I want to play the accordion, I want to wear Victorian bloomers and over the knee stockings with high heel ankle boots. I want a Shetland pony and I want to learn to dance, properly. I’d like an enormous circus bell tent and a wagon serving fresh cooked pizza. I might even like a tea tent with a never-ending supply of chocolate brownies. Oh and I’d also like a goose, a real one, who follows me wherever I go.
I haven’t been to the circus since I was small and have always been hesitant to go as an adult in case I might spoil the memory. Giffords is just about the best circus experience I could have imagined. I honestly can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday morning, or anytime of the day for that matter, on any day of the week.
The circus will be touring until mid September and wherever you may be, it is more than worth the trip…and the pennies.
Well thank goodness that’s all over. My children are only just coming down from the sugar high and can apparently still see “rabbit foot prints” all over the house. It would seem their minds have been addled by chocolate. I was determined to have a happy but frugal Easter. One filled with daffodils, country walks and perhaps the odd mini egg, rather than lashings of lamb, masses of eggs and rainy afternoon movies. Obviously it was the latter that won out. Although I did manage to limit the chocolate and began the weekend with gifts of egg cups for boiled eggs and soldiers and a home made chocolate rabbit (my 2012 triumph). These were soon superceded by my husband’s thoroughly modern take on the traditional egg hunt – one where all clues were held on an iPhone – with what seemed like hundreds of mini eggs and went on for days.
First the home made chocolate rabbits. When I say home made, I just melted some chocolate and poured (scraped) it in to a lovely old tin mould we found at an LA flea market, squashed it together and shoved it in the freezer. I would have put money on it not working but it did! I used cheap chocolate which made the whole thing a little less delicate than it perhaps should have been and therefore the rabbits were a solid mass rather than hollow and airy but who cares, the kids certainly didn’t. But then neither did they care that I’d made them. I suppose it was one of those win win situations – I was allowed to feel like a really great Mum by creating something by hand and they just thought I was a really great Mum because I was willingly giving them chocolate.
And here they are, before and after. Hugely satisfying.
Then on to the Easter egg hunt via iPhone. It’s actually a rather brilliant way of ensuring younger children can find the treasure. Especially when there are older brothers who know exactly what they’re doing and have already formulated a plan to get as many eggs as they possibly can, by whatever means. It works like this, hide the eggs and take a photo of the hiding place. Then, simply show them the photograph, one at a time, and off they’ll charge to find the prize. The only downside is that all good things come to an end and if they’re anything like my children, they’ll still be looking through your phone a week later convinced that behind every single photograph hides an egg.
I’ve become just a little bit addicted to Pinterest. I’m mostly addicted to looking at other people’s lovely Pins but the joy of finding my own things to Pin, is proving to be the most wonderful distraction. So, in the spirit of blogging and online sharing, I thought I’d post a few of my favourite Pins of the week. They’re mostly other people’s and a few are my own but each one has fed me with ideas and inspiration and very welcome escapism.
I’m quite a fan of social media. I have a love / hate relationship with Facebook, think Twitter is a stroke of genius, am rather fond of blogging (although I don’t do it nearly enough) and now that I’ve discovered Pinterest I think it might just be the icing on the addiction.
I’d heard about it through various blogs and stylish friends but not really understood it. So I plucked up the courage to click a link and once I’d had a look around and “requested an invite” I was pretty much hooked. In short it’s an online pinboard. A place to share images from the web or your daily life which inspire, intrigue or interest you. It can be home ware, design, art, interiors, photography…..you get the idea…and you simply “pin it” to your “board” and share it with the Pinterest community – which is vast and growing by the minute it would seem.
So I’ve started to share my pins and I’m now constantly thinking of what I can pin next. You can have a look here and even follow me if you like, although please remember I only started this morning. Soon my boards will be pinned to bursting with wonderful things which people will be fighting to “re pin” and “like”. You see, the social media competitive side has started already, it’s impossible to contain. Watch this space, it could get Pinteresting….sorry.
Tweed and bicycles are surely a match made in fashionable exercise heaven. This weekend sees the first Ralph Lauren Tweed Run to take to the London streets and celebrates the opening of the RL RUGBY UK flagship store – a veritable tweed emporium.
The Ralph Lauren Tweed Run will take place in London, this Saturday 26th November and there are still places available so register HERE
It’s not often you get a really big Hollywood actor show up in Hong Kong to perform Shakespeare on stage and, ordinarily, this wouldn’t have me automatically scrambling to the ticket hotline. But when the actor is Kevin Spacey as Richard III and the Director is Sam Mendes, you think ‘American Beauty’, and hope for similar magic. Sort of.
Actually what really sold me on this was because it is the very last production from The Bridge Project: a “three year transatlantic partnership” between The Old Vic (of which Spacey is Artistic Director), BAM ( Brooklyn Academy of Music) and Neal Street Productions (Mendes’ production company). I don’t pretend to be a thespian, and in fact had never seen Richard III, let alone read it. But with a very vague notion of the plot (mostly lifted from study notes on the internet) and a bunch of glowing reviews gleaned from the British press in my mind, it was clear this was not to be missed and so I was thrilled to get a couple of the few remaining available seats, right up front in the circle. Result.
I won’t pretend I didn’t struggle at times with the dialogue. It’s not the first time I’ve seen Shakespeare on the stage and, like most schoolchildren, I’ve even read a few plays too. However, coming to a tragedy like Richard III as a virgin, so to speak, I probably am not the first to assert that unless a) you are currently studying or have studied Shakespeare, in earnest, and of your own volition, at a level higher than GCSE or b) you are Kenneth Branagh; then in the context of a real, live theatrical performance you will understand only about 3/4 of what is spoken; less if the character happens to be facing the other way. Throw in a bunch of symbolic and allegorical references, which would have made perfect sense to Shakespeare’s contemporaries – but would go over most modern heads quicker than a F 16 Phantom at a flyover – and you may understand why, at times, I confess to having felt a little out of my depth. Which is why, occasionally, I allowed myself to get completely distracted by the visual aspects of the play. But I’ll get to that in a moment. You probably want to know what Kev was like.
To briefly sum up the plot: Clever, charming, verbose yet bitter, Machiavellian and power-hungry deformed youngest royal sibling with maternal issues and murderous tendencies, determines to take the throne at all costs. I think. Feel free to draw your contemporary political comparisons because, right now, it seems that despotic dictators seem to be very on trend, and of course, there were parallels aplenty. It was particularly fitting therefore that Mendes should choose a modern setting, with references to Mussolini and Hitler and obviously Gaddafi, juxtoposed with more contemporary politicos (Alastair Campbell perhaps?) expert in the art of spin.
Now clearly I’m no authority on Richard III, but if, like me, you’ve seen a few Kevin Spacey films, then you can probably appreciate why Mendes was keen to get him in calipers, strap on the prosthetic hump and watch him go. Spacey has totally cornered the market in fascinatingly complex and ruthlessly charming bad guys with a devilish sense of humour, unhindered by conventional morality ; and his exceptional resume surely seems merely a lengthy preparation for this part? In short, on paper at least, Spacey is a man born to play Richard III.
It’s probably obvious that I wouldn’t have built you up like this to say he was rubbish, and in fact you wouldn’t be wrong in assuming he was utterly brilliant, completely mesmerising, and every bit as charismatic, seductive and wickedly manipulative as I’d hoped. Oh and very funny. From the moment he took to the stage in the first scene to address the audience directly; alone, clearly inebriated, while slumped in a chair wearing a paper party hat – a Pathe style newsreel of his elder brother’s coronation projected behind him – it was clear he had entered into the part utterly, with mind body and spirit; the sheer physicality of which was a huge surprise. Aside from the verbal dexterity required to sucker in, terrify or simply bamboozle anyone in his path, here is a bloke with more than his fair share of physical deformities, and yet Spacey leapt and lurched around like a force of nature with the kind of explosive, dominating, masculine energy that made Richard’s inexorable rise utterly believable. He owned that stage and, damn it, he was sexy (please don’t get me started on the mirrored shades and army uniform). If I was Lady Anne and he’d pinned me to the wall, I’m pretty sure I’d have capitulated, despite the tiny detail of him murdering her husband. And therein lies the terrifying rub; how easily we can all be seduced, and at what cost? With the benefit of hindsight, history and distance we all, rightly, condemn warmongers and dictators, but, shift your perspective nearer to that vortex of power and it’s not completely unfeasible to imagine how easy it must be to, quite literally, lose your head.
But back to the more tangible stuff. I loved the set. Think stark, grey bleached oak floorboards and walls inset only with a series of doors, each carrying a chalked x to signify yet another condemned figure. A wonky table here, a bed there, each scene contained nothing but the barest props and probably should have made me think how clever Mendes and Set Designer Tom Piper were to strip things down quite so radically, but more often had me thinking how great this would look if translated to a Plain English kitchen.
Then, of course, the costumes. I’d read that the costumes were ‘modern’ and indeed, overall, they were, but the references actually spanned both ends of the previous century and the subtleties were brilliant. Queen Elizabeth 1st and Lady Anne both rocked a kind of ultra pared down gothicism reminiscent of early McQueen or Antonio Berardi but with Elizabeth firmly channeling the 1940’s whilst the younger Ann’s costumes had a racier, Flapper edge. The Duke of Clarence, Richard’s older brother, was all pre-war 30’s Aristo in cravats and smoking jackets, until brutally murdered, as was Richard’s distant and unloving Mother (with some rather lovely floaty cowl-necked numbers) who was clearly partly at the root of his issues (you can be sure a woman is to blame for something). There were obvious Jack-booted references to Richard’s increasingly militaristic ambitions, but with some Gaddafi and Amin-esque nuances (those mirrored shades and some seriously heavy epaulettes). But the most powerful visual metaphor employed had to be the suits; slick, sharp and unambiguous in their representation of modernity, they were an effective reminder that spin and manoeuvering are still at the heart of politics and power, and thus beware the wolf in a Savile Row suit.
Stand out performances? Well the entire cast were great, but the women were all fantastic. Haydn Gwynne perfect as the strong, clever, but ultimately helpless Queen Elizabeth and Gemma Jones (who played Bridget Jones‘ Mum in the movie) was a particular favourite as the old Queen Margaret, widow of dead King Henry IV, and Mother of murdered King Edward. She actually had few lines, bar to dole out embittered curses to Richard, but mostly would hover about each time a murder occurred like a disheveled harridan: an unwanted, scornful presence that had prophesied each of them. Some actors just exude gravitas and, like Spacey, she simply had a magic quality that owned the stage.
One unexpected, but quite compelling distraction was to gawp occasionally at the two percussionists. I don’t know how usual it is to accompany Shakespeare with live percussion but I thought it worked brilliantly, and I think this is where Spacey and Mendes’ filmic sensibilities probably came in to play; creating an additional atmospheric layer of tension more usually associated with movies and TV.
There was just one probably slightly irrational niggle. It should have come as no surprise that an Anglo-American cast would have a mixed bag of English and American accents. My problem was not of either but more when they occasionally converged in a sort of mid-Atlantic, strained hybrid. It drove me potty to hear otherwise fairly clipped attempts at ‘posh Shakespearean’ English, only to murder it with the likes of ‘Bucking-Ham‘ with the emphasis on the Ham like a deli offering. I realise this is acutely pedantic, but it’s the kind of thing that really bugs me, if not others. My husband muttered something about it being necessary for proper annunciation but to me it was about as excruciating as Hugh Grant trying to estuarise his native English Toff accent in About A Boy. For me, some of the more interesting characters were those that spoke with clear regional accents – from both sides of the pond – and they annunciated perfectly. That, and the bladder-slackening length (almost 3 1/2 hours) were minor gripes when it was clear we’d just witnessed what will undoubtedly go down as one of the great performances of this despicable, but ultimately fascinating, character.
If you’ve read my other posts about my recent two week stint on Koh Samui – alone with the kids- and prior to Daddy’s arrival, then you may appreciate just how much we appreciated his eventual arrival. The kids: whom, despite my best efforts to be entertaining and fun, clearly ranked me a poor second to Daddy. Me: well obviously because I’d missed his company, but if I’m slightly more honest, I simply yearned to lie horizontally in daylight hours because, as the sole steadying chaperone to a newly toddling child, I was developing the aches- and tan- of a hunchback. I was longing to take a shower without two other spacially unaware people sharing it with me, and more importantly, I needed to Spa. And so it was we excitedly greeted Daddy at the airport with
barely concealed ulterior motives huge smiles and enthusiastic hugs because we knew, from that point on, the holiday was about to get considerably better.
Blue skies all the way for Daddy
The very best part was getting our own wheels. Daddy was brave enough to negotiate the roads and so we hired a car. At around £25 per day for a standard 4 door Toyota Vios, car hire represents pretty good value in comparison to taxis. It gave us the freedom to really explore, provided a handy dumping ground for excess kit while out, and some much needed air con between excursions. Samui was totally without roads in the 1970’s when travellers first discovered its idyllic palm fringed beaches. There is now a very handy (from a motorist’s perspective) ring road circling the entire island, which is easily navigable in just a couple of hours. It’s not always pretty (what ring road ever is?) and you’ll find a lot of tat along the way, particularly along the developed East coast, but head West and things get considerably more rural, and the interior backdrop of dense, mountainous jungle is fairly dramatic and rather lovely. Out here you can still find the ‘real’ Samui; stretches of empty beaches, rustic wooden houses on stilts that exude genuine charm, and acres of as-yet-unspoiled coconut plantations and the occasional waterfall. It’s lush and green, but, importantly when you are traveling with kids, fairly compact and so you are never far from worldly necessities. Negotiating the dusty back roads can take some patience and nerve (and good suspension) but you will be rewarded with a glimpse into a far slower pace of life, and some good photo opportunities to share on Facebook with friends that holidayed in the rain back home.
Samui chic- you could do a lot worse than channel his look this Autumn:
But it was more sybaritic pleasures that were on my mind. Two weeks of kid-friendly activities had me wanting for a little more luxury and lot of pampering. I kicked off with a trip to The Sundays Sanctuary Resort and Spa set fairly high up a hill in forest behind a temple in Bophut. The spa isn’t big, or particularly fancy but is set in a lovely little jungle-like clearing, with steam room, outdoor plunge pool with little waterfall and open air massage area (Sala). I’m a total sucker for outdoor spas in hot countries. I can think of hardly anything better than lying with eyes closed listening only to the sounds of waves or trickling water and birdsong, with the occasional cool breeze wafting over me as I am scrubbed, wrapped and massaged into oblivion by smiling professionals. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take an indoor massage too, but I usually find I am too easily distracted by the music, invariably played at the wrong level, and always on a loop; whereupon I find myself playing silent ‘name that tune’ to pan-piped versions of Greensleeves or Dido. It’s not entirely relaxing.
Admittedly these outdoor affairs have their distractions too. You will often find yourself separated from other patrons by a mere curtain. Sounds awful but I can assure you, once you’ve all settled into your own personal state of massage Nirvana, you completely forget that anyone else even exists, unless of course they are French and taking great lengths to explain, very loudly, in broken English to the Thai Massage Therapist, that they have back problems. At one point, mid way through my own treatment, I was quietly enjoying a refreshing and delicious cup of ginger tea. Suddenly a largish black cocoon-like object fell from the roof and landed in the lap of the Masseuse who promptly squealed and jumped away. Naturally I inquired as to its origin which, to my mind, was still firmly in the ballpark of chrysalis/butterfly . She smiled and said “No, Gecko poo”. Eyes widening, I inquired further as to its possible size whilst eying the rafters for Geckos with crocodile-like proportions. She shrugged and held her fingers about 5 or 6 inches apart. Now I probably don’t need to point out the mental calculations that were going on in my brain but that’s like us doing a poo about a foot and a half long. Either way, it was all slightly disturbing but, most of all, it was definitely messing with the zen thing I had going on. I laughed it off, however, and tried to lighten the moment by asking if she felt lucky. She stared at me blankly and so I went on to explain that in the UK, if a pigeon poos on you, it’s considered lucky. Her English vocabulary, whilst fairly good, probably only centred on spa-related talk and so this was now a little out of the box . So she smiled at me in the benevolent and forgiving way that Thai people do, whilst eying me with the slightly incredulous and irritated look of a woman who had just been pood on by another creature, and replied with a flat, “No”. At that point the Frenchman cleared his throat and signaled the end of the conversation. I settled back to my treatment and tried hard not to think about what lay above.
And so over the following couple of weeks I mixed it up with inexpensive 300 baht massages at walk-in places (Chaweng has some great options) and the occasional posher treatment at nicer resorts. In truth, it’s hard to get a bad massage in Thailand and there is often little difference in the quality of the treatment itself, it often comes down to setting and attention to detail. I’ve tried all kinds of treatments and i’m not at all keen on overly faddy things like gold leaf facials but a new one this time, and the one I’ve gone absolutely ga ga over, was the Luk Pra Kob massage at the Eranda Spa. A traditional hour long Thai massage is followed by a further hour long massage with hot compresses filled with Thai herbs. It was quite literally two hours of utter bliss and particularly recommended for aching muscles after sport, as the hot compresses literally seem to melt away deep tissue aches and pains. Best massage ever and ideal for ‘toddler back’. It’s outdoors (but with indoor rooms too), with a steam cave and cascading plunge pool and the hillside setting, high up in the trees looking out to sea, is breathtaking. Best of all, it’s very reasonably priced. And no Gecko poo.
For reasons of etiquette it was tricky to get a photo of a spa, so here’s some squid:
I hesitate to venture the opinion that a Thai curry must surely have overtaken the Indian version in the hearts of the British? Strangely, I think I barely ate a curry the entire time I was in Koh Samui, though that’s not to say there wasn’t a delicious abundance of the stuff but for me it was all about the seafood. The simple places were preferable and one of our favourite meals was a lunch at Bang Por beach; a low key, virtually empty stretch of narrow beach on the North West coast. There are a few well regarded seafood restaurants dotted along a short stretch of the ring road. They offer few frills (think basic kitchens and plastic tables and chairs) but who needs linen napkins when you have great fresh food, with the sea just a few feet away and the sand under your toes?
Nothing wrong with a bit of Formica when the grub is as good as this:
For a slightly more upmarket, and even more idyllic beachside experience we loved the fabulous Five Islands restaurant in a totally unspoiled part of the island where local fisherman beat the sea with sticks to encourage fish into their nets then use Water Buffalo to haul in the catch. Diners go to catch the gorgeous sunsets and for the stunning views out to the Angthong National Marine Park. We arrived late afternoon and had the beach to ourselves, save for a Buffalo and a couple of other diners. It was magical, and had the kids not reached meltdown stage we might still be there now.
From the sublime to the apparently ridiculous: Buffet Brunches to be specific. We’d been told that for some, Sundays in Samui was all about brunch at one of two resorts: Nikki Beach on the West coast and Beach Republic on the East. The marketing from both is clearly aimed at everything we aren’t: young, thin and childless, with a penchant for champagne fueled ‘sexy’ Ibiza-style ‘fun’. And if you aren’t entirely certain of your suitability for such resorts, there are helpful posters and ads all around the Island featuring very young, very thin, and very ‘sexy’ girls in suitably microscopic bikinis to guide you. It all sounded excruciatingly try-hard and yet I had it on very good authority that we should take the kids and go. In truth there was a tiny part of me (the part that used to love dancing till 6 am, though never in a bikini) that secretly wanted to see what it was all about. And so I squeezed into the Liz Hurley, brushed my hair, and we headed off to Lipa Noi to hang with the beautiful people.
Beach Republic. Same same but different:
En route we decided to make a small detour to visit a temple: Wat Khunaram, ostensibly so our eldest could see something cultural, but if I’m honest, to see the mummified body of a deceased Monk, Loung Pordaeng, who died nearly 30 years ago in the meditation position. Before his death he requested that, after death, should his body not decompose, he be kept in an upright coffin at the temple to inspire future generations to follow the path of Buddhism. In a slightly disconcerting, but ultimately practical gesture, once his eyes had sunken into his sockets, the other monks had thoughtfully placed sunglasses on him. I’d seen pictures and, I have to admit, they were some funky shades he was rocking and cemented the idea in my mind that this was something I had to see.
We turned up and ascertained we were the only visitors. The temple buildings are charming and refreshingly ungarish, but in truth, there isn’t much to see and there wasn’t a (living) soul in sight. We were slightly surprised therefore to suddenly see a real live Monk sitting cross-legged, apparently guarding the entrance to the building housing the dead Monk. He seemed to be in quiet contemplation, or asleep; either way we figured our presence would be a little disturbing and began heading back to the car. The Monk immediately beckoned us over, however, and seemed genuinely pleased of the company all the while exuding that serene-yet-slightly-intimidating zen thing that Monks do. He then gestured to us to stand before a large urn containing hundreds of unlit incense sticks, and before we could make a polite retreat, handed each of us a fresh stick. I could just about see the dead monk in a case behind the urn, but between gold leaf applied to the glass and the incense sticks, the view wasn’t great. It was clear however, that he was no longer wearing the shades, and in fact, for a man who had been dead for almost 30 years, actually looked a little better than the real live Monk who now had us sitting cross legged on the floor in front of him. Mostly, however, I was finding it hard to think about anything because beads of sweat were forming on my brow wondering what horrors my kids would inflict upon this moment and at what point the youngest would poke his incense stick into the Monk.
Miraculously, however, both sat utterly still while he proceeded to gently, and silently, bless each of us. He finished up by tying little fluorescent woven cotton bracelets around our wrists (quite deftly in my case as it is forbidden for a Monk to touch, or be touched, by a woman) and sat back serenely to smile and coo silently over our youngest. It was all quite unexpected, yet strangely humbling, and we did indeed ‘feel’ genuinely really blessed. After a discreet donation we quietly mumbled reverential Basil Faulty style thank you’s, in the way that only awkward non-religious English people could, whilst simultaneously each dragging a child a little too fast as we walked backwards all the way to the car. The Monk simply smiled and waved benevolently in the way you do with half wits . Once in the safety of the car we were able to take a more relaxed look at the previous events, and reflect on our own spirituality, or possible lack thereof. My eldest however, had other ideas. “Yes Mummy, but tell me more about the dead guy”. Chips and blocks you may say and so, with Damien Hirst’s iconic instillation in mind, we spent the rest of the journey attempting to gently discuss the Physical Impossibility of Death, and what possibly lies beyond, to a very excited four year old who had just seen the corpse of a dead Monk in a glass box. And it wasn’t even lunch time.
It may surprise you to learn that Nikki Beach was a blast. For the second time that day we were given a bracelet to wear, only this one indicated more earthly pleasures; free reign on the buffet (which was excellent by the way). And no, the irony was not lost on us. From the moment we arrived, we and our kids, were treated fabulously by the utterly charming and mercifully unpretentious staff. The decor was actually pretty chic, but the vibe was laid back and better still, there were no stick insects dancing sexily in bikinis; rather a mixed bag of very normal, very friendly family groups and couples just doing their own thing. Ok so there was one couple who had clearly taken the marketing to heart who posed and preened so self-consciously, it bordered on ridiculous. But they were the exception, and admittedly pretty funny. The music was great (in my book you can’t really go wrong with early 80’s grooves and a bit of Bobby Brown). Best of all: my youngest fell asleep for over two blissful hours which meant Mummy got to eat and enjoy a couple of glasses of the bubbly stuff in peace. It was if the stars in the heavens had aligned perfectly, and someone ‘up there’ was smiling upon us. And who knows, thanks to our little day-glo bracelets, maybe they were? God works in mysterious ways, so I’m told.
Overall, Samui has been a great location for a far flung family holiday (even if it’s not so far flung to us). It’s less developed with slightly poorer infracstructure than Phuket, and in truth isn’t as ‘grown up’ (read: over-developed) but for me there’s no comparison in terms of natural beauty, particularly when you factor in the stunning Angthong Marine park and direct neighbour, Koh Phagnan, which are both easy day trips. There’s definitely more for kids to do on Samui and there is a rustic charm still in evidence despite the inexorable push of development. English is widely spoken and aside from the occasional power outage to remind you that you aren’t in Kansas anymore, there is every facility you could wish for (but do be careful what you put down the toilet thanks to Samui’s delicate sewage system). Some people prefer to stick to more familiar surroundings, closer to home, and usually I’d agree; but if you’re considering a great escape from all the doom and gloom in the UK or indeed anywhere, you could do a lot worse than heading to Koh Samui.
Here’s a few suggestions for things to see and do:
Eat : It goes without saying that you will not be left wanting for delicious food as there are restaurants absolutely everywhere, from the very modest to show-stoppers in dramatic locations. A must is the seafood (i’m a big fan of Pomfret) and don’t be afraid to try street snacks from one of the local sellers, including pancakes; the subject of which was made (in)famous by a certain guidebook’s sniffy references to the hoards of backpackers following the ‘Banana Pancake Trail’. For a change from Thai, we loved Ad Hoc : A chic beachside restaurant between Bang Rak and Bophut serving really delicious and authentic Italian food with homemade pasta and a decent wine list. Run by a lovely couple- preppy Minnesotan Tim, and his chilled Japanese wife, Yuri- they barely batted an eyelid when our eldest threw up on a chair and tried to (lovingly) strangle their cat. Forget crayons and ice cream factories, that’s what I call a truly child-friendly restaurant.
Spa – from the uber posh Six Senses or Four Seasons to simple places next to Bungalow operations on the beach, you are never more than a few paces away from a massage place or spa. There are too many to list but my favourite was the aforementioned Eranda Herbal Spa up in the hills in North Chaweng. I also heard very good things about Tamarind Springs down south in Lamai. Many offer complimentary hotel pick-up and drop-off.
Explore – hire a moped or car and drive around the island. Head west around Lipa Noi for the real Samui with empty beaches and great sunsets. The interior is mountainous and covered in dense jungle-like forest and there are lookout points for stunning views out to Sea. There are several waterfalls which you can trek to or take a four wheel drive tour. Elephant trekking seems to be a big draw though I’m never entirely comfortable with that kind of thing, but bizarrely I contemplated taking our eldest to one of the famous local Buffalo fights as he became utterly obsessed with the bovine creatures, which can be spotted everywhere. I was told the bouts last seconds and end with no serious injuries, after a bit of rutting, when the first one to get bored walks away. Thankfully I thought better of it and we stuck to chasing chickens.
Big Buddha – has to be done if newish built temples are your thing (though I confess I did it the first time around on my initial trip in 2001 and didn’t feel the need to do it again this time). Standing 12 meters high and visible from outer space..I’m kidding. It’s actually visible from a few kilometres away and is incredibly gold but makes for quite a particularly striking landmark as you fly in and worth at least one visit.
Koh Phagnan – Samui’s neighboring island, situated off the north coast. Famous for the rave-y ‘Full Moon’ parties, but don’t let that put you off. I first visited 10 years ago when there was only one road and the only means to get there was on a traditional longtail boat across open sea from which I arrived soaked and deafened. A daily Catamaran does a far more civilized job in just half an hour and so day trips with non-swimming juveniles are entirely possible, and there are a smattering of high-end resorts should you wish to stay a while in style. I’m pleased to report that more roads and inevitable development hasn’t ruined the place, in fact it’s really very charming and maintains a genuinely low key backpacker-y vibe with stunning beaches, lush interior (much of which is protected) and spectacular views. We shared a Songthaew (open-backed pick-up converted to take passengers like a taxi) with chatty traveller types: a couple of Irish professional tap dancers – en route to a vegetarian retreat – and a Korean/German Christian Pastor- who was celebrating passing his studies 6 months early – and headed to Haad Rin for lunch and to hang out on the beach. It was just like old times in so many ways, which pleased me immensely.
Angthong Marine Park – alas our nerves weren’t up to a boat trip given our youngest is just 14 months old but it has to be a must-do for anyone else and there are various tour operators offering options to this stunning archipelago of limestone islands situated just to the North West of Samui, or flash some cash for a private boat charter. Fish, dive, snorkel, visit caves and deserted beaches or see the stunning turquoise lagoon in the middle of Ko Mae Ko (Mother Island).
Fisherman’s Village in Bophut. My favourite ‘touristy’ bit. A bustley, vibey little area next to the beach and full of character with great little restaurants in traditional shophouses (thanks in no small part to a small contingent of French expats who have opened businesses there, and who are also responsible for the best bakeries on the island, naturellement). Every Friday night the place really comes alive as traffic is banned and it becomes a ‘Walking Street’ with lots of stalls selling knick-knacks, clothes, snacks and cocktails. It’s busy, but great fun and very family- friendly. The Hansar is a boutique hotel situated right next to the beach at one end, with a great open-air bar – perfect for Sundowners.
Nathong – the main town and probably ignored by most tourists unless passing through to the ferry piers. We liked the slightly shabby- but charming- workaday feel and the (admittedly faint) whiff of 50’s Havana about it, particularly the traditional shophouses along the main street housing everyday items along with obligatory tourist paraphernalia.
What to wear to a festival…..wasn’t something I thought really bothered me anymore, but apparently it does. It really has to be one of the most important fashion decisions of the entire Summer. A pair of Hunter boots, denim shorts and some Breton stripes, just doesn’t cut it any more (although it’s a pretty good staple to fall back on), but there are so many more guises to consider.
I’ve never been a huge fan of dress up, as in fancy dress. I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humour, but when it comes to that sort of clothing style humour, I am the most prudish and miserable of them all. I just can’t really do it, yet when I see others embracing it, I find myself harbouring just a teeny bit of fancy dress envy. The thing I love the most about festival dressing, is the way outfits evolve in a way that can only happen when you’ve been sleeping (or not) in a tent for 3 nights. What starts as a well considered, rather chic presentation can turn in to a mismatch of all sorts with hats and accessories joining in the fun – all of which have most likely been borrowed, stolen or acquired as the hours roll on. Festivals are all about sharing after all.
I can’t purport to having been to many festivals over the past few years. I used to be pretty good at it but have bowed out since the children. And then suddenly, the Wilderness festival arrived on our very doorstep. Quite literally. And it has reignited my love (and fear) all in one weekend. A small and perfectly formed offering, the Wilderness is a brand new festival from the clever people who brought us Secret Garden Party and I have a feeling this too might be quite a success. It was fun. Easy, simple, relaxed fun – both with and without the children.
So, back to what they were all wearing. My goodness, I’ve never seen a more diverse collection of people. There were the floor length gowns, gold lame and masks – for those attending the Saturday night masked ball – some of which were fabulous. There were hundreds of play suits of all colours, patterns, shapes and sizes. Lots of top hats and military uniforms which is always a favourite and many a skinny jean to be seen on all ages. There were also an inordinate amount of flat caps, cords and v-neck jumpers……this is Oxfordshire after all…..and all were having a jolly good time.
So next year – or perhaps even sooner – I’m going to plan my festival outfits down to the last thread. I’m going to throw caution to the wind and welcome my alter ego…..you never know, I might like her.
21 . 8 . 11 :
The Dark Is Rising by Mercury Rev has been happily ringing in my ears for the past week so I had to include it in to the post.
Without a doubt my musical highlight of the wonderful Wilderness.
I do not have a garden. Very few people in Hong Kong do. Space is at a premium, property prices are eye-watering and it’s so darn hot for most of the year, you’re finding reasons to scuttle inside to the air conditioning rather than get busy with the pruning shears. This wasn’t always the case. When we first moved here, we had a very pleasant little garden and I even – ludicrously, given it’s petite proportions – employed a gardener. This wasn’t entirely because I am a lazy expat wife and useless with plants (I would kill mould if I could get it to grow), it was a necessity. You see one of the drawbacks to living in a virtually garden-free city, is that it is almost impossible to buy a lawnmower. If you have outside space, you either pave it, or employ a man-with-a-mower. We had lawn, and Jun was ‘the man’.
Fast forward a few years, and several moves later, not only has the garden gone, but so has a balcony. I have come to the conclusion that, out here, gardens are only good for snakes and mosquitoes (we had a particularly delightful nest of deadly pit vipers in aforementioned garden) and balconies are only for old (dead) Christmas trees, bicycles and the occasional crafty ciggy. They are not for sitting on and they are NOT, in my hands anyway, a vertiginously placed oasis of green in a concrete jungle.
However, in the spirit of female contrariness, I have decided now is the time to add more green into my life. So I will bring the outside in. I will do it in style and, more importantly, in a way that is easy to maintain and can’t be too easily mutilated by the small, destructive paws of a toddler. I will make a Terrarium.
For those not familiar with the concept (or too young) they are essentially a ‘garden-in-a-jar’ (although any suitable see-thru vessel will do). All the rage in the 70’s, these kitsch, miniature biospheres fell out of favour. Presumably when people realised that not only did they did have a tendency to look a bit naff, but that the containment factor was actually a bit of a hindrance; too much water and your succulents resemble a primordial mush, too little and you quickly acquire a post-apocalyptic desert-scape. Both equally tricky looks to pair with a macrame table cloth.
Seems they’re slowly making a bit of an ironic (of course) comeback on both sides of the Atlantic. Recently The Telegraph and NY Times ran pieces devoted to their revival and i’ve noticed them popping up on design blogs over the last few years ( Design*Sponge featured a brilliant ‘how-to’ video from Tassy of Sprout in Brooklyn, NYC, you can view here).
Today’s Terrarium lovers, it seems, aren’t afraid to inject a little humour and originality into their creations (miniature fornicating gnomes anyone?) but my favourites are the chic, modern arrangements, particularly the hanging variety. I also love the trend for repurposing antique and vintage glassware such as apothecary jars and cloches, which I think work best when you are aiming for a more,ahem, ‘romantic’ look.
I was torn. Much was dependent upon the kinds of plants I could get my hands on. After a surprisingly successful trip to my local supermarket for miniature plants, and one to Ikea for some pebbles, sand and suitable receptacles, I decided I would try both looks. But first I needed guidance, and I implore you now, do not even attempt to try this at home without first checking out the rather marvelous blog of Tovah Martin.
I quickly realised, however, that my plants were probably still a tad too big, and I couldn’t get one of the essential components: charcoal (helps to absorb yukky bacterial spores and any gunk that might fester and ruin your plantings). But impatient as I am, I decided to roll with what I had and let fate decide. Here is my ‘wing it big-time guide’ to planting a Terrarium:
Step one: add drainage course (ie pebbles- about one inch, or half that if you are me and run out of pebbles).
Step two: add charcoal (or greenish dyed sand from Ikea if you are me- note the sand has completely covered the pebbles. Hmmph).
Step three: add soil (I kind of got this bit right but you need a special cactus/succulent mix and I think a couple of mine fall under this category, so the multi-purpose soil mightn’t go down quite so well with them). The pebbles and soil should fill your container by about a third (or halfway if you are applying my rules).
Step four: add your plants (try not to lacerate and shed all the really nice leaves when placing into the container, like I did). If leaves etc do shed on to the soil, remove – the last thing you need is for your hard work to become a study in decomposition. (Oh and try not to lacerate the last very few remaining good leaves when rescuing the other previously dislodged/lacerated leaves).
Step five: admire your
stumps handiwork. I give this one about a 6 out of 10, but it works in the space, and looks a tad more retro than I expected, so I’m happy. (ah yes, and Instragram helps a lot).
Now I would be lying if I said I didn’t think this was more of a success. In fact I would say it’s a TOTAL garden-party-in-a-vase 🙂
The great thing about this little project was how relatively easy it was to achieve fairly satisfying results. If, like me, you have little patience, then a Terrarium presents a pleasingly quick-hit opportunity to impress with “and here’s one I made earlier”. All that remains to be seen is how long I can keep their contents alive. Place your bets ladies and gentlemen….
Almost a year ago to the day, my little family embarked on quite an adventure. My husband, Jay Jay, left for LA to go and build life size dinosaurs for his sculpture show When Superstars Ruled The World which opened in Beverly Hills on the 13th August and me and the boys (the youngest being 5 weeks old) remained behind before joining him 6 weeks later. It was a very long 6 weeks indeed but also a very fun 6 weeks. My 2 year old thought Daddy lived inside the computer, thanks to the world of Skype and my 5 week old was just happy to be sleeping on his side of the bed.
Not only did Jay Jay give us one of the most exciting Summers we’ll ever remember, but he also managed to put on a truly spectacular show and make me immensely proud.
For those who weren’t lucky enough to be hanging out in Beverly Hills in August 2010, Jay Jay has released a brand new film including footage of the run up to the show and the opening night party.
It’s ace and has been watched on a loop by my children since 6am this morning…..and I’m still not (quite) tired of it. Watch with the volume up, the music’s pretty good too.
To see more about the show visit Jay Jay’s website here and it’s worth keeping an eye on it over the coming weeks as all kinds of plans are afoot….