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The area is home to the UK’s first cat cafe, Lady Dinah’s Cat Emporium, as well as a mess of bicycle shops, restaurants, markets, canals, parks and pubs. It’s a hub for art and creativity nestled close to Liverpool Street, the stiff-upper-lipped professional centre of London.
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Take Beigel Bake, for example. Sitting at the top of Brick Lane, this dingy, crowded shop, complete with pock-marked linoleum and incredibly rude staff, serves the very best bagels in London 24 hours a day. The salt beef bagel, dripping with mustard, is a meal in itself. Tender slabs of beef are haphazardly slapped within a sweet, warm bun. Nestled in its brown paper bag, it is the perfect ambulatory meal for this crammed thoroughfare. At Brick Lane Market itself, open between 9am and 5pm each Sunday, you’ll find fresh fruit, broken chairs, vaguely disturbing paintings and endless ephemera alongside the shops and restaurants (which are also open during the week). It’s also the home of vintage clothing in London, but you might find yourself searching all day for a gem. Instead, head to a couple of carefully curated options.
In the basement of the Old Truman Brewery you’ll find Sunday UpMarket. Racks of unique if occasionally musty items tussle for attention beside newer accessories. The price tags on the bags, fur coats and velvet dresses here may be slightly higher than out on the street, but you’re also far more likely to find something you can’t leave behind.
For those who can’t abide all that pre-owned stuff, there’s Backyard Market, just opposite. New designers – some stocked in stores like Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters, others who’ve only been selling their wares for a couple of weeks – line the covered, yet airy space. At Backyard you can also get a haircut, buy prints direct from artists and find jewellery you can be guaranteed won’t be seen on anyone else.
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When you need reviving try Black Cab Coffee Co, where owners Graham Buck and Emmy Osman serve their own blend of South American beans from the back of a quintessential London taxi. The silky, almost honey-scented roast goes perfectly with the tiramisu cupcakes made by Graham’s mum.
It may seem odd to suggest, but one of the best restaurants in an area lauded for Indian food does, in fact, serve classic dishes from across the Channel. Chez Elles Bistroquet, towards the end of Brick Lane, offers beautifully simple cuisine in an over-the-top, flag-flyingly proud French cafe. The staff and clientele of Chez Elles all speak French and will assume you do too. Pick up a gossip magazine, sip an espresso and eyeball your chic neighbours. It’s certainly cheaper – and closer – than a trip to Paris.
Once you’re buzzing on all of the coffee and cake consumed during the day, move on to Shoreditch’s legendary night-life. Close to Old Street there is a plethora of bars and clubs to while away the night, but for something special try Happiness Forgets. Located in a basement, it’s tiny – really tiny – but don’t be dissuaded. The stunning cocktails are made by experienced barkeeps who may not look kindly upon an order of vodka and coke. After all, the bar’s slogan is ‘Great cocktails, no wallies’.
For great beer there’s only one choice: BrewDog. The independent Scottish brewery, founded in 2007 and with bars spreading around the world, offers a staggering array of bevvies you’ll have never tried before. Pull up a stool in the vintage-tiled, laid-back space and try pints with names like Punk IPA and 5am Saint (an amber ale and my personal favourite). More comfortable seating can be found downstairs in the New Orleans-inspired UnderDog, a craft beer and cocktail bar behind a secret door. Head here for honky-tonk piano, a ‘voodoo’ corner and dancing past the witching hour surrounded by snakes in jars.
Avoid at all costs the men with menus along Brick Lane who will try to lure you into an Indian restaurant with promises of mates’ rates or free booze. Invariably, these places put too much sugar and too little seasoning in their food. If you’re going for an Indian, you’re going to Dishoom. I’ll confess, I’ve never been one for biryani and butter chicken, but Dishoom is a revelation. Everything on the menu, from chilli cheese on toast (a Bombay classic, apparently) to the mind-blowingly delicious masala prawns, served with a pomegranate, tomato, mint and tamarind salad, bursts with elegance, simplicity and freshness. Eat it all with your fingers, just like a local.
Like a Local in Belgrade’s Savamala
Like many of Belgrade’s residents, I’m an adopted local. When I was three, my parents and I escaped a besieged Sarajevo and relocated to Zlatibor, a pretty town in southern Serbia where the conflict seemed a world away. At the age of 18, I left those rolling hills for the big smoke and quickly found myself immersed in Savamala’s street-art scene. In the seven years since, I’ve seen a huge transformation, as the area, once considered the ugly junkyard by the train station, has become Belgrade’s vibrant artistic hub.
Savamala is just a few minutes from Republic Square, the true centre of the city. Start at the horse statue – Belgrade’s best-known meeting place – and head up Knez Mihailova, the posh main drag that leads to Kalemegdan Fortress. Before you reach the imposing castle, deviate into one of the many alleys to the left, weave through the bustling Zeleni Venac market and head towards Brankov Bridge. There’s a staircase leading to the heart of Savamala, but while you’re here make sure you duck round the corner to check out the Blu mural, one of the city’s most famous graffiti works. It’s probably a beautiful metaphor for how corporate society is destroying the earth. But who knows, maybe it’s just a man with bad teeth eating some broccoli.
Head back to the stairs and descend past Jazz Bašta, a hip little bar tucked away in a courtyard just off the staircase. Known for its sweet cocktails and even sweeter tunes, it’s the perfect hangout for locals who are prepared to pay an extra hundred dinars (about US$1) for some quality drinks and a bit of privacy. Just a few steps down is Gnezdo Organic, one of the city’s few organic restaurants and surely one of its best spots for modern dining. The menu is a refreshing alternative to the typical Serbian fare of meat, meat and more meat, offering vegetarian options like risotto and tagliatelle, as well as a range of liver-cleansing fresh juices. Those struggling to find meat-free options should also check out Radost Fina Kuhinjica, an excellent vegetarian restaurant within a stone’s throw of the fortress.
At the bottom of the staircase is a graffiti tribute to Robin Williams that popped up just days after the late comedian’s passing and gained instant fame online. Next to it is a particularly large mural. Actually, a few friends and I were paid by Converse sneakers to work on it. But please try to see it as art, not advertising.
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The next block contains some Savamala icons. Chief among them is Mikser house, a conceptual art gallery, cafe and bar rolled into one. It’s known as the birthplace of Savamala art culture and is as popular today as it ever was. Just up the road are the twin clubs Mladost and Ludost (‘youth’ and ‘madness’ respectively in Serbian). They’re good for a big night out but are quite pricey and can get very crowded. Those looking for a more chilled-out option should head around the corner to KC grad, which has a spacious but well-hidden beer garden that’s perfect for some arvo brews. While you’re there, pop next door to Španska Kuća, a semi-collapsed building that’s been transformed into an open-air gallery.
Stop for a drink at oh-so-trendy dvorištance, the bar behind the wooden gate on the bend of Braće Krsmanović St. You can come here to rub shoulders with Belgrade’s coolest crowd or you can just drink until the next train passes on the tracks outside (are there ever any trains?). My friends and I like coming to places like this, but at the moment it’s a rare treat; the economy is tough and the government gives practically no funding to artists like us. So most of the time we just hang out in the park with a few beers and good company.
The street just around the corner – Mostarska – is perhaps the most striking in the city, purely for its graffiti. Colourful wall-to-wall art on either side gives you the feeling you’re walking through a real-life comic book. Actually it’s very recent; during the Mikser Festival in June last year, artists transformed the bland street into something memorable. Now the once-empty walls seem almost alive with astronauts, acid-trip brain goblins and swarms of cats.
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Unfortunately, nowadays in Savamala there’s an elephant in the room. Actually, it flaps in the breeze above you; a row of big blue flags on which is written ‘Belgrade Waterfront’. These flags signify the Serbian government’s deal with a property developer to transform Savamala into an upmarket residential zone over the next decade. For artists like us, it stinks. Not long ago Savamala was a ruined area, so we came here and transformed it into what it is today. Now that it’s back on the map, the government sees the potential for profit and has stepped in to make a quick buck. They will move us from the place we made our own and, if they get their way, replace our art with soulless buildings. But if and when the time comes, we’ll go somewhere else and our expression will not be muted.
Nobody knows what Savamala will be like in 10 years’ time. That’s why you should come here now, to experience the heart and soul of one of Europe’s most interesting cities while it’s still in its prime. And if you decide to give a big blue flag a touch-up with some spray paint, well, I wouldn’t blame you.
Serbia
Serbia’s history, both its recent and not-so-recent, hasn’t been the easiest, so tourism was never high on the list of priorities. Thankfully, this hasn’t stopped the country from being one of the most exciting destinations in Europe, where high culture is all around and the next party is about to kick off at any moment.
Capital Belgrade has a certain charm, particularly in the areas along the banks of the Danube and Sava. There are lots of museums, from military to ethnographic, to explore, and a legendary nightlife. The refurbished ferry terminal is home to hip restaurants and bars. Then there are the clubs, which have a reputation as being the best in Europe. Divided into seasons – inside in winter; outside, usually on barges on the river, in summer – they’re incredibly popular, so you should reserve a table if you want to get in.
After all those late nights, a visit to one of the country’s famous spa towns – Banja Koviljača or Vranjačka Banja, for example – for bathing in the waters and wallowing in the mud might be just what you need.
Novi Sad might be best known for the EXIT Festival, one of Europe’s biggest music events, but it has plenty of other attractions to boast about. During summer people pack the Štrand, one of the beaches on the Danube, and a walk up to the Petrovaradin Fort, which dominates the cityscape, is a must for the view. The oddly named Chinatown is the city’s artistic precinct, with live music venues, skate parks and alternative clubs.
Floating with Giants
This is no predator. Growing to more than 10 metres long and weighing as much as a bus, basking sharks still have the capacity to inspire terror as they swim these temperate waters scooping up plankton with their vast mouths. But, really, these are the gentle giants of the ocean.
Generally Scotland’s travel reputation involves malt whisky, Edinburgh Festival, medieval castles and Hogmanay, but the waters surrounding the Hebridean islands on its west coast harbour world-class marine life. This underwater display peaks in the summer, when the sea fills with minke whales, numerous species of dolphin, diving puffins, large seal colonies and basking sharks. Scientists using satellite tagging and sighting studies have only relatively recently got a handle on the sharks’ movements and, as it turns out, the numbers here are incredible. Ask the locals though and they shrug in a nonchalant manner: “Aye, there are hundreds of them laddie. Ahh need tae slow ma boat doon tae avoid them.”
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Although there are a number of whale- and dolphin-watching operators in the region there is only one dedicated shark-swimming operator. Basking Shark Scotland is located in Oban, a quaint fishing town with the obligatory distillery, ruined castle and friendly pubs. In the summer season the town bustles with tourists delighting in its coastal charm, but I’m here for what lies offshore. Accompanied by just 10 other excited travellers, I’m met by the operation’s enthusiastic owner, Shane Wasik. Once aboard the high-powered cabin boat we’re issued seats and lifejackets and briefed on the action-packed itinerary.
Taking off, we cruise through Sound of Mull, passing Rubha nan Gall lighthouse, built by Robert Louis Stevenson’s father, Thomas, and a Clan Maclean castle perched on the cliff. It’s a typical Scottish coastal scene: high mountains on either side of the sound, porpoises cresting around the boat, seals basking on rocky skerries and gulls soaring overhead. After an hour or so, a shout goes up from the viewing platform – a white-tailed sea eagle has been spotted up ahead. Eyeing us from an elevated cliff-top ledge, it soon returns its attention to the surrounds, scanning the area searching for its next meal. Suddenly, it spreads its wings and we see the giant bird in all its glory as it glides off into the forest. Shortly after we make a stop in the village of Tobermory, made famous locally by the kids TV series Balamory. Its waterfront is dominated by pastel- coloured buildings hosting a variety of highland craft shops, B&Bs, pubs, restaurants and a large distillery – in fact, everything you could want in a main street. But we’re here only briefly since there are bigger fish to fry, so to speak.
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We leave the sheltered waters of the Sound of Mull and skipper Cameron points the bow towards a distant island on the horizon. Shane gives us a briefing on what we should be looking for – telltale triangular dorsal fins on the surface and sometimes the tip of the tail or nose. As the sharks feed at the surface, we only have to snorkel to see them. It’s really no different to exploring a coral reef, except it’s a bit cooler in the water and the wetsuit is a little thicker – seven millimetres to be precise, with matching boots, gloves and hoods.
The boat pulls in among a group of idyllic uninhabited islands. The sea’s sandy bottom allows the sun to turn the water a brilliant emerald green. With little human influence, it’s amazingly clear and unpolluted.
As we get our gear on, it takes everyone on the boat a moment to notice the rather large welcoming party. Our anchoring spot is a seal colony and more than 20 of them have surrounded the boat. I flop over the side and into the water, the frigid shock making me take a deep breath, but I soon warm up and any thoughts of the cold disappear. As we fin towards a white sand beach, the seals flit back and forward. Their large puppy-dog eyes watch our every move and their barrel rolls and somersaults easily outmanoeuvre our clumsy swimming. We spend a good hour – it seems like five minutes – with the seals before it’s time to move on. Back on board, home-baked treats and hot chocolate are handed around as we prepare for shark watch.
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Binoculars in hand, Shane keeps watch at the stern as we all peer out the windows. Cruising down the coast again, the boat pulls in to little bays and inlets hoping for signs of our monster targets. As we’re getting comfortable in our seats, the shout goes up. “Shark!” Sure enough, a hundred metres off the bow is the unmistakable shape of a dorsal fin. “You’re gonna need a bigger boat,” someone jokes. Smiling, Shane notes the shark is probably between seven- and eight-metres long, and since the boat is just 11 metres in length, they may be right.
The sharks in these waters are heavily protected and there’s a strict code of conduct for those interacting with them. The crew watches this one to determine its behaviour and the boat is positioned away from its path. We are split into groups and four of us, with our guide, slip into the water with minimal splashing. As we venture onto a collision course with the shark, Shane’s words reverberate in my mind: “Stay close, nice and quiet at the surface, no splashing. Let the shark come to you.”
As the dorsal fin gets closer and closer, the butterflies in my stomach begin performing acrobatics. This is a very big fish and, due to the plankton bloom, underwater visibility is limited. Suddenly, its gigantic mouth appears, and it looks as though at least two of us would fit in there. The shark moves slowly but purposefully in a rhythmic motion as it glides through the water. Closer and closer it comes, and I feel as though I’m going to be scooped up like Jonah until, at the last moment, it sweeps past, literally within touching distance. I freeze as the grey-brown mass of mouth, body and fins passes. Its full eight-metre length seems to go on forever; then, as quickly as it appeared, the shark is gone. But it’s an experience I’ll remember forever.
Roll Over, Moldova
I’m still ridiculously excited at the thought that Europe has a genuinely secret corner left to explore. Of course this 59-country continent, swarming with 742 million busy people and bubbling with myriad languages, cultures and customs, will never be short of surprises. I’m not going to pretend I’ve done anything other than scrape the surface during previous forays, but to discover an entire nation I know nothing about is nothing short of brilliant.
As the plane skims over the Transylvanian Alps, I contemplate the figures. Apparently Moldova gets just 9000 visitors a year – some semi-professional football clubs do better than that on a good Saturday afternoon – and half of those come from Romania, next door.
Ostensibly I’m here to check out Moldova’s National Wine Day festivities. But I intend to look a lot deeper into the glass than that – to try and discover how a country in the midst of one of the busiest, most travelled-to and written-about continents on the planet manages to keep its head so far below the parapet.
Does this anonymity occur by accident or design? Maybe Moldova is deliberately keeping quiet having seen the fate of fellow former Eastern Bloc countries like Bulgaria, which now has the dubious distinction of being Europe’s bucks-party mecca. Or perhaps it simply isn’t interesting enough to lure visitors.
Approaching Chişinău in a taxi, I begin to worry it might be the latter. The entrance to the capital is between two big, brutal, Soviet-style apartment blocks forming a rather grim giant gateway. The city that greets you on the other side is, at first glance, 50 shades of concrete grey.
Within 24 hours, however, my view has been turned inside out. I find myself in the Cricova wine cellar, deep beneath the hills outside Chişinău, in an extraordinary limestone labyrinth that extends for somewhere between 60 and 120 kilometres, depending on who you listen to. In my slightly shaky hands is a bottle of wine from Vladimir Putin’s personal stash, and I’m getting an insight into what really makes Moldova tick.
No one seems entirely certain how far these state-controlled vaults really go, and the cynic in me suspects they’re a little too elaborate and well finished for simply storing wine. The tunnels are so extensive and wide we’re exploring them in a van. As we speed along subterranean streets named after various varietals, and whizz past thousands of mysterious shut doors, my mind boggles. What’s behind them all? Secret weapons of mass liver destruction? An elite army of winemaking Oompa Loompas?
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Effervescent oceans of sparkling white wine are made in this underground city, with workers turning each bottle by hand, using Dom Pierre Perignon’s genius méthode champenoise. Just about every other kind of varietal is present too, including local specialities such as Feteasca.
Bulgaria might attract the beer-drenched bucks’ bashes, but Europe’s rich and powerful come to party in Chişinău, it seems. Putin celebrated his fiftieth birthday in this very cellar, and next to his stash of valuable vino I spy a collection with German Chancellor Angela Merkel’s name on it. When Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin came on a sampling tour here, he emerged bleary-eyed a whole two days later.
I’m treated to a tasting session and soon see why Gagarin was so reluctant to return to Earth. I’m sipping the elixir of the gods. How have I never heard of this place or its plonk before? The quality of Moldovan wine never used to be such a secret – Queen Victoria always had a bottle of Negru de Purcari at the royal table – but these days, I’m told, all the good stuff gets gulped down by the Russians.
Emerging into the arms of the day, I head back to downtown Chişinău, which looks far more colourful now the wine festival is in full flow. While politicians, plutocrats and celebrity spacemen like to sip fine wine in the privacy of an underground cellar, this vino-soaked shindig is a proper proletarian affair.
Moldova’s larger labels are here, but much of the wine being drunk in the streets has arrived almost straight from the vine, via old-school presses. It’s cloudy and delicious – organic grape juice with a punch. In parks and on corners, traditionally dressed folk musicians gather in groups and play, while the crowd wriggles and jiggles and couples spin off to spontaneously dance a reel or two.
If there are any tourists here, I can’t spot them. I certainly seem to be the only person taking photos. Everyone else is just enjoying themselves. It’s the least commercial festival I’ve ever been to, but if Chişinău is short on visitors – even during one of its signature events – they’re virtually unheard of in the rest of the country, especially at my next destination.
Technically, Transnistria is part of Moldova, but the Transnistrians do their best to ignore this fact. They have their own currency, their own army and police force, and to get into the little breakaway state I have to go through a humourless mock border crossing, where an outrageously officious uniformed guard wants to know my father’s middle name. My dad doesn’t have a middle name, but sensing this might cause issues, I make up one.
More arrive on a donkey, and then a group of folk musicians rocks up and performs an impromptu session. One guy teases out a tune on something resembling a cushion.
If all the posturing at the border seems surreal, things soon get even more Monty Pythonesque when I stop at the Tighina Fortress in Bender, on the banks of the Dniester River, and meet Baron Münchhausen.
Münchhausen – a German nobleman and a captain in the Russian army in real life – was famous for his tall tales long before Terry Gilliam got hold of him. He once claimed to have flown over this very fortress riding a cannonball during a battle with the Turks, and to honour his overactive imagination, a statue of the Baron stands proudly outside Tighina’s walls, next to a giant cannonball fitted with a saddle.
The fortress is far more sinister on the inside, where a guide in murderous-looking high heels shows me around a terrible torture chamber featuring iron maidens and a horrific hobbyhorse with a sharpened back, designed to slowly split a person in half when weights were placed on their legs.
A mental image like that can only be erased by a drink, but thankfully it’s seldom far to the next winery in this neck of the woods. We drive through the bucolic countryside that sprawls across Moldova and Transnistria – where people still travel by donkey and cart and live the kind of rural existence that’s almost entirely extinct elsewhere in Europe – to Noul Neamţ.
This is a monastery, not a vineyard, but the tour of the grounds inevitably ends in the cellar, where my charismatic monk-cum-guide Alexi pours mugs of red straight from the barrel. Between slurps, he tells me how the Soviets turfed the monks out in 1962 and turned the monastery into a TB clinic. The holy men in black moved back in when Moldova gained independence in 1990.
While most people in Moldova speak Romanian and identify with their western neighbours, Transnistria looks east, across Ukraine towards Russia. Most people converse in Russian and there has been widespread speculation that Putin might one day pocket the want-away state in the same way he collected Crimea.
If he does decide to move in, he won’t have to do much in the way of redecorating. Hitting the streets of Tiraspol – Transnistria’s de facto capital – is like being transported straight back to Soviet-era Russia. Statues of Lenin stand proudly outside government buildings, where uniformed guards are quick to wag disapproving fingers at anyone trying to take photos. In the absence of a park, children climb all over a decommissioned Russian battle tank that sits in the main square.
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Judging from the bottle collection I saw back in the bowels of Cricova, Putin doesn’t mind a drink, and Tiraspol is famous for producing a fabulous cognac-style brandy called Kvint. No one leaves Transnistria without carrying a bottle with these letters on it, and I don’t intend to break the tradition, especially when I see the price tag (about US$1.50 a litre).
After surviving a minor panic attack while waiting to get back into mainland Moldova – I forgot my old man’s made-up middle name and the grim-faced guard looked as though he’d send me for a ride on the horrible hobbyhorse if he found out I fibbed – my nerves are settled by yet another tasting session at the excellent Purcari winery. This is where Queen Vic’s favourite drop comes from, and the old girl clearly had taste.
My final day in this hidden and enigmatic corner of Europe is spent in one of its most fascinating areas. About 60 kilometres from Chişinău, the commune of Trebujeni is perched on the serpentine banks of the Răut River. As we drive through the ubiquitous fields of vines towards the village, the steep hillside that curls dramatically around the river appears to be honeycombed with holes. When we arrive I discover an incredible hilltop cave monastery, full of holy relics and solemn monks.
Being Moldova, there’s no one else here, but by the time we descend into the village, word has got around and the house we’re staying in is suddenly surrounded by children. More arrive on a donkey, and then a group of folk musicians rocks up and performs an impromptu session. One guy teases out a tune on something resembling a cushion.
Everyone is dancing, singing and swigging cups of wine poured straight from a garden grape press. No one tries to sell me anything. They seem as excited and surprised to have me here as I am to be here. It’s a magical moment. This is what travelling must have been like decades ago. If tourism actually takes off in Moldova, scenes like this might become mere memories. You shouldn’t come you know – you wouldn’t like it.
Great Dane
It’s about 9pm, and that haunting soundtrack is echoing across rooftops in the Danish city of Aarhus, as if a train has derailed in the heart of town. I follow the sound as it reverberates through the crowded streets, eventually stumbling upon a huge double-storey pentagonal construction erected in the square next to Aarhus Cathedral.
Made from 10 stacked shipping containers, the contraption is a giant musical instrument, with a 50-strong audience tucked inside its belly. Ten energetic musicians use violin bows, saws and karabiners to play piano strings strung taut between both ends of each container. Lit brightly against the inky night sky, they focus on a conductor standing amid the audience. His nostrils flare and hands fly as he sends the unique psycho symphony vibrating down through the containers, engulfing the crowd sitting spellbound below.
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Some audience members close their eyes, surrendering to the experience. My eyes dart back and forth between each container, mesmerised by the musicians’ movements. With the dips and sways of the music, they climb the container walls to create a sound that is as harmonious as it is discordant. At the end of the 45-minute performance I jump to my feet, swept up in a standing ovation. We’ve experienced the magic of Huey Mecatl, a Mexican instrument-invention that’s a highlight of the Aarhus Festival.
Each year, Copenhagen’s sleepy little sister dusts off her dancing shoes for one of Scandinavia’s largest events, a 10-day music and cultural celebration that grips the city streets. Locals hold the event in high esteem. At least that’s my assumption based on the number of Danes insisting it’s a must-do experience during my six-month visit. I’ve dutifully trawled the program and filled my diary with an ambitious, scribbled itinerary set to take me all over town.
Denmark can be bothersome for the bank balance, but I’m delighted to discover the line-up is full of free entertainment and shows for less than US$10. That said, some of the more expensive ticketed theatre, dance and music events are difficult to turn down. Two excellent international acts – Beth Orton and the Walkmen – are among the many musicians to take to the stage. The food festival also tempts. Here, local growers and chefs gather with gastronomes to celebrate the famed Nordic approach to food in balance with nature.
My first festival foray is far from what I’d envisaged. The concert isn’t my cup of tea, then I get lost on my bike trying to make it to my second show. By the time I return to the town centre for my third calendar entry I’m confronted by huge crowds gathering along the canal ready to party. I abandon the rest of my plans for the night, skip the crowds and wander around the old part of town, disheartened but open to serendipity. Gradually the festival reveals her true self. Like a mischievous friend with a twinkling eye, she knows exactly what I need. She takes me by the hand and shows me what the festival is really about: spontaneity, happenstance and cosiness.
The next afternoon I climb steep stairs to a loft in the cultural precinct of Godsbanen, where, in darkness, I dance with strangers for hours. At sunset on another day I link up with a peloton for the people and cycle through town spreading smiles to onlookers. Between bands, strangers link arms in the main square and swing dance to Benny Goodman tunes that spill from the speakers.
Later in the week, as the evening chill envelops the city, the now-familiar rowdy crowds again gather, attracted to the canal as though it’s filled with free-flowing beer. This time I hightail it to the atmospheric streets of the Latin Quarter. Desktop research couldn’t have helped me find the live music scene popping up curbside in this part of town – there’s simply no program for it. The thrill of the unexpected has me prowling the streets like an explorer in this ancient Viking town. When my feet grow tired at the end of long days and nights, I make a stop at the grassed urban space in front of Cafe Le Coq on Graven or one of the bars in the little streets nearby. Sipping wine and sitting shoulder to shoulder with other festival folk, I soak up the collective warmth. I’ve found my festival groove.
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Despite the impending grey of winter, I’ve noticed a romantic cosiness in Denmark. There’s actually a special word for it: hygge. It’s tricky to pronounce and it seems everyone has a different translation to offer when I ask. But taking what I can from various explanations, it refers to that comfortable, snuggle-by-the-fire feeling you get with a glass of red and good company. Cosy as a direct translation doesn’t seem to cut the mustard; hygge is also a state of mind and a feeling or intimacy between people.
If I have the translation correct, it seems much of the Aarhus Festival magic is about creating hygge in different ways. At an outdoor concert a stranger smiles and shares a blanket with me to keep warm against the autumn chill. At the Turkish Tent, I sit with friends on carpets sipping sweet tea while young and old swirl and clap around us. There is a commonly held belief that Danes can be rude, but the festival doesn’t reveal this. Many locals strike up a conversation and warmly welcome me to their city. The streets are alive but they are also inclusive. I feel a part of the celebrations rather than a tourist standing on the periphery.
My expat friends, too, return from the festival feeling far more connected with their adopted home. It’s given us an excuse to venture out and discover what really makes Aarhus tick behind the cute, coloured houses. We share stories of treasure hunting, a peculiar light show projected around the grounds of an old mansion, a mobile bike cinema and a flash-mob dance in front of the Aarhus Domkirke, the city’s cathedral. Aarhus has surprised us.
Milia Mountain Retreat
Venture off the grid and get set for a Greek islands escape that defies clichés. Tucked away in the lush mountains of western Crete, this deserted seventeenth-century settlement has transformed into an eco-friendly paradise.
Each stone cottage has been delicately restored and features a small garden or balcony, elegant handmade furniture and a fireplace or wood-burning stove to stave off the winter chills. Leave your gadgets at home and prepare to disconnect – there are no in-room TVs or power outlets, giving you precious time to recharge.
Soak up the fresh air on a tranquil hike through the hills, sample a glass of wine from the local winery and enjoy the solitude. At night, dig into a delectable candlelit spread of organic homegrown Cretan delights and bask in the glow of the star-speckled sky.
Tipples at Twinpigs
The brainchild of a Swedish filmmaker and a Chilean architect, this uber-stylish bar offers yet another reason to visit Neukölln, one of Berlin’s hippest ‘hoods. Opened in 2014 in the city’s thriving bar scene, Twinpigs immediately set itself above the rest thanks to its formidable drinks.
Peruse the drinks list but don’t pass up a classic cocktail – poured with a generous hand, thank you very much – and sample a brew from their rotating selection of Heidenpeters beer, crafted in a microbrewery in the cellar of a nearby market hall. This dimly lit retreat is more than just a bar, so keep an eye out for movie marathons, aerobics classes and themed supper evenings, like Polish Vegan ‘n Vodka nights and Caribbean feasts, inspired by cuisine from around the globe.
All Barrels Blazing
“Oh bollocks!” I yelp, suddenly aware that these eloquent words could be my last. Transfixed by the vision of this demented-looking figure bearing down on me, I’ve left it too late to get out of his path. A wall of over-excited onlookers surrounds me and there’s no gap to duck into. It feels like the running of the bulls, with angry bovines replaced by immolating men. And there’s nowhere left to run.
At the last minute, burning man performs a preposterous pirouette, as elegant as it is unexpected. The inferno intensifies with the oxygen rush that his flourish creates and the spectators let out an appreciative roar. Another man steps forward from the throng and the blazing baton is passed to a new runner, who immediately charges up the street, scattering people asunder and leaving a comet tail of sparks in his wake.
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A quick self-check confirms I’m not on fire and – except for a few eyelashes that have disappeared in an acrid-smelling puff of smoke – most of my hair is still where I left it before arriving at Ottery St Mary’s Flaming Tar Barrels festival.
I should have known what to expect, I suppose. There’s a clue or two in the name, to be fair. And the town – normally a sleepy ever-so-English hamlet in the heart of bucolic Devon – has put up more than a few signs warning that tonight will be different. Tonight – like every 5th of November in Ottery – the townsfolk will party like it’s 1699.
Still, I wasn’t expecting the festival to throw off the health-and-safety straitjacket in quite such spectacular fashion. I’m awed. And impressed. And a little bit scared – in roughly equal measures.
Impressed because beardy burning-head dude is proof that you can get away with almost anything in supposedly polite and reserved Britain if history is on your side. The people of this idiosyncratic isle have never shied away from bizarre festivals and events that pose a pretty good threat to limb – life even – so long as there’s a tradition behind it.
This holds true, even if the actual origins of that tradition have long since been forgotten. No one really knows how many years people have been running around with burning barrels in Ottery – or, indeed, why – but it’s thought to date back several centuries (at least as far as the foiling of the Gunpowder Plot in 1605, and the subsequent execution of Guy Fawkes).
Andy Wade, who’s been involved in the event for 30 years, tells me that many places in England’s south-west used to hold festivals where burning barrels were rolled around. “But one year – a long, long time ago – some bright spark in Ottery obviously decided that things would be a lot more exciting if you picked the barrel up,” Andy says. “And our unique tradition was born.”
For centuries, it was just the good folk of Ottery who enjoyed this festival, but in more recent years it’s achieved international fame – along with other eccentric British events like the one that sees people breaking their legs chasing a wheel of cheese down a steep hill in Gloucestershire, or eating stinging nettles in Dorset. This is the kind of thing people watched before reality TV was invented, and I for one glow with nostalgic appreciation of such sensational spectator sports.
For a few mad minutes, caught up in the combustive energy of the event (and feeling the effect of several courage-laced pints of scrumpy), I feel like I want to do more than just watch – I want to have a go and really glow. Fortunately, however, I can’t. Charging around the streets of a small village lined with thatched cottages and wielding a blazing barrel is an honour reserved exclusively for locals (whose houses are, after all, most at risk).
I must be content with the rush produced by getting as close to the action as possible without actually going up in flames. At the beginning, during the children’s event (yep, there really is a kids’ version – the loads are smaller, but they burn just as hot as the big boys’ barrels), this is relatively easy. As the evening wears on, however, the streets get increasingly crowded and just being here becomes an adrenaline sport.
Click to view gallery
Click to view gallery
Actually, the shenanigans aren’t quite as explosively anarchic as they may seem from the outside. “The runners are extremely experienced,” Andy explains. “They come up through the ranks, starting with the kids’ barrels when they’re eight years old, then progressing to the intermediate barrels. Then, if they’re big enough and ugly enough, they move up to the men’s barrels.”
The whole thing clearly creates a real sense of local pride, and the community spends months preparing for one night of fire-starting festivities. Throughout the year, 17 barrels are regularly daubed with tar, part of the priming process for when they’ll be set ablaze during the evening of 5 November.
Traditionally, each barrel is sponsored by a public house, although only four of the town’s original pubs remain – The Lamb and Flag, The Volunteer, The London and the Kings Arms. The barrels are lit outside each of these alehouses to an itinerary published in a little booklet that is available on the night.
Officials then roll the barrel around until the flames really take hold, at which point a designated carrier steps forward and hoists it onto his (or her) shoulders and starts running. There’s no competitive element as such – the challenge is simply to keep hold of the barrel for as long as possible (even when it’s disintegrating around the holder’s ears) and to make sure it stays alight.
Inevitably, every year there are complaints from people who feel the event is unsafe. Andy’s message to them is simple: “The atmosphere is light-hearted, but barrels do get run through the streets. If you don’t like it, please stand back. And don’t touch or interfere with the barrels – the boys really don’t like that.
“Visitors have to remember that we don’t make any money out of this – the collections that take place on the night just about cover costs. Every year getting insurance is a problem. Of course there are injuries, but more of these are caused by factors other than the barrels – like people boozing too much and falling over.”
Although the barrel runners aren’t allowed to drink until they’ve finished, the crowd picks up the slack on the cider-swilling front. The older the night gets, the more boisterous the atmosphere becomes. And if detractors think the event is crazy now, it’s a good job they weren’t here a few years ago, before health and safety became such a big issue.
“It was proper mayhem when I was young,” Andy reminisces fondly. “People used to get cidered-up and there was plenty of fighting over the barrels. Things used to get sorted out on November 5.”
For the people of Ottery, it’s more about the perpetuation of a proud tradition than staging an internationally known spectacle. “Many of these guys come from families that have a connection with the event going back generations,” Andy says. “The fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers of these lads carried barrels. It’s an honour to be a barrel runner. There’s an Ottery-born bloke who comes back from Australia most years to take part.”
And for the rest of us non-Otterians, it’s one hell of a shindig. A free one too. So long as you don’t mind donating a few eyelashes to the cause.
Like a Local in Glasgow’s West End
My mother tells wild tales of her days as a student nurse in the 1970s tearing up the West End in her grandmother’s mink fur coat and burgundy suede platform boots. I love to imagine the chaos caused and exactly how the many hotspots that featured in her paisley-printed escapades looked back then. A surprising number of Mum’s old haunts are still standing, albeit many under their second, third or umpteenth guise. There are shadows of Campus, her favourite Gibson Street dress shop, still visible in the quirky coffee shop Offshore Cafe, where laptops line the bustling window-ledge bar. When Mum visits Glasgow our fondness for a shared glass of wine near an open fire, a dog lazing by the hearth and the authenticity of a coat hook beneath the bar is shared perfectly at the Ubiquitous Chip, a Glasgow institution on Ashton Lane, established in 1971.
Naturally, a great deal has changed cosmetically since that era, although as long as the people of the West End remain, the feel of the neighbourhood will never diminish. For the locals are the true lifeblood of the area. Stretching from the M8 Motorway, which separates the west from Glasgow’s cosmopolitan city centre, the West End spans a relatively vast scale, all the way from Finnieston, perched on the edge of the River Clyde to the north, to Great Western Road where an array of ethnic cultures has settled. Here, it’s possible to sample Eastern cuisine and alternative therapies in the vicinity of many temples of worship. Precisely how far West Glasgow’s West End reaches is debatable. I imagine the boundary to sit where Hyndland’s leafy periphery meanders into Clydebank, a region renowned internationally for its shipbuilding and the one and only Billy Connolly.
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Like many districts in the world’s finest cities, Glasgow’s West End is best explored on foot and, for me, this presents the perfect opportunity to venture out of the atelier where I work with a visiting friend, client or simply with my camera, sketchbook and the weekend papers.
Traversing a few blocks to Great Western Road, I like to take a leisurely Saturday morning stroll westward as Indian grocers lay out their wares for the day and a steady stream of weekend brunchers begins trickling into the cafes – including the Cottonrake Bakery – that dot the street all the way to the Botanic Gardens. When you reach the Kibble Palace, be sure to peer in on tangles of colourful plant life under the exquisite glass ceiling.
At George Mewes Cheese pause to breathe in the heady deliciousness and select a ripe little number, then head for an artisan brunch of coffee and eggs royale at Cafezique on Hyndland Street. Locally sourced seasonal produce and freshly baked breads, patisserie and cakes baked at sister eatery Delizique, just one door along, take centre stage here. If seats are few within the cafe, the deli boasts a selection of tables where guests can brunch, lunch or sip coffee among glistening stacks of focaccia, Portuguese tarts, raspberry brownies and monstrous meringues while gazing at the masterful chefs in their open-plan kitchen.
Suitably fuelled, trundle by the farmers’ market (held on the second and fourth Saturday of the month), where local producers present delicacies such as venison medallions, hot smoked salmon and delicious Scottish cheese truckles.
Only 10 minutes’ walk away is the majestic Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, an otherworldly treasure trove of arts and fascinating exhibits (it also stocks signature scarves and interior pieces from our brand portfolio). Gazing at works by the Glasgow Boys – a group of artists, including George Henry and James Guthrie, who practised Impressionist and post-Impressionist painting in the 1880s and 90s – and Scottish Colourists is a joy I will never tire of. Posing for fun shots by the taxidermy exhibits and hopscotching over the impressive expanse of chequerboard floor evokes many cherished childhood memories – most poignantly, the moment I fell in love with painting on a high school art trip. Depart via the rear revolving doors – or perhaps they’re at the front, depending on how you interpret the famous story of the building’s planning history. Legend has it the Kelvingrove was built back to front, leading to the suicide of the architect at the helm.
Head along Kelvin Way, the tree-lined boulevard separating either side of Kelvingrove Park, then journey down Gibson Street under the gaze of the University of Glasgow cathedral, dazzling in the sunlight. Drop by Thistle Gallery on Park Road, which often hosts an exhibition launch on Saturday afternoon. It only opened in late 2014, but already the gallery has become a neighbourhood staple, and I’m honoured to have them represent me as an artist.
By this stage of the afternoon it’s time to wander back to the atelier (Iona Crawford Atelier) for what has become something of a Saturday afternoon ritual. After they’ve toured the garment and interiors showrooms, design studio and gallery space – pausing to try on garments in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror or take measurements for a specially tailored piece – we serve our guests a champagne afternoon tea. Warm game pies, finger sandwiches, scones with jam and clotted cream, lemon drizzle cake and millionaire shortbread are all handmade and freshly baked, either within my father’s butcher shop and bakery or by my dear mother in the farmhouse kitchen where I grew up in the Stirlingshire countryside.
Worth exploring in the afternoon is Finnieston. Within the past five years or so, it has established itself as one of the hippest spots in the West End – indeed, in all of Glasgow. Contemporary bars, restaurants, cafes, chic blow-dry salons, vintage boutiques, independent design firms, art galleries and delicatessens continue to throw open their doors each month. The catalyst – in my eyes – was a restaurant named Crabshakk. Shunning the trend for overcomplicated, overpriced seafood served in stuffy, often dated surrounds, the ’Shakk took a pioneering approach. Whether a stool at their buzzing marble-top bar or around a cosy table on the bijou mezzanine level, every seat in the house is red hot. Guests can turn up, casual as you like, and order anything from moules marinière and mineral water to exquisite fruits de mer and a bottle of the restaurant’s elegant house champagne. Much to the delight of Glasgow’s ’Shakk loving aficionados and the ever expanding army of Finnieston foodie fanatics, Crabshakk launched a sibling in 2012 which, like the Cafezique/Delizique pairing, is situated only a skip and a jump along Argyle Street from the original. Serving small plates of seasonally sourced and exquisitely prepared seafood, Table 11 Oyster Bar is a great place to grab a quick plate and a glass of wine, or settle in for the evening, grazing the inviting menu until late-night pintxos (Spanish snacks) hit the bar. If an end-of-the-eve sing-along takes your fancy, the Ben Nevis is an amble across the road. Here, locals and visitors pile in, instruments in tow, jamming into the wee small hours and sipping malt from the impressive whisky gantry. Although when only cocktails can cut it, nothing beats the Kelvingrove Café’s speakeasy vibe or an exquisite Intermission martini at Porter & Rye.
