Sometimes pictures are better than words. That’s how I feel about the streets of Havana anyway – mainly Havana Vieja (Old Havana) - in all their gory richness; the dichotomy of grand, colourful buildings basking in a halo of sunlight, replaced by shadowy vestibules of crumbling brick, exposed wiring and rotting trash round the next corner.

When I think about the explosive, corrosive, all-encompassing bath of heat in Cuba now, it feels like I over-exaggerated it even to myself. I guess it’s hard to put myself back there while wrapped up for winter wearing furry slippers with the heating at full blast. Maybe.

Comments Off | In: Lifestyle, Photography, Travel | tags: buildings, cuba, cuban architecture, havana, havana city, havana in pictures, havana vieja, holiday, hot, streets. | #

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. | #

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. | #

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. | #

One of my favourite beaches in the world is the remote beauty to be seen at Lossiemouth in the north of Scotland. My Dad has been taking me there for years now; a scenic afternoon jaunt and maybe a snack at the fabulous 1629 Restaurant. Or is it the 1828? I always get it mixed up.

Normally we walk right out along the beach, picking up shells and maybe having a quick paddle. The water is never what you could describe as ‘warm’, but on this particular occasion even the wind was bitingly cold so we gave the beach a miss.

I took some pretty pictures of the harbour instead – I find the little fishing boats and bigger tugs so fascinating with all their vibrant colours, interesting names and collective intrigue. Sadly, Lossie Harbour is no longer the thriving fishing port it once was. Dad remembers visiting as a young boy and being taken in by the busy bustle of men at work; the lively port atmosphere; the smell of the fish and the harbourside banter.

On the day we were there it was threatening rain, but the boats just bobbed about quietly as always. Serene and reassuring. We got ice cream on the front from Miele’s of Lossie, and sat in the car to eat it. Many people were doing the same just to get the full effect of a day at the beach, despite the lack of sunshine. Lucky Dad still has his big black umbrella…

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel, Wannabe Journalist | tags: 1629 restaurant, beach, boats, fishing, harbour, ice cream, lossie, lossiemouth, marina, miele's of lossie, port, rain, sea, seaside, shells, tugs. | #

When I look back with less-than-fond memories of my school days in the Highlands, I remember the appeal of going ‘down the street’ at lunchtime to find mischief, buy illicit cigarettes and sniff out some more appealing fayre than the school canteen had to offer. On a recent trip back in time, visiting my Dad who is well-suited to the rural pace of life, I found some interesting bits and bobs on the bright and shiny High Street of Grantown on Spey.

First up I spotted The Craft Lounge. If only it had been there when I was at school! I couldn’t wait to peek inside and found a veritable cornucopia of crafty gifts and mesmerizing craft supplies. From the felted owls that would do nicely as pin cushions, to the black and gold spotty ribbon I just had to have, Dad couldn’t get me out of there. I also bought faceted floral buttons, a necklace making set and some grey ‘button’ earrings of the kind I have always craved.

Moving along to Donaldson’sthe hardwear-cum-giftshop, I was looking for those spring/wire devices for displaying decorative plates on the wall. They had them in many sizes and only 59p each? Perfect! I splashed out on three. I also spotted some to die for cup-cake cases in metallic red, black, turquoise, gold and green. If only I had spotted those in time for my party eh? Perusing the shelves I pawed at hanging baskets for fruit and veg in the kitchen, olde-worlde clocks, bottle-cleaning brushes in an array of sizes and jam-jar lids with pretty paper covers. It’s another world of giftery and useful knick knacks that I just wouldn’t have time to browse usually. Maybe the rural life would suit me? There is always something going on.

Next up we popped into The Flower Box, which is all kitted out with pretty bird boxes and crates of flowers sitting on the pavement outside. I felt like I was having a Provence moment. From there it was into Chaplin’s Ice Cream Parlour for a chocolate milkshake made with a scoop of real ice-cream floating in the tall Knickerbocker glory glass. I fancied another but social etiquette forced me to decline.

A trip up to the good old Grantown Post Office even had me checking out the shelves – scrapbooks, stripy paperclips, coloured pens, chalk, sticky tape and Christmas decorations. What an exciting array to tempt you on the way to pick up a stamp! I also recognised a few of the other shops – Marjorey’s the hairdresser and The Candy Box the sweet shop.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Grantown on Spey is approx 35 south of Inverness, or 12-15 miles north of Aviemore. It has some pretty woodland walks, lots of Christmas lights with a New Year Street Party to rival any, my old Grammar School, a caravan site, Marjorey’s the hairdressers where I had my first (and only) perm, a fish doorknocker on someone else’s door that may or may not be a family heirloom and my Dad.

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel, Wannabe Journalist | tags: donaldsons, grantown, grantown on spey, high street, highlands, ice cream parlour, marjorey's, the candy box, the craft lounge, the flower box. | #

This weekend I’m enchanted with my wispy, ethereal photographs taken while staying at The Hideaway last week. The mood has my favourite ‘oh so autumn’ feel, and is evocative of chasing a white rabbit into a hidden clearing, or maybe following a fawn into a snow-covered wilderness…

A few of the pictures were taken while in the car (husband driving) and capture that fleeting sense of blink-and-miss-it beauty. The glorious misty golds and envious greens of the trees and leaves, with a hint at the damp tangle of undergrowth hovering in the air and the breath freezing in your throat. Amazing!

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel | tags: autumn, clearing, enchanted, ethereal, hidden, hideaway, leaves, misty, photographs, the hideaway, trees, undergrowth. | #

OK, so we got married in October 2008, but a five-day city break in Amsterdam does not a relaxing honeymoon make…

Once we were over the ‘I thought we were going to Cuba, now we’re going to the Cape Verde Islands’ shock, we got rather excited about the super-exotic paradise awaiting us. We weren’t disappointed. Departing Manchester at 9am on the Monday morning, the flight lasted a mediocre six hours. Darren was well equipped to cope however, with his Wide-Screen-Eye-Wear ‘cinema-goggles’ which allow you to watch films as if on a 52-inch screen, connected to his iPhone. I just had simple book, ‘The Secret Life of Bees’, which though good, didn’t hold my attention for the entire flight.

Cape Verde is a former Portuguese colony, gaining independence in 1975. It is an archipelago comprising ten islands – some mountainous, some flat and sandy – in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. They are the next group of Islands below the Canary Islands, off the West Coast of Africa. They enjoy a calming breeze off the Atlantic and experience around 30 days of rain a year, if they are lucky! We chose ‘Boa Vista’, which means ‘Beautiful View’. The two main languages on the island are Portuguese and Cape Verde Creole.

As we came into land, the hotel loomed large beneath us; a sprawling sand-castle in the desert. The airport was little more than a ruined fortress, completely open to the skies. There was a fair breeze, but the heat was a balmy 27C. Our passports were stamped, our cases were almost first off the conveyor, and an air-conditioned coach was ready to take us the five minute journey to our resort. Read more …

11 Comments | In: Travel, Wannabe Journalist | tags: africa, beach, boa vista, cape verde islands, holiday, honeymoon, paradise, portugese, praia, rabil, riu, riu karamboa, sal rei, sand buggying, santa monica beach, turtles. | #