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How to Cook the Perfect Biryani

When people think of Indian food, they often picture rich curries lying in a bain-marie. But what they don’t see, beyond the soft orange tones of their butter chicken, is the gentle yellow street lamps, the warm welcomes of the people and the varied histories of the different regions that create such timeless and unique dishes.

Hyderabad, grounded in history as the notorious pearl and diamond-trading centre of the East, was once one of the richest cities in India. And Osman Ali Khan, the last of seven Nizams to rule the city, was among the richest men in the world during his reign that spanned from 1911 to 1948. As a result, this southern Indian city is known for its lavish palaces, mosques and monuments, along with its rich and fragrant dishes generously seasoned with spices found in the country’s north and south. Add Persian, Arab and Turkish influences to the fresh, local ingredients and you have authentic and often decadent Hyderabadi cuisine.

With the city boasting more than 6.8 million locals, the walkways are frenetic, but there’s nothing to stop me from sampling some of the region’s finest street dishes. I snack on almost everything I lay eyes on, including lukhmi (small, square-shaped meat pastries) and mini onion samosa. I polish off the southern version of dahi vada (lentil dumplings in yoghurt flavoured with curry leaves and mustard seeds), and wash it down with a light buttermilk lassi (dairy-based drink) infused with rose syrup and blackened by cooling chia-like seeds.

I also devour the favourite local street snack mirchi ke bhajiye, a stuffed, deep-fried green chilli slathered in chickpea batter. It is delicious and only mildly spicy. Another local specialty is marinated mutton cooked on a hot granite slab. The meltingly tender meat bursts with flavour, despite only being served with lime wedges and red onion.

Although Hyderabad’s street food scene is an inspiring and delicious experience, the famous biryani (fragrant rice) is what I have really come to try. Regions around South Asia cook biryani quite differently, although it usually features chicken or mutton, and Hyderabad’s version is akin to the grandfather of this loved dish. Alchemy must occur within the pot, as the rice and meat are cooked together, but neither is overdone or undercooked. Delicate and fragrant, both ingredients retain their own flavours, while sharing a little of their taste to enhance the other.

As the most popular dish in Hyderabad, you’ll find biryani served almost everywhere, from local vendors to high-end restaurants, but the basic recipe remains the same, with the age-old traditional formula brought in by Muslim travellers centuries ago. I’m lucky enough to be invited to dinner at Nawab Mehboob Alam Khan’s the residence of – Hyderabad’s culinary king – for an authentic home-cooked feast and his take on biryani.

The deghra (traditional copper pot) his dish is cooked in is so big two people are needed to haul it into the room. A large knife is used to break the ‘seal’ on the lid and reveal the freshly cooked mutton and rice inside. This process, known as ‘dum’ cooking, sees dough clamped over the top to ensure no steam can escape. I’m told that once the pastry becomes browned and puffed the meal is ready to eat.

The Hyderabad biryani is normally served with a green chilli curry full of complexity and more akin to local southern cooking than to the Mughal-influenced food of the north. But for me the biryani is best served plain, as it needs little else. Especially Nawab Mehboob Alam Khan’s variety, which is delicious, moist and has lovely texture.

Hyderabad manifests the diversity of India’s cuisine, combining careful, classic cooking with quality ingredients to make meals that satisfy everyone, whether an individual eating a single samosa on the streets, a family dining on warmed biryani or a nation brought together by a rich, culinary landscape.

Anjum Anand’s supermarket range of sauces and daals called The Spice Tailor is available at Coles and Woolworths.
thespicetailor.com

ANJUM ANAND’S HYDERABAD BIRYANI

Serves 4

INGREDIENTS 
12 medium onions, finely sliced
500g lamb, lean cuts of leg with bone are ideal
1 small lemon, juiced
12 green cardamom pods
6 cloves
2 x 5cm cinnamon sticks
Handful chopped coriander (leaves and stalks)
Handful chopped mint leaves
200g chapati flour or strong bread flour
500g quality basmati rice
Large pinch saffron strands
4 tbs full-cream milk
Oil to fry

Marinade
½ tbs green papaya paste  (grate the flesh only)
½ tsp red chilli powder (or to taste)
1 tsp garam masala
¾ tsp shahi jeera (black cumin seeds), lightly pounded
10g ginger, made into a paste
4 large garlic cloves, made into a paste
110g plain yoghurt
Salt and freshly ground pepper

METHOD
1. Heat 5cm oil in a medium-sized saucepan and deep-fry the onions until just brown and crisp. Remove with your slotted spoon and place on paper towel. Reserve the oil.
2. Wash the lamb well. Prick all over with a knife and place in a bowl. Add all the marinade ingredients, as well as 2½ tbs lemon juice, 3 tbs of the onion oil and two-thirds of the cooked onion, crushed using your hands. Also add half the cardamom pods, cloves, cinnamon, coriander and mint. Mix with your hands to combine the flavours. Cover and leave to marinate in the fridge for a few hours or overnight.
3. When you are ready to cook, place the meat in a heavy-bottomed pan and allow it to reach room temperature. Make a firm dough with the flour and around 150ml water. Roll into a sausage; it should be as long as the circumference of the pan.
4. Wash the rice really well and soak for 20 minutes. Meanwhile, bring a large pot of water to boil with the remaining whole spices, herbs and 2 tsp lemon juice. Season well (it should taste salty).
5. Toast the saffron in a dry pan until crisp then add the milk. Bring to a simmer and cook for 90 seconds. Take off the heat.
6. Add the soaked rice to the water, return to a boil then start timing. The rice needs to come off in three minutes. When done, drain the rice, catching some of the water in a bowl. Spoon the rice over the meat.
7. Add 100ml of hot rice water to the saffron along with another 4 tbs of the onion oil and pour evenly over the rice. Scatter over the remaining onions. Place the lid on top and seal with the dough. Place over moderate to high heat and, after seven minutes (you might be able to hear the steam building up), turn the heat right down. Cook for 50 minutes. Turn off the heat and allow to sit for 10 minutes.
8. Pull off the dough and serve the contents slightly mixed through.

Buon Appetito!

During my time as a motorsport journalist, I knew exactly where to go for a good lunch. With any of the Italian teams, although supposedly racing, they always had time for bread, olive oil, espresso and pasta. They troubled to cart these things halfway across Europe, and I remember being impressed. Clearly these people knew something about food.

I’m less convinced now. Not after Sicily.

Hold your stones, foodies! I speak from bitter experience.

The trouble started at the airport, where the car rental guy suggested I wouldn’t find a feed along the autostrada at night. Fearful of starving in the wilds, I grabbed a pizza at a Palermo servo. It was thick and square and filled with enough boiling mozzarella to anaesthetise one’s mouth for dental surgery. Chewy isn’t the word – it was like eating a hot shoe with salami on top.

That was as good as it got. Next day in Noto, my beautiful hillside base of 20,000 souls, I thought I’d find a charming trattoria for a cheap, relaxed lunch. Naïf that I am! Sure, I did come across a cosy restaurant down a cobbled alleyway that offered cucina tipica Siciliana. Just one problem: Ristorante Meliora was closed until the evening.

Noto was deserted. A beggar woman came to me, making an eating gesture. At last, a Sicilian who was thinking about food! She’d probably been looking for a restaurant for years. About 150 of them by the looks of her. I wanted to cry. If she was still struggling after all this time, what hope did I have of getting a meal?

I’m used to swathes of southern Europe being closed on random weekdays, but this was too much. I couldn’t even find a place claiming to serve food on days when the owners did get out of bed.

Was a bowl of pasta, or, God forbid, a risotto so much to ask? This was Italy, wasn’t it?

At last a good samaritan led me to a sort of pie shop, which was dark and echoed. Its owner just stood there. It was rather like the shopkeeper sketch in Little Britain, but I managed to emerge with a few take-away arancini and something resembling a Cornish pasty, but filled with spinach and ricotta. It was viciously dry. Yes, another truth Italy’s culinary apologists don’t want me sharing: Italians are not good at pies.

Exhausted from my lunch quest and refusing to face another restaurant hunt, I went home and made do with a packet of chips and cold arancini for dinner.

The next day, I drove into the hills. I saw amazing things: hermitages in caves, spooky convents, towering viaducts. I explored a deserted for-sale house and found – not kidding – a skeleton on the driveway. And yet, I couldn’t find a ristorante for lunch. Not even a place that would sell me a small take-away sandwich. No wonder southern Europe was in recession; I had a wallet full of cash and couldn’t find anyone enterprising enough to take it.

Grumpily I went back into Noto, where I stumbled on a cafeteria-style place that looked pretty dubious. Behind the glass counter, however, I spotted something resembling tortellini; pre-cooked, slathered in red sauce and dumped in a bowl. Still, it was something I could point my finger at, and I was hungry. It reached my table at an indifferent temperature and had the texture of stale orange peel. Maccas could do pasta better.

That night’s gourmet Italian dinner at the B&B was French bread, Dutch cheese and Greek yoghurt. I know, right?

Then it was the weekend, and I hoped the local eating scene might burst into life. I thought Ristorante Meliora might be worth another try. But no. Closed. A suspicious local leaned out a window and yelled words to that effect, while looking at me like I was bonkers.

I pushed past a portly teenager in a bid to secure a pizza at a place labelled “pizzeria”, but all I found was a woman doing paperwork. She didn’t look up and I didn’t speak Italian. So I pushed back past the large lad (at least someone in Noto was well-fed), and it was another doomed night.

Italy had one more day to leave a good taste in the mouth. I gave nearby Siracusa a chance for Sunday lunch. And lo, I found an open trattoria with ease! Then they cooked me a tasteless, watery ragu and brought me a sizeable carafe of wine I didn’t want, for which they then tried to charge me. Foodie fail.

Look, Italian food is fine when it’s in a Jamie Oliver cookbook. But if you’re planning on going to the country itself, you might want to do a little more research than I did. Unless you’re planning on a weight-loss retreat, that is.

Under The Radar

But did you know that on the banks of the River Nile, in the heart of the Sudanese desert sits a collection of some 200 pyramids.

The forgotten pyramids of Meroë were once the centre of the ancient Kingdom of Kush, now modern-day Sudan. Though it was founded around 750BC, Meroë was not named the Kushite capital until 590BC after the fall of Napata. Ruled by the Nubian kings, Meroë thrived along a well-formed trade route that provided resources for the region. This UNESCO World Heritage Site now stands as a reminder this ancient civilisation’s history and is a place of burial for the former kings and queens of the lost nation.

Meroë Ruins, Sudan.
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A Hitch in the Beat

The idea of a quick trip to Oran had sounded like a good idea at the time, but somehow I had found myself in the uncomfortable spotlight at an Algerian bachelor party.

I’m pacing around my friend Reda’s house in Algiers, trying to clear my thoughts after three months living in the confinement of various hotel rooms. The Algerian music and cooking project I’m working on is in a rut, and I’m well and truly in need of a break.

Calmly strumming his guitar in a corner of the room, Reda suggests a change of scenery, and within a matter of hours we’re cruising along the East-West Highway towards the coastal city of Oran. Rain dampens the stunning scenery of the four-hour drive; perhaps it’s a sign of what was to come.

It’s two o’clock in the morning when we arrive at our destination, and our hostess, Yassia, who is also Reda’s sister-in-law, answers our early morning arrival with sleepy eyes and a big smile.

This isn’t my first time in Oran. I had previously visited the pretty town during the Oran International Arabic Film Festival last summer, where I was invited as a guest artist. I ended up staying an extra week to tap dance with a DJ and meet the locals, including some musicians.

After a relaxing day spent exploring the coastline and celebrating one of Yassia’s children’s birthdays, I decide to continue my night with some live music, making the most of the town’s festive atmosphere (live concerts exist in the capital but are unfortunately rare).

I get in touch with my musician friends who are booked to play at a ‘wedding’. They invite us along and ask me to bring my tap shoes.

It isn’t until I reach the top of the restaurant’s staircase that I find out Algerian weddings are not a mixed affair – it turns out that this is just the men’s side of the celebration and more like a bachelor party than the weddings I’m accustomed to. The room is full of men, and just as we sit down a band of horns and drums marches up the stairs hooting festively and bringing the crowd to a wild stand. I learn this is a tradition that is said to bring luck to the groom.

When my friends take to the stage, they pull me up with them. I’m expecting an original song, but instead, Daft Punk’s Get Lucky starts blaring from the instruments. It feels kind of cheesy but I tap dance to the tune and the men cheer me on.

Invigorated and slightly breathless from the dance, I rejoin Reda and his friend. Their faces have turned a slight shade of red. “We need to leave,” Reda tells me. I try to get him to stay for another song so I can say goodbye to my friends, but it’s glaringly obvious that something has upset him.

Moments later, we’re screeching down the road in the car with Reda behind the wheel yelling about the inappropriateness of what has just happened. I’m confused by his reaction – this performance was not dissimilar to others I’ve tapped to before. When probed, however, it all becomes a little clearer.

Reda announces that the men in the room didn’t know the difference between an artist and a prostitute, and he is in shock at the seductive ambience of the event, and even more so when he noticed men taking videos on their phones. In his opinion, he has just witnessed a respectable friend become the equivalent of a clothed ecdysiast and, by association, he’s the pimp. My nonchalant attitude to it all appears to only infuriate him more.

The tension is almost unbearable and I have a strange urge to leap from the moving vehicle. It’s an eye-opening, first-hand experience of the delicate male-female relations in Algeria. There is a code between families and friends, and the strong, protective nature of it can be as suffocating as it is comforting.

A few hours of strumming his guitar in solitude and Reda is calm once more. The next day we continue our musical encounters in a neighbouring town where we interview and jam with one of the country’s music legends, electric guitarist Lotfi Attar. Thankfully, it’s a very different experience to the previous night. A fascinating in-depth conversation about his involvement in the origins of Raï music ensues, followed by a long, exhilarating jam session.

But all’s well that ends with couscous, and that’s exactly what’s waiting for us at Yassia’s house for our final dinner in Oran. The wedding is well and truly behind us and we spend the rest of the night dancing, twirling and laughing deliriously to the hit songs of Lotfi’s group Raïna Raï.

Steam Cleaning

The matronly woman sitting behind the glass-fronted reception booth in Kotiharjun Sauna looks me up and down. Already, I can tell she’s pinned me as a first-timer – just another tourist coming to try out Helsinki’s oldest public sauna – so there’s no point in acting otherwise.

“How does it work?” I ask her.

“Towels cost three euros to rent, and the change room is through that door,” she says, pointing to her left. “Come in and out as much as you like.”

Since I’ve also booked a massage, she offers me a choice. “Male or female?” she asks.

“Female,” I blurt out. “Definitely female.”

She picks up the telephone and makes a call. Upon hanging up, she addresses me once again. “Okay, her name is Frida,” she says, fuelling steamy thoughts of an attractive  popstar sensuously kneading my back like there was no place else she’d rather be. “She will come and collect you when she gets here.”

I ask her what I should wear. “Nothing,” the woman answers. “Wrap a towel around you when you walk from room to room or if you go outside. Otherwise, you should be naked.” I swear she winks at me.

Inside the change room, the timber lockers look like they might have been the original installations from when the sauna first opened in 1928. I peel off multiple layers of winter clothing then stuff them inside, replacing them with a towel that I wrap around my waist for the walk to the adjacent sauna room. Others forego even that.

The sauna room is dark and clammy and the occupants are mostly older men. I can’t help but notice that all of them are completely nude, some more discreetly than others. When one of them asks me where I’m from – I haven’t said a word, yet he intuitively knows I’m not one of them – I tell him I’m from Australia.

“Oh, Down Under,” he replies. I reflexively cover my crotch.

The man, whose name I don’t ask, suggests I sit on the wooden upper level; the remaining three terraces are bare concrete. “We call it the pipe rack,” he says, referring to the hottest area inside the room.

It isn’t long before sweat begins to drip from my brow and pool at my feet. My nasal hairs also feel like they’re burning whenever I inhale and I start to wonder how long I can last when a tall, slender man pokes his head around the door.

“Anyone order a massage for three o’clock?” he shouts through the mist.

When no one answers, I gather he must be referring to me. “I did,” I reply, hesitantly, “but with Frida,” realising all of a sudden that Frida might be a man’s name in Finland, where they call their sons Kimi and Keke and Lasse.

“Your hotel rang and booked me directly yesterday,” he explains.

“Bugger!” I murmur, perhaps a little too audibly. “I guess it’s me then.”

I’m directed upstairs, where my masseur busies himself layering paper towels over a massage table that’s placed in the centre of an otherwise spartanly furnished room.

“Come. Lie here, face down,” he instructs.

“What do I do with my towel?” I ask.

“We can use it like a blanket,” he says to my relief; it means I won’t be completely vulnerable.

From that point forward, I’m able to relax while the 25-year trade veteran works on my back, neck and shoulders. Thirty minutes later and I’m wishing I’d booked an hour-long session.

When I leave the sauna and step outside, I feel great. My core temperature remains stable, my skin feels clean and my muscles are relaxed. Best of all, any fears I had about romping around naked in a roomful of strangers has been put firmly behind me. So to speak.

An instant itinerary for Amsterdam and beyond

As timeless as it is quirky, Amsterdam is the kind of place romantics put on their bucket list, and the type of destination travellers want to come back to. Ignore the rise of river cruise ships. Forget about the coffee shops. Instead, enjoy the curiosities in a city where you can ride a bike through a museum filled with billions of dollars of art – on your way to dinner at a restaurant whose previous tenant operated red light windows, of course. While Amsterdam’s tick-the-box attractions can easily fill your days, take advantage of the country’s excellent rail services to venture a little further to less visited destinations like Utrecht, Rotterdam and The Hague to truly understand why the Dutch way of life is so desirable.

Rotterdam’s market hall.
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AMSTERDAM – DAY ONE
Amsterdam is a city conquered by water. Get better acquainted with the waterways by hopping on a 75-minute canal boat tour departing Amsterdam Centraal Station. Next, book in advance to visit Amsterdam’s most important and sombre attraction, Anne Frank House, where the young girl hid during the Nazi occupation of Holland. Afterwards, head to the nearby Begijnhof for some quiet reflection away from the din of bicycle bells. Considered the city’s worst-kept secret, the garden and private chapel is accessible by an unmarked heavy wooden door just off the plaza known as the Spui. When darkness falls, check out the Paradiso, Amsterdam’s cathedral turned live music venue, favoured by performers for its acoustics and atmosphere.

Amsterdam’s iconic architecture.
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AMSTERDAM – DAY TWO
After an obligatory tiptoe through the tourists at the Bloemenmarkt, the city’s floating flower market, head to Museumplein to get your culture on. Seeing Holland’s best art galleries in a day requires strategy: pre-book and hit the Van Gogh Museum when it opens, follow with a lap of the underrated Stedelijk modern art museum next door, before rounding out the day at the Rijksmuseum when crowds have dropped off. At dusk, visit De Wallen, the city’s old Red Light District. Worthy of a visit but vastly overhyped, bypass the overpriced bars here and head down the cobbled Zeedijk, settling into one of the city’s old brown bars (so named for their wooden interiors) for a tipple of jenever (Dutch gin).

AMSTERDAM – DAY THREE
Keep the party going with a visit to the Heineken Experience, showcasing Holland’s best-known beer export. Along with organised tours and sample beers, you can pick up what is for many the ultimate souvenir: a bottle of beer with your name on it. Not quite your cup of brew? Those looking to fill their suitcases should seek out Amsterdam’s 9 Straatjes or Nine Streets, a stylish concentration of the city’s best local designer stores, art galleries, upmarket cafes and vintage shops. From there, put your pedal power to good use to explore the leafy green surrounds of the picture-perfect Jordaan residential and arts neighbourhood, or if you’re not museum-ed out, head to Hermitage Amsterdam, which hosts satellite exhibitions on loan from the larger Russian collection in Saint Petersburg.

UTRECHT – DAY FOUR
Jump on a train to Utrecht, a university town described by locals as Amsterdam without the tourists. Rent a bike from the tourist office, and head out along the River Vecht past the eighteenth-century windmills, historic country castles and tiny villages for a taste of local life in the Dutch countryside. In the afternoon, return your bike and climb up the 600-year-old, 112-metre Dom Tower, the city’s most famous landmark. After smashing the 400-odd steps to the top, reward yourself with a beer at Oudean, a medieval castle turned brewery on the canal in the historical centre. Finish the day at Olivier, a decommissioned church turned Belgian beer cafe.

ROTTERDAM – DAY FIVE
The Netherlands’ most futuristic city is an hour away from Amsterdam, but a world away in modern design. Take in its jarringly post-modern architectural highlights including Erasmus Bridge, the famous yellow cube houses and the enormous tunnel-esque Market Hall. While adventurers can abseil down the landmark Euromast observation tower, those after a slower pace should seek out the Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen. In the late afternoon, stretch out on a terrace for some premium people watching opportunities along the Witte de Withstraat, one of the city’s most vibrant bar and arts hubs. Once you’ve sunk your pint of Amstel, browse the collection of museums and art galleries, keeping an eye out for de Aanschouw, the world’s smallest art gallery, with works changing weekly.

YOUR TRIP
Accommodation
Accommodation can get pricey in Amsterdam. Dorm beds at the Flying Pig start at US$15, while Hans Brinker, which once dubbed itself the ‘worst hotel in the world’ has twin share rooms for US$39. Our pick? Stay in a houseboat B&B on the canals. Prices vary depending on the season, with cheaper, more spacious options located out of the main canal belt with bike rental from US$108 for two.
flyingpig.nl
hansbrinker.com
houseboatrental.amsterdam
TOTAL = US$540 (or US$270 per person)

FOOD AND DRINK
Holland’s best culinary treats are cheap and cheerful. During summer, pickled herring (affectingly known as Dutch sushi) can be sampled for a few euros, while bitterballen (deep-fried gravy meatballs) are a popular bar snack. At 3am nothing beats a fried treat from a FEBO hole-in-the-wall coin machine, but for a filling, sit-down meal, try Caribbean-style Suriname food. Plan on budgeting around US$72 per day.
TOTAL = US$360

TRANSPORT
Return flights from Sydney to Amsterdam with KLM – US$1181
Return train to the airport – US$13
Train ticket Amsterdam to Utrecht return – US$21
Train ticket Amsterdam to Rotterdam return – US$37
Bike hire for five days – US$45
TOTAL = US$1297

TOURS AND ACTIVITIES
Anne Frank House – US$12
Canal Boat Tour – US$37
Van Gogh Museum – US$22
Rijksmuseum – US$23
Stedelijk – US$21
Dom Tower – US$10
Heineken Experience – US$21
The Hermitage – US$21
Euromast abseiling or ziplining – US$65
Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen – US$20
TOTAL = US$252

GRAND TOTAL = US$2179

DESTINATION HIGHLIGHTS
From the city to the coast and countryside, the Netherlands is one of the most liberal and forward-thinking European countries – it’s also an engineering marvel. While most visitors are aware Amsterdam is below sea level, few know that over a third of the country is too.

VITAL STATS
They say there are more bicycles than people in Amsterdam, with 800,000 bikes in the city – but what happens to them all is a mystery to most. Many are dumped, some stolen, but thousands are estimated to end up in the canals each year, so it’s worth not just locking but also securing your rental bike each time you hop off.

WHEN TO GO
Spring (coinciding with tulip time) and summer is peak season for the city, however with most attractions located indoors, Amsterdam is the perfect year-round destination.

TOP TIP
Visiting during summer? Rock your socks at Friday Night Skate. Rollerblading might have fallen out of fashion elsewhere, but lives on in Amsterdam. Each Friday evening during summer the streets are shut down and thousands show up to skate behind DJs in trucks blasting tunes along a kilometre-long route. It’s so popular, there’s also a Wednesday Night Skate in Rotterdam.

FURTHER INFORMATION
iamsterdam.com

The Real Paradise Islands of French Polynesia

Getting lost on an island with just one sealed road and only 45 square kilometres of tropical land is no small feat, but it happens almost immediately upon my arrival at Tubuai. To lose my way, I pole across the lagoon to the surf-foamed outer reef, feeling stately and over-confident on an 11-foot paddleboard.

Polynesians famously explored the far-flung corners of the Pacific using only the stars as their guide. It is one of the most remarkable achievements in human navigation as Polynesia’s perimeters are as broad as Russia and its islands merely dots in a vast blue expanse. But as I glide about Tubuai, idly appreciating the skills of the ancient way-finders, I eventually arrive at an unfamiliar landmark with one pressing question: where the hell am I?

I paddle to land to find a pig, a horse and then a road, which can only be the road. With my back stained in saltwater streaks, I pass giggling school kids who point me further down the way toward the wipa, my family-run pension. In Tahitian, Wipa can mean wind or island, but locally it’s used as an emphatic greeting accompanied by a karate-chop hand gesture, all because of a man by the name of Willson Doom.

Cocoperle Lodge is one of only two pensions on the seldom visited French Polynesian island of Ahe.
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Willson is a silver-haired patriarch with a big belly laugh and infectious teenage enthusiasm, and my host at Wipa Lodge. A former big wave surfer, he took up skateboarding in his 40s when he returned to his home island where he would counter the lack of suitable surfaces by piloting his modified skateboard deck down mountain passes at breakneck speeds. “Yeah man,” he assures my disbelieving expression, “seventy kilometres an hour straight down.” In my mind, I could picture it, as a middle-aged man flies past startled livestock, his life hanging in the balance, and the tropical air filled with a bellowing “WIPE-AH!”

Tubuai is part of French Polynesia’s southernmost archipelago, the Austral Islands. If you’ve never heard of them, you’re in good company. Most of Tahiti’s visitors rarely stray from the popular tourist islands (Bora Bora, Moorea and Huahine) where paradise tends to be refined, enhanced and expensive. Loved up honeymooners and cashed up billionaires are catered for with extravagant dining, over-the-lagoon bungalows and attentive staff. Johnny Depp, Barack Obama and Tom Hanks are among the A-listers rumoured to have visited in the previous month alone.

Mount Taita’a looms out of verdant jungle on Tubuai, one of Tahiti’s southernmost islands.
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Tahiti is so associated with luxury and glamour it is often dismissed as being exclusively about these things. The reality, however, is quite different. If you’re keen on unscheduled adventure, fresh fish, world-class diving and a blueprint for paradise, then French Polynesia’s abundant beauty offers a variety of rarely visited islands that can be enjoyed on a modest budget.

Tubuai, the largest of the distant Australs, has two mountains, a placid lagoon that’s almost twice the size of the island and a handful of small atolls, which hug its perimeter like pilot fish. The people of the island live simply, farming in the rich volcanic soil and fishing for protein and sport. There are just two pensions available to travellers, but I appear to be the only current visitor, which means boat rides out to the atolls for snorkelling and fishing are off. Instead, I’m forced to nose about, talk to strangers and get to know Willson. Turns out, I get to experience a lot more of the island this way.

At Wipa Lodge, I find a rusty paperweight that I’m told is a cannonball from the HMS Bounty, and I feel the heavy weight of history in my hand. It was found nearby at Bloody Bay where a mutineer, Christian Fletcher, and his followers clashed with locals on their ill-fated attempt to establish a rebel Eden. The Tubuians became hostile and managed to send the mutineers packing after five months, but not before many of them had been killed and far deadlier diseases introduced.

The cannonball is not a lone historic artefact here. Fish hooks and other ornaments Willson has found in his yard adorn the lodge, and as my host explains their likely origins, he becomes animated. Suddenly, he leaves the room, reappearing with an antique spear, which he throws expertly in my direction. Before I know it, we’re in his wife’s car gunning down the road. There’s something Willson would like me to see.

A hermit crab takes a stroll through the sands of Ahe.
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We come to a stop in a grassy field, surrounded by mango trees. Willson’s face becomes serious as he instructs me to choose three wildflowers in silence, and then invites me to lay down my offering in a cleared area beneath jungle foliage. We are alone in an ancient marae, a public sacred space used on the island as a place to consult gods and make offerings. Willson adopts an earnest tone and a stage whisper as the shadows deepen. He tells me about the gods, demons and visions, and tells me that all around me, babies were born, elders buried, spirits awoken and gods placated. This is where origin stories and hard-won knowledge have been passed down through the generations.

Before I say my goodbyes to Tubuai, I go for one last blurt around the island with Willson, who I discover was chosen to be the custodian of Tubuai’s cultural heritage, an honour that he says has transformed his life. In a final moment of solidarity, he farewells me with a bear hug and a small rock, “A piece of my island for you,” he says. I give him a final wipa salute and the special moment leaves my arms prickled with goose bumps. I leave the island with a newfound understanding of Tahitian culture, spirituality and history, but it’s the personal connection with the charismatic Willson and his passion for his cultural heritage that stays with me.

Costumed dancers take to the floor in Tubuai’s village square.
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A local Tubuai woman makes furniture out of local timber.
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On Tahiti, the Heiva festival is in full swing. It’s one of the longest-running festivals in the world and the two-week celebration of Polynesian culture is celebrated with dancing, music, and sporting contests. I make the most of the festivities, and as I watch Tahitians dance, soar and sashay feathers and plumes across Papeete’s harbor-side auditorium, I quickly understand why European sailors risked rebellion and refused to leave this bountiful island chain.

From feathers to scales, I wing over the Pacific to Ahe, an island in the Tuamotu Archipelago. These low-lying, lightly inhabited atolls are known for their world-class diving and fishing. Ahe, a former pearl farm, is shaped like a necklace and encircles a large lagoon. White sands, aquamarine water and arched palms indulge my wildest escapist fantasies. The water is gin-clear, blood-warm and teeming with life and within hours of my arrival I’ve managed to hook a fish, sight a shark and feed a ray.

“The best fishing in Polynésie Française,” a smiling Tahitian tells me, loading our boat with supplies for our diving adventure. Unlike my soloist trip on Tubuai, there are ten of us staying at Cocoperle Lodge, one of only two pensions on Ahe. Everyone is either French or Tahitian, but they adopt me, the only English speaker, like an endearingly dim pet. I’m grateful for the translations but just as happy to let the conversation wash over me.

Into the blue: a camouflaged spearfisher blends into the coral garden off Ahe.
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The boat takes us across the lagoon and through its narrow opening, the gateway to the outside reef. As my French companions and I splash into the iridescent blue and kick towards the inner reef, we see schools of bright fish and a black-tipped reef shark above a rainbow of hard and soft corals. Many dive experts rate the Tuamotus as the best place to snorkel in French Polynesia, as their lagoons and healthy reefs harbour a symphony of colours and creatures.

The fishers on our boat haul in a seafood feast as we attempt to outrun the storm dramatically building behind us. There’s a chance to return after lunch but I’m happy to laze away the afternoon, wading into the lagoon whenever my skin dries and daydreaming about absconding to Tahiti. That’s exactly what my French host, Frank, did in the 80s when he married a local girl and built Cocoperle up from the jungle.

It’s not hard to see why so many have fallen for Ahe over the years. From my hammock in the Tuamotus, the real world seems harried and hard-edged. I wonder if I could live out the rest of my days here, practising French, learning to dance and raising my children as spear fishers. Instead, I settle for bringing a little of Tahiti home with me. Along with my rock from Tubuai and local recipe for salade de poisson cru (raw tuna salad), I leave this pristine part of the world with an enhanced appreciation for the beauty of the natural world and a newfound relaxed attitude to schedules.

As my plane banks, I steal one last look at this beautiful family of islands. They become mere specks in the distance, and I reminisce, in awe of all I’ve experienced on my visit to French Polynesia’s hidden gems. My window’s view is filled with blue ripples of the Pacific Ocean, and I think to myself how wonderful it is that we may be cultures apart, but it’s the very same ocean that laps at my local beach and connects me to my new Tahitian friends.

The Big South

Who would have thought a marine safari could be so exciting? I’m on a boat swaying by a rocky platform where male sea lions are guarding their harems with strangled croaks. The persistent Patagonian wind ruffles their manes – surprisingly dry, for the males dare not dive into the sea.

If they did, competitors would steal their females in a flash. The harems are delineated with virtual walls – should any other male step beyond an imaginary partition, a fight ensues. But not for long. Every macho on the platform is worried about the teenagers swimming in the sea below. Not as well built but horny and tenacious, they wait for an opportunity to pounce when a herder isn’t looking. Suddenly all hell breaks loose. One harem disappears under the manic flapping of a million seagull wings. A male chases them off only to be attacked by a flock of South American terns. Other males scoot away awkwardly on their flippers. Their females follow them with the pups flapping clumsily behind. The teenagers swimming under the rock ledge prick up their ears. A giant petrel dives imperiously, disperses the terns with authority and picks up something bloody with its beak.

It’s a sea lion placenta, and I’ve just witnessed a birth; Patagonia certainly humbles you in more ways than one.

It’s difficult to believe the pup hasn’t been pecked to death, but there it is, tucked safely under its mother. She’s pushing to birth the last bit of placenta under the hungry eyes of a kelp gull. In a week she’ll be in heat, her mate will demand her favours and she’ll conceive next year’s baby.

Hiking the Sendero Cocinero in Los Alerces National Park.
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Watching wildlife is a big tourist industry on Peninsula Valdes and every season has something different to attract the traveller. Although the southern right whales that migrate between June and December to give birth in the safe waters around Valdes have disappeared by the time I arrive, Magellanic penguins are still feeding their chicks along the Patagonian shore. At Estancia San Lorenzo, at the northern tip of Valdes, the overwhelming smell of regurgitated fish makes me wish I had not stuffed myself with barbecued lamb an hour earlier. Here, the penguin parents are doing their silly walks to the sea to catch fish, and their chicks open their beaks trustingly at anything remotely big and black, like my Nikon camera. When the Almighty created birds, She certainly had fun fashioning the penguins.

Most other wildlife is best seen around the artificial irrigation systems of the estancias (farms). Apart from the ubiquitous sheep, the easiest animals to spot are the graceful guanacos, always eyeing humans curiously as if debating whether we’re harmless enough for a closer look. Rheas, the stumpy cousins of the ostrich, have made up their minds and keep a respectful distance.

Walking part of the old wagon route from the Atlantic to Esquel.
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The next day I’m on my way to the mountains, hitching a ride with Gustavo and Paula who are working in Puerto Madryn, the gateway to Valdes, and are visiting family in Esquel, the regional administrative centre in the Andes. Leaving Valdes, I become acquainted with the tinamu, a pheasant-like bird. Unlike rheas, tinamus don’t just cross the road in front of us – they panic and change trajectory halfway across. Gustavo slams on the brakes, raising huge amounts of dust so we can never tell whether we’ve dodged or flattened them. It’s hard to put hand on heart and swear we left the roadside tinamu population as we found it, but I promise we tried.

Ever since Bruce Chatwin immersed himself in its vastness and praised its beauty, Patagonia has had a permanent hold on our imaginations. Although geographically it includes the densely forested Andes and a coast that teems with life, it is the plain between that defines it. Focusing in the distance on this interminable stretch of land is akin to revisiting your childhood, when the world was a vast unknowable universe and everything seemed so far away – the future included.

Patagonia may be flat, dry and windy, but it’s certainly not featureless. Humans have played their role here. At Loma Blanca wind turbines break the horizontal monotony. Beyond the cities of Trelew and Gaiman the landscape becomes exciting, as the Ruta Nacional 25, which stretches from Rawson to Tecka, follows the Chubut River, the life-giving aquatic lord of the province.

Getting close to the locals on a marine safari in Peninsula Valdes.
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The ever-present gold-and-green tufts of the coirón, a tussock that has been our main companion in the marine zone, are now giving way to the scrub of the inland steppe. Some of the plants are in bloom: for several kilometres a yolk-yellow carpet of buttercups presses from both sides onto the highway. They are called botón-de-oro and women collect them in baskets. The Tehuelche Indians use them in tea as a remedy against colds.

At kilometre 255, we stop by the Carbon Canyon to exercise our legs. The canyon, with its coal-black walls, is a newly protected area and the walk through the long grass to a small waterfall is short and easy. We find a flat granite surface with recesses clearly carved by humans. Here, the Tehuelche used to sharpen their arrows. It’s a choice location, because opposite grows a duraznillo bush, bearing highly noxious berries. After sharpening their points, the Tehuelche dipped them in its poison. Like a yellow danger sign, the decomposing carcass of a guanaco is lying by the bush.

At Los Altares, our journey’s midpoint, there are signs triumphantly announcing mobile reception: Acá hay siñal cellular. It is the clincher to whether we’ll have a sit-down meal or grab a sandwich and move on. We decide to stay and stare at our smartphones while we eat at Marta’s, the only village inn. There are just three options: chicken with fries, empanadas (meat pies) or hamburgers. Paula points at a recess above our table draped in red with an icon in the middle. She explains to me reverentially that it’s a shrine to Gauchito Gil. He’s a Robin Hood figure of the pampas, who has been performing miracles all over Argentina since he healed, from beyond the grave, the son of the policeman who killed him. Although not canonised, he’s the choice figure for prayer in Argentina’s vast interior.

On Lake Menendez en route to the forest.
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After Los Altares the road becomes narrower and distinctly worse. There’s more foliage than dusty rock and the sheep herds are larger. By kilometre 411 the mountain ranges first appear, yet they’re still 350 kilometres away. At Tecka, we can finally discern snow on the mountaintops. We fill up at the last petrol station before Esquel. It’s around here we finally lose the quilimbai, a thorny thistle with yellow flowers that’s followed us all the way from the ocean. The sky is cloudy and grey and, for the first time, we notice cows in the fields. The only thing that disturbs the serenity of the uniform, green landscape is the occasional row of cypresses announcing an estancia.

We have been travelling for nine hours when, just before sunset, we reach the gate of the Los Alerces National Park. Gustavo and Sandra drop me off at Hosteria Futalaufquen, a 1940s stone-built hotel that looks upon a glacial lake surrounded by southern birch and cedars.

I’m here to see some giants, but unlike the Patagons of lore, these ones are real.

A horse farm on the way to Esquel.
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When the Spanish arrived, this region was full of enormous trees they casually dubbed alerces (larches). The local Mapuche Indians called them lahuán (grandfathers) because they were the oldest and grandest beings in the forest. The Mapuche were right. These titans are closely related to the Californian redwoods and are some of the oldest living things on the planet. All too predictably the Spanish felled them, since their timber was perfect for shipbuilding: tough, yet pliable and light. In 1937 the park was established to protect them, but the trees were still being cut; the last conviction for illegal felling was in Chile only three years ago. Nowadays they are endangered. Although the odd tree might grow alone in some solitary spot, the alerce forest, called the Alerzal, exists in a remote corner where a restricted number of visitors may enter every day.

There is no walking path to the Alerzal, so I board a boat from Puerto Chucao, a small harbour on Lake Menendez. Our 50-strong crowd must dip our shoes in an antiseptic bath before we’re allowed on board. There are deadly fungal spores in the forest and someone has finally started caring about the health of the trees that remain.

It’s a 45-minute trip on the lake to the rather grandiose-sounding Puerto Sagrario, consisting of a single hut where a solitary ranger keeps watch over the forest. This is also Patagonia, captain, but not as we know it. The weather is as changeable as on the plains, but any sunny interludes alternate with dark, saturated clouds that spit their load on us and move on. Patagonia’s landscape varies dramatically because so does the rainfall. On Valdes it’s only 200 millimetres per year. As we go west it rises exponentially: at Esquel it’s 700; at Puerto Chucao 2500; and at the Alerzal it’s 4000.

The alerce that welcomes us is 57 metres high. It has us craning our necks and moving back in a vain attempt to capture its majesty with our cameras. This colossus was alive when Homer wrote his epics; its age is estimated at a whopping 2600 years. Another alerce lies on its side, the hollow of its trunk gazing at us like a haunting museum exhibit. We pass it and follow the path under a gallery of colihue, a perennial bamboo that flowers every 70 years. The stems are brown and withering, because the last time this happened was the year before. At the time, the park was invaded by rats that consumed the seeds covering the forest floor. The rats disappeared as mysteriously and suddenly as they’d arrived when there were no more colihue seeds.

At the end of the trail, we reach a waterfall at Lago Cisne. Several alerces stand around the lake, as they have for centuries, but the ranger draws our attention to a small sapling, no more than 60 centimetres tall with leaves that look like basil. It’s a baby lahuán, only 12 years old. Will it survive the next century? The next millennium? It could, but I know I won’t.

Patagonia certainly humbles you in more ways than one.

Weekender Delights

I’m butchering an oyster in a rookie attempt to shuck my waterside snack. The shell splinters as I clumsily try to crank it open with a knife, narrowly avoiding skewering my hand in the process. Eventually it hinges open, revealing a plump nugget bathing in a small puddle of the purest Tasmanian ocean water. My salivating taste buds are not disappointed when I slurp down the freshest, saltiest oyster I’ve ever eaten.

Our delicious bounty was plucked minutes ago from Ford Bay’s shallows by Tom, one of our guides on the Bruny Island Long Weekend food and walking tour. The private farm on the island was started by a Sydney stockbroker who decided to try his hand at growing oysters after the global financial crisis of 2007. We have exclusive access to these self-serve oysters, and it’s a delicious way to cap off our first day. Tom shucks as fast as he can to keep up with the all-you-can-eat demand, but eventually he admits defeat and declares the pop-up restaurant closed. It’s a natural protein shot following the day’s five-hour hike.

Bruny Island Long Weekend taps into the beloved institution of the three-day weekend, offering a mate’s insider tour of the island’s gems. Beyond the tourist trail, it combines three days of hiking with premium local food and wine. I’m here to taste it all and hopefully burn it off. The trip is ambitiously labelled as calorie-neutral but that seems unlikely faced with the prospect of all the fine produce.

The only way home is up and over the Jurassic dolomite cliffs.
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We arrived this morning via the Derwent River, skirting down the coast on a roaring spin onboard Pennicott Wilderness Journeys’ giant inflatable craft. A swift 45-minute jet ride from the Hobart docks, Bruny Island is a miniature copy of the Tasmanian mainland. It has a unique microcosm of diverse weather, wildlife, terrain and food, packed within 362 square kilometres. Today’s walk covers 12 kilometres along a squiggled coastline bordered by rugged bushland, leading us to the peak of Cape Queen Elizabeth.

Tom and our second guide, Dave, lug weighted packs, a heavy comparison to our much lighter daypacks. The group settles into a cracking pace and within minutes of leaving the van we are deep in the wilderness and totally off the tourist grid. As the sandy path gives way to a steep rubble goat track, it’s evident that this weekend is no leisurely stroll. The terrain varies between muddy sludge, crumbling rock and knee-jarring sand. I focus on negotiating my steps up the lung-straining incline over the first cape, wary of stepping on an agitated jack-jumper or a slithery surprise. It isn’t long before a piercing yelp ahead halts the group. A venomous copperhead snake blocks our track but while I fight my urge to flee, it graciously gives way.

Bruny Island treats us to four seasons in one hour. One minute my skin is sizzling under the searing Tassie sun, then rain and icy winds force a pit stop to layer up. Before long, I’m steaming and overdressed as the sun makes its return. Thankfully, bushwalking funnels your focus on just the few metres ahead, making life’s complexities and woes vanish. It’s very cathartic finding a rhythm and I let my mind drift  off with the muted roar of the waves.

We are mere specks measured against the epic surrounds. The summit exposes a dramatic panorama that seems impossible to even partially conquer in just three days. Layers of peaks wrap around us, while below dozens of bays cut into the mainland. It looks remote and inhospitable under moody skies, but transforms as the sun escapes the clouds and lights up the turquoise waters and blinding white sand.

We traverse down the ocean side and hit rolling sand dunes. Sheer cliffs of mudstone and Jurassic dolomite drop straight into the water, and tessellated sculptures, beaten by centuries of weather, decorate the beach like an open-air gallery. Our shortcut home is blocked by the tide and we’re at an impasse with the cliff base, but rather than backtracking we opt for a little off-roading, climbing up and over the precarious rock formations pounded by the waves. The pace lifts during the final stretch, a silent collective push to bring forward happy hour.

The camp is tucked deep on the south island within South Bruny Forest, the island’s oldest forest. Four basic apex tents host luxurious king-sized beds within their canvas walls and a toilet hut features a long drop toilet with a dignified modern throne on top. A cubby-house nestled on the lush forest floor is in fact the outdoor shower. It is liberating being exposed in, and to, nature. Immense eucalypt trunks tower past the open front with the rustling canopy high above. I huddle under the steaming blanket of water with a front row seat to the feathered entertainment of this twitchers’ paradise, not wanting to turn the water off and give the next person their turn. I relinquish the urge to stay, knowing happy hour awaits our arrival in the dining room: a serving of Bruny cheese, crisp Sauvignon Blanc and a roaring fire. Tom and Dave impress with a feast of fresh scallops in white wine, lamb rump with chimichurri, and leatherwood honey panna cotta, filling our bellies for a night of slumber surrounded by nature.

Tom helps himself to a delicious bounty of fresh oysters.
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Fresh from the bay oyster.
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My body awakens like a seized-up Tin Man, but is swiftly remedied with a morning shower to soothe it into submission. Today is a 15-kilometre hike through the South Bruny National Park, which starts with a long walk along Cloudy Bay. To the eye, the beach appears a short stroll, but an hour later we are still plodding along the coastline. Reaching the base of East Cloudy Head, Tom breaks the news that we now face a two-hour uphill slog. The terrain is distinctly more mountainous and rugged. We push through sharp, attacking thicket as we follow a mostly concealed overgrown track. It’s definite bush bashing with the landscape serving up its fair share of back-handers and kneecapping.

We plod one foot after the next, starting to hope each rise is our final hurdle. In my mind’s eye, our ant-line formation resembles the Von Trapp family fleeing Austria in the closing scene of The Sound of Music. It feels extremely isolated with either looming mountains above or sheer cliffs below. The powerful aura of hiking a dramatic coastline that has remained unchanged since the first European explorer, Abel Tasman, reached its shores in 1642, isn’t lost on me. At the pinnacle of the climb, I struggle to pinpoint our origin in the distance. What we’ve covered feels expansive, but in reality we’ve only trekked a tiny portion of the map.

We retrace our steps downhill in record time. Along the descent, chatter of ‘wine o’clock’ propels us forward, and a proposed ocean plunge divides the group – it’s a chilly venture considering the polar neighbour down south. I hurriedly change behind a tree, then sprint and dive before second thoughts kick in. The temperature is shocking, numbing and then outright painful, but also energising.

We collect some renowned smoked pork from chef and host of SBS series Gourmet Farmer, Ross O’Meara, before we head back to debrief on the deck. The Bruny oysters, pork rillettes, cheese and wine are fine examples of how this small island, and greater Tasmania, has firmly stamped its place on the global gourmet map. The weekend definitely tipped over into calorie-positive mode, but who am I kidding? I was never here to balance that line.

After Dark Belfast

You feel the warmth immediately. And before you ask, no, it’s not the weather. “Belfast is like a village – everyone knows everyone,” says Dee, my guide. And that sense of community is evident from the moment you set foot in the city. Locals greet each other on the street, help visitors with directions without a grumble and strike up conversation with strangers at the pub. An intimacy runs through the city’s cobbled streets that Dublin, with its cosmopolitan atmosphere, lacks. Here, there’s always a story to be told: you’ll spot tales splashed across building walls or hear them muttered in the corner of a bar. And there’s a watering hole on almost every street. In fact, there are so many to choose from you could spend a week here and not have time to drink in each one. Let the craic begin!

3.30pm
Belfast is still, to this day, a city feeling the effects of its complex past, and there’s no better way to delve into its chronicles than on a Black Cab Political Tour. Learn about the city’s landmarks and history of sectarian violence as you zigzag through the northern and western suburbs. Some of the stories behind the sights are incredible, but it’s the murals that will leave you floored. Unable to speak on camera, activists in the 1970s and 80s created protest art, painting their feelings about the violence and oppression in murals on the city’s walls, many of which remain today. The largest is the Peace Wall on Cupar Way, which separates the Protestant and Catholic neighbourhoods, and is splashed with vibrant images and thousands of messages of hope from both locals and visitors. When booking your tour, ask for Billy Scott. His depth of knowledge is nothing short of extraordinary and it’s delivered with a wicked sense of humour.
Touring Around Belfast
touringaroundbelfast.com

A pit stop at Cupar Way is a stirring experience.
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5pm
After your lesson in Northern Ireland’s history you’ll be parched, so ask Billy to drop you off at Crown Liquor Saloon. A Belfast institution, this pub has been around for almost 200 years and shows no sign of slowing down anytime soon. Once a famed Victorian gin palace, its ornate interior is the handiwork of Italian craftsmen who had been brought to Ireland to adorn the many new churches being built at the time. Patrick Fanigan, then-owner of the saloon, convinced these artisans to work on the property’s interior after hours. As the sun sinks, stained-glass windows colour the interior with rainbow swirls along the mosaic-tiled floors, and the mahogany snugs make for a cosy spot to sip a cool glass of gin from the pub’s heritage selection.
Crown Liquor Saloon
46 Great Victoria Street
nicholsonpubs.co.uk

6pm
Before you consider filling up on Guinness, you should know Irish cuisine has come a long way since the humble potato. If you’re after a true gastronomic experience, book a table at Meat Locker by chef and restaurateur Michael Deane. Credited with revolutionising Belfast’s foodie scene – and a champion of fresh, local and seasonal produce – Deane has a restaurant portfolio spanning seven unique establishments. He also previously held a Michelin star for 14 consecutive years (the longest in Northern Ireland) so it’s safe to say you’re in for a treat. Here, the speciality is in the moniker, so sink your teeth into one of his lip-smacking steaks. Each prime cut is matured in a Himalayan salt chamber before it’s cooked to perfection on the restaurant’s Asador grill and served with beef-dripping chips. Not into red meat? Head next door to one of Deane’s two other restaurants: Love Fish, serving fresh seafood; or Eipic for fine dining.
Meat Locker
36–40 Howard Street
michaeldeane.co.uk

7pm
It’s the quasi-religious experience you didn’t ask for, but have always secretly wanted. Ascend to the second floor of the Spaniard and you’ll feel like you’ve stepped into a holy shrine. Religious paraphernalia decorates every wall – large golden chalices, ornate framed images of the Virgin Mary and figurines of Jesus Christ gleam in the soft light – and sweeping red velvet sheets adorn the ceiling. Before you confess your sins, you should know the atmosphere in this tiny bar is anything but holy – dance beats bounce off the walls and with over 50 types of rum to choose from, the cocktails err on the wicked side of delicious. It seems fitting that this debauched venue is a popular spot with the Game of Thrones cast (including Sean Bean and Emilia Clarke), who have been seen imbibing here between filming. A bar blessed by the Mother of Dragons? Amen to that.
The Spaniard
3 Skipper Street
thespaniardbar.com

8pm
Watering holes the world over have tried to recreate the craic found in Ireland’s pubs, and the Duke of York is just the type of joint they aim to emulate. Located on one of Belfast’s oldest laneways, this bar pays homage to both the city’s industrial past and its residents’ love of whiskey (it boasts the largest selection in Ireland). Downstairs, walls glitter with antique mirrors advertising hard liquor, while every other surface is covered with memorabilia from a bygone era. It fills up fast so get there early to claim a table. Then squeeze through the crowds and climb up a narrow staircase to the band room where Snow Patrol got their start in the 90s. Spin and sway to live bands playing cover songs before fading to traditional Irish folk from Thursday to Sunday nights. When the place is fit to burst the crowds don’t disperse in defeat; they spill out onto the cobbled alleyway festooned with blossoming red flowers and continue the craic under the stars.
The Duke of York
7–11 Commercial Court
dukeofyorkbelfast.com

Saturday nights bring the masses to the Duke of York.
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9pm
Ireland has an impressive music pedigree, so it’s not surprising that everything from traditional Irish folk to rock’n’roll filters out onto the streets. But did you know there’s also a thriving jazz scene? Tucked behind the Merchant Hotel is Bert’s Jazz Bar, the only venue in the city dedicated to this music genre. Decked out in Art Deco glamour reminiscent of 1930s New York, its plush red-velvet furnishings and polished brass surfaces exude intimacy in the soft lighting. Wander in any night of the week from 9pm to hear musicians from across the country play. The cocktails also possess legendary status: the drinks list resembles a novella and the inventive concoctions – crafted slowly, but with flawless precision – are well worth the wait. Pull up a bar stool and watch the mixologists whip up liquid magic, or ease into one of the booths, dig into a board of camembert and cured meats from the French-bistro-inspired menu and allow yourself to be bewitched by dulcet guitar licks and soulful sax.
Bert’s Jazz Bar
16 Skipper Street
themerchanthotel.com

Cheese, cocktails, jazz – what more do you need?
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10pm
By day it’s a cafe serving coffee and scrambled eggs; by night it’s home to the largest beer garden in the Cathedral Quarter. At the National Grande Café, you won’t want for anything. This Victorian-period establishment has been stripped back to its innards, showcasing exposed brick and steel beams that ooze industrial chic. In the beer garden, the soft glow of lanterns and fairy lights adorn the open-air space, and in cooler months punters huddle close to heaters in the Winter Tent. Plonk yourself on a bench and fuel up on a turkey burger from one of their regular barbecue feasts, then make your way upstairs to Sixty6. Spanning three levels, the venue features a cocktail lounge, rooftop bar and a nightclub hosting some of Northern Ireland’s best DJs. The best part? When your head’s pounding from your inevitable hangover the next morning, you can pop back in downstairs for a full Ulster fry-up.
The National Grande Café
62 High Street
thenationalbelfast.com

Welcome to the Winter Tent.
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11pm
Now that you’ve experienced a slice of the Cathedral Quarter, wander to its fringes and return to the roots of Irish tradition. Slick new hipster bars have begun popping up around the city, but little has changed in the 200 years since Kelly’s Cellars – the oldest pub in Belfast – was built. The whitewashed walls, low archways and rough concrete floors will feel like home, as warmth blazes from fireplaces and light glimmers on the bronze pots and pans that hang from wooden beams along the ceiling. Here, not only should you expect a stranger to strike up a conversation with you (or pull you onto the dance floor) but you should also be ready to quaff a thick, hearty pint of Guinness. There’s an array of live bands performing throughout the week and on Sunday nights, when every other bar is closed, Kelly’s Cellars is still rocking out until midnight.
Kelly’s Cellars
30–32 Bank Street
kellyscellars.com

There’s craic aplenty at Kelly’s Cellars.
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1am
When the pubs and clubs have closed and your booze-soaked molecules ignite with pangs of hunger, jump in a cab and head back towards the Crown Liquor Saloon. By this time it’ll be closed, but just around the corner you’ll find Little Italy, hailed as “Belfast’s best pizza”. Don’t be fooled by the shop’s plain exterior – the accolade is no exaggeration. Efficient service coupled with freshly made dough ensures this pizzeria garners queues of tipsy customers. Watch plumes of flour dance in the air as pizzaiolos pound dough into spheres and haphazardly spread each one with a generous selection of toppings before posting them into the oven. Choose from nine-, 10- and 12-inch servings, all perfect sizes to take away and hoover down at your digs – because, let’s face it, one bite of this hot doughy goodness will ensure you won’t want to hang around to share.
Little Italy
13 Amelia Street

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