea would be to lead us into the dodgiest part of town, the parts where tourists are told to avoid, and then rob us blind. Oh I see, OK, well armed with that knowledge we feel MUCH better about the whole thing. Which way is it then, this festival?

Clearly, wandering the narrow, often dirty streets of Havana is no time for relaxing thoughts. With names like Cuba and O’Reilly, they had open bins, rusting cars and kittens strolling around huge puddles from the previous days’ thunder storm. The heat mutated into an almost visible evil genie, slapping us in the face at each corner; spitting at our clothes, stealing the oxygen from the air.

We stood out as obvious tourists; our large-brimmed sun hats, pale skin and confused facial expressions. Toothless indistinct persons shouted out to us; ‘Kissy Kissy’ girls grabbed our arms, encouraging us to take photos of them dressed in Cuban lace and finery, then pay for the privilege. Others followed, asking where we wanted to go and had we heard there was a Salsa Festival just round the corner?

Within minutes we were hot, sticky, lost, confused, heat-debilitated and thirsty. Passing a collection of open doorways where vendors arranged their wares for the day – leather and crochet handbags, shell jewellery, canvas paintings, fridge magnets and trinkets – we took refuge in a leaf-canopied cafe/bar where I ordered a reviving Pina Colada.

It was 10am and I felt rather decadent. Then little bits of blossom and bark trickled down from the canopy above into the creamy froth while sweat ran down my face.

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel | tags: breakfast, cuba, cuba taxi, fake salsa festival, havana, havana city, humidity, Kissy Kissy girls; Kissers, La Habana Vieja, o'reilly, Old Havana, parque central, rickshaw, sunrise. | #

Preparing to land at Varadero Airport, Cuba after circa 10 hours, I started to get impatient as the little TV map showed us hovering over the Bahamas, teasingly, agonisingly, making what seemed like little progress despite a gradual descent.

Then, as the landscape revealed itself, flanked by dreamy topaz seas, I was surprised to see lush fields and hedgerows knitted together; a mesmerising geometry of green, tan and brown akin to all we had left behind flying out of Manchester, and even more so, back home in Scotland. Some patches of green boasted etchings of rooftops and of industry, others were zigzags of grey with Afros on matchsticks – the Royal Palm an official symbol of Cuba as its national tree.

The heat of mid-afternoon burst into every pore within seconds of disembarking; our walk to the airport a concoction of excitement and of exhaustion.

Security was quite intimidating as we took it in turns to stand in front of the passport control officials, staring into a tiny camera hanging down from the booth. Despite forty weeks of Spanish lessons I managed to mumble ‘hello’ rather than ‘hola’ or ‘buenos tardes’, and struggled to understand when I was asked, in English, how long my stay was for. I blame travel-weary ears. A buzzer indicated admittance to the country as the door was unlocked. 

Dragged from my giddy anticipation by the strict formality of the situation, there was another security check for hand luggage through an x-ray conveyor, before we could reclaim our suitcases.

Sniffer dogs were paraded around, monitored closely for signs of excitement or agitation - do they just bark? – as the same few bags looped round and round and round and round. We started to worry that ours were not going to appear, but it seemed like nobody else could see their bags either and eventually they appeared. All the while security guards watched us intently, and I felt sure I was guilty of something and would be hauled away to some Cuban pension for torture and interrogation. It’s OK – I wasn’t.

There was a scramble to the exit en masse; a jumble of suitcase wheels colliding, tripping, cutting each other up, and out into the sun again. It was all very efficient getting to the right bus, with gloriously aggressive air con. We waited in line to change some English notes into convertible pesos (CUC’s), and then it was off to Havana.

Our tour guide was way too chirpy for a bus full of British people after a 10 hour flight. He cracked jokes and asked about sport and football teams and how William and Kate were getting on. No-one responded. We hurtled along winding roads and through a small town. The sky darkened and I wondered if it was going to rain. 

It was two hours to Havana, and we all just wanted to get there and get unpacked and freshened up. Instead the tour guide decided it would be fun to stop off at a roadside bar for Pina Colada’s, and get into the Cuban way of life. This is what we soon came to know as ‘Cuba Time’ (as in, no point in rushing because everyone is working on Cuba Time where there is all the time in the world…)

Thirsty, about to pass out with weariness, I decided I wouldn’t be having a Pina Colada, but as we pulled in they were all laid out on the bar and just as he’d planned, I couldn’t resist. Bingo – so that’s why he urged us all to change money at the airport! We paid CUC 2.50 each for our drinks (less than £2), and they just pass you the bottle of rum and the cinnamon so you can ‘rum to taste’. I couldn’t imagine that ever happening in Glasgow, but was glad I decided to give it a whirl, and started to relax into it.

Until the wind whipped up and the thunder snapped and the rain hammered down around us, protected as we were by only a small makeshift shack with a palm/banana leaf roof. Brilliant. Everyone was huddling together, bear arms and flip-flopped feet unprepared for the onslaught of rain. We waited a few minutes, by this point soaked to the skin, watching the water flood into huge puddles half burying the wheels of the bus. Eventually we had to make a run for it, wading through inches of fresh rain water, which ten minutes before had been tucked up high in the clouds. Bedraggled, wet and freezing was not how I had envisioned arriving at our 5* hotel in Havana.

More jokes, (my favourite being “How to speak Japanese on the beach” – “Y u so tan?” hahahaha. Ha.), some hairy bends on slippery, rain-soaked roads, speeding along, and then we were there.

The Parque Central Hotel was a paradise, a haven in Havana of bronze statues, marble, discreet smoke-holes, quiet, cool, calm. Waiting for us in our room was a complimentary bottle of Havana Club Rum - 7 year old – and a chocolate cake.

The first thing I did was have a hot bath – I know – a hot bath! But I was so cold from the rain and the tiredness made me shiver if the heavily air conditioned room. Then, with hindsight, I made the most fatal error of the holiday and cleaned my teeth with the tap water, despite many warnings not to.

“It’ll be OK” I trilled, “I’ve got my travellers probiotics.”

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel | tags: cuba, cuba time, havana, havana club rum, holiday, parque central, pina colada, rum, varadero. | #

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel | tags: cuba, holiday, varadero. | #

I just downloaded some pictures from my phone and rediscovered these beautiful flowers that compelled me to capture them in a little frame of time. They can be found in the Kibble Palace within the Botanic Gardens, which I visited recently with my friend Rachel. I hadn’t visited for years, which is usually the way when you live close to something. Tragic.

There is a whole amazon-jungle section complete with the dense canopy of exotic leaves and palms you would expect in tropical climes. An unmistakable musk of undergrowth; sweet and laden with promise permeates the air, the occasional droplet of condensation smacking onto the flora below. 

On the day we visited, there was a section cordoned off with the kind of plastic tape the police use to protect a crime scene. I wondered if someone was going to jump out in front of us and shout: “There’s been a murder!” in full Glaswegian patois, shooing us away with a gruff eyebrow and a bark worse than death. No one did. But it definitely got me to thinking that the Kibble would be quite a good place to commit a murder:

• Relatively quiet
• Lots of cover from plant life
• Soil to bury the evidence
• Hosepipes lying around to wash away footprints/blood

I’m not even into CSI but I do have an over-active imagination… Luckily on this occasion we got in and out safely, suitably inspired by the plants and flowers on display.

I particularly loved these specimens as they look so perfectly formed, so intricate; almost as if they have been carved from wax with a precision tool. A waxwork museum dedicated to flowers. That would be well worth a visit!

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Photography, Wannabe Journalist | | #

It’s there. In the garden. All bright and exciting and new and smelling of delicate cedars and pine and cherry like the inside of a sauna. I keep peeping out of the window to check it is still there. It is.

‘Operation Shed’ has been some time in the planning. From the realisation that the old shed – huge and spacious with all the little nails and hooks you could ask for – had two major flaws:

• It was built right next to the hedge, allowing dampness to conduct from the hedge to the shed every time it rained. Which was a lot.
• The roof was a ‘pent’ roof and had not been assembled correctly so was not at the optimal slant for drainage. Oh dear.

It all added up to a damp, slightly mouldy shed, threatening the sensitive equilibrium of the few things we kept in there…like the mower and the toolbox. It had to go.

Malleted down with force by husband (with help from my Dad), by some miracle our adjoining neighbour wanted to take it off our hands. Result! It was duly hauled over the hedge by the heft and flurry of his five brothers, leaving us with a nice square patch for the new arrival. Except underneath wasn’t a level base so we then had to buy, transport and shovel over half a tonne of builders gravel. We won’t mention that here…

The morning of ‘Shed Day’, I was ready with my paintbrush to get going straight away. Choosing the colour scheme had been such a difficult decision, but after debating between ‘Jack’s Potting Shed’, ‘Mary’s Watering Can’ and ‘Thomas’ Beehive’, we finally agreed on ‘Sea Holly’ from a totally different range of paint. Sorry Jack et al. Perhaps in another life?

It was only after I had done the first coat that I realised Sea Holly was pretty much identical to the colour of the feature wall in the bathroom. I really love deep, mystical turquoise – what can I say?

The inside was to be Thomas’ Beehive, a frothy primrose yellow (following a suggestion by my good friend Cara to up the ante on the interior shed decor), but when I looked at the smooth lines of the wood inside, the delicate finish, breathed in the delicious and somewhat intoxicating scent of new wood, I couldn’t do it. So the natural look prevails.

I laboured over two coats of Sea Holly, leaving the trim around the top and the window to be picked out in a contrast colour. Husband and I both decided a vibrant red would be the way to go, only to find that red isn’t an option for outdoor wood. It’s all about blending in with nature and muted garden tones. Right then. So a deep autumnal ‘Berry’ it was. And I am delighted with the result:)

There are no shelves up or anything yet, and the tools need to be hung nicely from well-positioned nails, but I thought that would be a nice job to embark upon with my Dad. Right Dad? You’re coming up for a visit soon aren’t you? Dad…

NB. For anyone wondering why on earth I would keep a broken teapot, it is because I have ’A Plan’ for it. A plan involving some kind of mosaic doorstep thing with plaster or cement or something. And I like the pretty colours and can’t bear to part with it. How often do you see a banana-print teapot anyway? That’s what my Mother said when she decided she really wanted it. For her birthday. So I secretly bought it for and she was delighted. So much so that when she made her first pot of tea in it, she forgot to empty it out and we just admired it on a shelf for weeks, probably months, until we wondered what the smell was. It was remnants of tea and teabags turned into a mini-mouldy-tea-compost. It was never used as a teapot again, for obvious reasons. Then the handle got broken off. And now it is destined to be turned into some crazy, haphazard doorstep mosaic; preserved and trodden on for the rest of its sad yellow life. Bananas!

4 Comments | In: Lifestyle, Trends | tags: berry, garden, new shed, paint, sea holly, shed, turquoise, wood. | #

Today I found the PVC sheet I made to cover up my bed when I lived with my Mum after university.

The Background

I made it to protect my duvet cover and pillows from the agitated affection of the cat; Mitzi. He (yes that’s right, a male cat called Mitzi. He had gender issues. We thought he was a girl), used to sneak off into my room in the quiet of the afternoon while I was at work. He would nestle at the foot of my pillows, stacked three high, supporting his deviously furry head, and curl around, paws sliding under the cover, claws kneading demonstratively into the thin fabric with its delicate embroidery, leaving dark, pin-prick holes.

Taking action to defeat him, I felt sad at the thought that I’d made his afternoons that bit less comfortable, when not long after I’d devised the PVC cover, he died. I still have the photo of him lying behind my bedroom door beneath the radiator; back paws peeping out provocatively, their pink pads rough and pink like his little tongue. I could have grabbed them and eaten them they were too cute, though his fur had begun to look mangy, yellowing. Was it the nicotine?

However, the PVC blanket was the perfect solution. I would lay it out on top of my bed performing two deterrent functions: it was slippery so would not hold any hairs if he did sit on it, and because it was slippery not warm and comforting, it put him off altogether. Cunning. No-one wants to sit on that kind of slinky-but touch-it-and-you-could-stick-to-it-surface, the kind that grips skin like a painful pinch or the sting of a plaster ripped off too fast. Not at all conducive to an afternoon nap.

Only the PVC alone wasn’t enough. It would slip, by its very nature, down the bed, leaving the coveted pillow position completely vulnerable to feline attack. I would come home from work safe in the knowledge my bed was cat-hair free, only to find him smugly licking his tail and purring in my fresh covers. Argh! So I had to alter the PVC sheet. I had to weigh it down at each end, so that it wouldn’t slide off the bed over the course of the day.

I used a collection of pretty stones and childhood marbles and little bits and bobs that I thought would complement the dreamy-blue hues of my room. I created little compartments so they wouldn’t rush and flood to one end of their ‘channel’, defeating their purpose, and split them into complimentary palettes of weight and of colour. It was quite a performance; a work of great mathematical, scientific and artistic accomplishment.

All worked well and there was only the occasional incident, like forgetting to put the PVC sheet on in the first place or leaving the door of my room wide open to temptation… Read more …

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel, Writing | tags: black obsidian, marbles, PVC, rose quartz, scratch patch, semi precious stones, simon's town, south africa, the scratch patch, tiger's eye. | #

It’s true: my mind is an ever-collapsing sand dune of ideas, inspirations, needy rants and buried treasure in the form of secret, detailed amazing memories that may or may not be completely fictitious. It is subject to the merest hint of a breeze, reshaping thoughts and feelings and plans. It simply cannot focus, instead sniffing and somersaulting into new territories like a greedy ferret.

Recently I have been extolling the virtues to anyone who would listen – and many who weren’t – of OneNote. It comes free with the Microsoft Office suite (2007 onwards, or you can buy it as a standalone package), and has quietly revolutionised my burgeoning collection of ideas, quotes, favourite words, things to do, places to go, secret recipes…everything in fact.

OneNote is an application that allows you to create multiple online ‘Notebooks’, linking pages, ideas and research together. I dabbled with it a few years back but was wary of its ‘handy hints’ and offers of help. Wasn’t a simple word document just as good Actually, no.

I stumbled into OneNote again recently and was re-inspired by notes and tit-bits I had collated in my initial foray, and subsequently forgotten about. I could pinpoint the exact dates too – OneNote automatically saves that information for you. Not just a snappy name then.

*** Disclaimer – I am in NO WAY associated with Microsoft or working on commission *** Read more …

3 Comments | In: Lifestyle, Wannabe Journalist, Writing | tags: brainstorm, creativity, docs, files, google, google docs, microsoft, mind map, mind mapping, notebooks, one note, onenote, organising, pages, planning, tabs. | #

I knew I’d enjoy it, that I’d relish every second and wouldn’t want to leave. It was like the pinnacle of self-actualisation, where thoughts and words and worries and dreams cease to exist as the body transcends reality and your soul plunges and soars with the jets of the Hydro Pool.

Being a 5-Star Spa, the moment the elevator transported us to minus one and we emerged into the sparsely lit vacuum of mood-lit elegance, the trigger to relax seeped through our veins. As I devised a secret code for my personal locker equipped with water, towel and robe, I could only begin to conjure the experiences that awaited us beyond the wooden door.

The Thermal Spa Experience: Birthday Treat for Mr J.

Image Copyright: The Townhouse Company Limited Read more …

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Wannabe Journalist | tags: 5 star spa, blythswood hotel, blythswood spa, blythswood square, crystal steam room, glasgow, hydro pool, ice flakes, laconium, relaxation, sauna, saunarium, spa, tepidarium, thermal experience, vitality pool. | #

Contrived this on a whim. Love the fish-eye perspective. The rest of the long-lost Berlin blogs are definitely on their way…

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Photography, Travel | tags: beetle, berlin, camera, car, fish eye, fisheye, imagery, photo, photography, road, sepia, volkswagen beetle. | #

After an inspiring and thought-provoking day at the Write Now Writing Conference at Strathclyde University - complete with delicious home-baking and coloured badges – I felt compelled to share this little gem that I ‘found’ last year using random words from my husband’s favourite computing magazine, Linux.

Found Poetry is such an interesting subject and a clever, accessible intro to the world of poetry which can sometimes seem an elitist club for the few who can master Haiku and Pantoums and the inexplicable ins and outs of rhythm, rhyme, assonance, alliteration and allegory.

The concept was first introduced to me when doing an online evening class in Creative Writing, also at Strathclyde.

The idea was to pick words/phrases at random from a magazine you wouldn’t normally read, and shape them, mould them and form them into something resembling a poem, all without thinking too much about it. It’s the ‘freeing up’ of the mind that is the focus, the process, rather than the end result. Though the end result can actually be rather interesting in itself…

The Back-Up

The back-up.

It’s exactly unclear. Rubbish!

Two connections I have witnessed:

Reboot. Gesture. Reboot.

Unclear? Exactly.

Make voice calls. Gesture. Reboot.

The foot won.

I have witnessed the back-up.

Two connections made me

think it’s exactly unclear.

The back-up.

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Trends, Writing | tags: creative writing, creativity, found poetry, glasgow, linux, linux magazine, magazine, poems, poetry, random words, strathclyde university, university of strathclyde, words, write now, writing. | #