Swiss Time

Arriving a day late in Switzerland - the time keeping capital of the world - felt appropriately ironic.  It wasn’t our fault, of course, it was the French, who were indulging in their national pastime of striking. A row over pensions had brought the country to a standstill, including the airspace above it. Apparently, you can’t just fly around France to get to Switzerland, you have to fly over it. Fair enough. I’m no pilot, so I won’t argue.  

Fast forward 36 hours and I’m woken suddenly in a Montreux hotel room at 7am by children who were bouncing a small elephant around the walls of the room next door. Or at least that’s how it sounded to me.  I banged the wall sharply. Then I heard Dad’s voice. 

“C’est Père Noel!” (It’s Father Christmas!) The kids hit warp drive excitement of Santa proximity and proceeded to try to communicate with me with coded wall-knocking. Sue glared at me, with a look that said “this house believes” and that if I didn't play along, I would ruin Christmas for two small children. I got up eventually, plotting revenge on Dad in the breakfast room over Swiss cheese. 

                                                                

Cheesed off

Swiss cheese is everywhere. Unsurprising, for Switzerland, I know. They have it sliced for breakfast, in sandwiches for lunch then melted for dinner in the evening. I got a bit fed up with it after a fondue and a raclette (another melted cheese offering) to be honest.

In search of a break, we shamefully head for Mc Donald’s. On googling Switzerland McDonalds I’d spotted an article from Business Insider (Feb 2019, Graham Flanagan) about the Big Mac index, which uses the prices of Big Macs in various countries as a guide to cost of living. Switzerland was number one in the charts - with the most expensive Big Mac in the world.

But don’t think you can escape the cheese just by going to McDonalds. The headline products in Switzerland McDonalds are the McRaclette and the McRaclette Bacon. More cheese.

                                                                 

 Mercury Montreux 

A short train ride from Geneva airport brings you to the pretty lakeside town of Montreux, famous for its jazz festival, vibrant Christmas market and being the inspiration for the song “Smoke on the Water.” 

The town was the adopted working home of Queen and Freddie Mercury who are omnipresent there. As well as a statue of Freddie on the waterside there is also the recording studio, where visitors gets chance to remix a Queen track, under the guidance of Queen guitarist Bryan May - by video. 

“Just don’t make the drums too loud. Nobody likes a loud drummer!” I can’t help but think that this was a wry jibe at fellow band member and drummer, Roger Taylor. Or perhaps it was a message to all drummers.

   Grey Geneva

Don’t get me wrong, Geneva city is fine. It’s probably a hoot if you love banking and watches whose illuminated logos penetrated the grey day we spent there. 

The Rolex logo can't have changed in years and if you didn't know different you might think that it was a low-end brand of 1970s timepieces rather than a successful company.

 The two main attractions in the city are an impressively large water spout in the lake and a flower clock, which looked as if it belonged in a small British seaside town.

Geneva and it’s other lakeside counterparts - as a whole ooze wealth, if not personality. They seem fascinated with eccentricity like Queen, but happy to import it rather than create it. However, the lake is quite a sight, with its castle, vast expense of water and backdrop of the alps.  The famous train rides afford often amazing views of the lake as do the paths along the shoreline. 

So go (our flights were £9.50!) - travel by train, take it in and get a room with a view. Then grab yourself a bit of cheese, pitch up on your balcony, open a bottle of wine and enjoy the spectacular scenery that Lake Geneva has to offer.

It’s a kinda magic - as Queen would say.

Happy Danes?

The Danes are apparently amongst the happiest people on the planet. In Copenhagen a few weeks ago, I decided to find out if all the hype about hygge and happiness was for real, or for tourists.

I love the customer service feedback buttons that are cropping up in places now. Even solemn-faced passport control offers you an ironic scale of smiley-happiness to grade your bag search experience that day.

I live in fear that these buttons may one day find themselves into our homes, giving couples and families a way to make a point digitally when something hasn't been done to a required standard.

Seeing the buttons at Copenhagen airport, I felt almost obliged to plump for the super-smiley one, having arrived in one of the happiest places on the planet, full of expectation.

Happy?

I wasn’t overwhelmed with happy people by any stretch. The first really happy person I met was a Spaniard - a barman in the hotel. Another happy contender was an Indian taxi driver who frantically took us “through the palace” 007 style, whilst joking that he’d better not get too close to the armed guards on account of his ethnicity. 

But no Danes. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t find them unhappy - just not overflowing with joy. Oh, and there was the incident with the cyclist who didn’t take kindly to my daughter stopping in a bike lane and swore at a her loudly in both Danish and English. I must admit I was impressed at her ability with instantaneous translation under pressure. 

We crossed the border to Sweden, traversing the bridge made famous by the detective series of the same name. The Swedes were pretty genial, probably more so than the Danes, leading me to wonder if Hygge - Danish connection of happiness based on candles cakes and soft furnishings - was either just for tourists or exclusively for use in the Danish home and not in public.

Famously Danish 

What springs to mind when you think of Danish produce? For me it was Danish pastries, Danish bacon and Danish butter. In four days and extensive travels I saw very little bacon or butter and the only Danish pastries my fiancée managed to seek out were covered in tomato and cheese and more closely resembled a pizza than a pastry.  All of which made for an interesting breakfast.

The mystery was solved by the Indian taxi driver who told us the story in a satirical but highly intelligent narrative that only the best taxi drivers have. The bottom line was that they send all the bacon, butter and pastries abroad. Apparently, there are some fantastic bakeries in the city but I didn't see any. We were probably trying to avoid near death experiences on Copenhagen's famous cycle paths.

How do you turn left?

I was OK cycling in a straight line through the middle of the city, leading the way for my family. But as soon as we had to turn left across a number of busy lanes, I was clueless - feeling like a sort of incompetent Pied Piper. A dismount and Google search prompted evidence that "the Copenhagen left turn for cyclists" is a very popular search and, by all accounts, quite hair-raising. I wasn't surprised.

The left turn problems were exacerbated by my hired bike. After being thrown clear of the saddle twice, I reached, again for Google. Passers-by may have wondered why a man lying in the side of the road with bike on top of him was surfing the web.

It turned out that I had a coaster bike not a freewheel hub bike. This basically means that when you freewheel and turn the pedal backwards slightly, a sharp brake is activated. How kind of the bike shop guys not to mention that. Perhaps it gives them some sort of sadistic happiness to imagine foolish Brits taking a tumble. I knew we shouldn't have left the EU - they're all ganging up on us now.

But seriously

Copenhagen is a great city to visit. From the charming waterside Nyhaven cafes and bars to the treasure-laden Rosenborg Castle there is much to tempt the visitor. A visit to Tivoli gardens - the oldest funfair in the world is a must. Apparently, it is was the inspiration for Disney World. Or so the Danes say, anyway. But perhaps they made that up, along with the whole happiness thing. 

A nation of storytellers, I wonder? Well, the most famous storyteller of them all, Hans Christian Andersen was himself a Dane. 

I rest my case. 

Money for Nothing

Money for Nothing

I'm having a quick overnighter in West Wales on business. So, I'm sitting in the corner of a pub thinking about what and where to eat when a bunch of tourists come in and attempt to speak to the barmaid in Welsh.

In northern and Scottish accents.

Like most of us in Wales, she doesn't speak Welsh so they may as well have been speaking Martian.

I feel sorry for the tourists, who seem to feel cheated and leave for another pub. Good luck to them. Wales isn't abroad. Yet.

Cultural stereotyping?

I’m not sure if this amounts to cultural stereotyping and if so, does it matter if it’s good-humoured? I’m sure that many of us have been on the other side of the fence, albeit accidentally.

Did you expect to see more Frenchmen in berets when you first went to France?

In London, did you expect to see more Australians with wine corks hanging off their hats (said to keep the flies off, in case you’re interested).

And what about more Hawaiians eating pineapple and ham pizzas? (For the record, I never saw a pineapple or a pizza when I was in Hawaii)

So, you can’t criticise people for turning up at the Severn Bridge, armed with a passport and a phrase book because you’ve probably done the same yourself at some point in time, in some other way, accidentally. (Intentional stereotyping which causes offence to others is another matter altogether, of course.)

The Second Severn Crossing or the Golden Gate Bridge?

 And whilst we are on the topic of the Severn Bridge – the gateway to Wales – why, oh why did we miss the opportunity to brand the new bridge that opened in 1996?

You might make allowances for the lack of imagination in naming the original 1966 bridge the “Severn Bridge”, but surely someone could have come up with something better than the “Second Severn Crossing” as a brand for its successor? San Francisco called a bridge that isn’t too dissimilar and is actually a sort of orangey brown “The Golden Gate Bridge”. Their bridge appears on t-shirts, ours only features on Google Maps.

Money for Nothing 

Back on the theme of national stereotyping, I wonder what less-known national stereotypes would be. There are lots of countries I just wouldn’t have a clue of stereotyping. I was in Sweden recently and I didn’t really know what to expect. Well, for a start, society is very digital – even some of the menus are on iPads.

You don’t see cash much in Sweden as result of its digital drive. A hotel receptionist told me that his son – 17 years old – had never really used cash. It’s all cards and phones – even on buses and in taxis.  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for a beggar we passed in central Stockholm. Without a Chip & Pin machine his takings were likely to be miserably low.

On 4th June 2016 the Guardian Newspaper commented that according to central bank the Riksbank, cash transactions made up barely 2% of the value of all payments made in Sweden in 2015. In shops, cash is now used for barely 20% of transactions, half the number of five years ago, and way below the global average of 75%. And circulation of Swedish krona has fallen from around 106bn in 2009 to 80bn in 2015.

I’m not sure if I want to go cashless just yet. I like to take money out and know how much I’m spending. In the meantime, perhaps the Swedish national stereotype might be person clutching a mobile in one hand and a credit card in the other, sitting in the back seat of a Volvo taxi - which he pays for by card - on the way to visit the Abba Museum.

Yes, there is an Abba Museum. No, we didn’t go.

Iceland: Where’s Father Christmas?

As we motor through suburban gloom of downtown Reykjavik, the only break from the endless shades of grey are the Christmas lights that twinkle on the quirky houses and multi storey offices. 

It's 10.30am and still dark.  The journey begins in the eerie, misty harbour. The tour bus collects travellers from various accommodations, announcing their nationalities to the other passengers as they climb on-board. It's reminiscent of the voting call in the Eurovision Song Contest but very bonding, nonetheless. With all the nations more happily united than the EU, we head out of town.

We have prepared for this long weekend in Iceland by purchasing an array of thermal garments, scarves and bubble jackets. Everyone else looks as if they have done the same. The bus seems to be stuffed with brightly coloured bloated snooker balls with bobble hats.  The snooker ball people bounce off each other until they shed a few layers to reduce body mass and are able to sit down.

It's freak weather - our guide apologies - in fact it’s the warmest December for 178 years. I can't help but think that we might have wasted a couple of hundred quid on our winter apparel, until someone reminds me that that's just the price of dinner for two at an average Icelandic restaurant, then it feels like not such a big deal.

The guide warns us of high costs in Iceland, advising us to avoid the toilets at the next stop as they come with a hefty £4 price tag.  It's hardly spending a penny in Iceland, is it?

I was never keen on Iceland for a weekend break, but goaded my fiancée who bought the trip as a gift and inspired by TV’s Rick Stein who also didn’t fancy Iceland but ended up loving it, I agreed to go. As it turns out, I’m already enthralled by the country within a day of being here.

The reason? I love stories. To me, travel is about stories and people. Yes, sights too - but it is the stories and the people that very often bring these sights to life for me. And if you like stories, you’ll love Iceland…

The Yuletide Lads

The Yuletide Lads are figures from Icelandic folklore There are thirteen of them. Every night, the last thirteen nights before Christmas Eve, one Yuletide lad visits each child, leaving gifts or potatoes, depending on the child’s recent behaviour.

My relationship with the Yuletide Lads began at Reykjavik Airport at one of those photo opportunities places that I can never resist. It’s a foolish weakness, I know, but I can’t pass these things by. I’m always the first to stick my head on the boards with the missing faces and silly bodies at British seaside resorts. If you’ve seen me, I apologise.

At the airport, I had just assumed that it as an Icelandic way of having a laugh at the tourists who gleefully climbed in to have their pictures taken. Icelanders have a keen sense of humour but I suspected there might be more to this story than met the eye and so we began to ask around.

At a Reykjavik pub, later that day, we ask the young barmaid to explain the Yuletide Lads. She tells the story as if she has been trained as a professional tour guide – a common trait amongst the proud Icelanders. We begin to understand why we had seen the ubiquitous caricatures all around the city. They are the personification of Christmas in Iceland.

“What about Father Christmas?” I ask.

“If you’ve come here looking for Father Christmas you will be disappointed” she replies, sounding distinctly like a Russian spy in a Bond film.

It’s a sentence that I didn’t ever expect to hear directed at a man in his 40’s and it just makes me smile every time I think about it.

Women

On October 24, 1975, 90 percent of women in Iceland went on strike to campaign for equal rights. A BBC report describes the day:

Instead of going to the office, doing housework or childcare they took to the streets in their thousands to rally for equal rights with men. It is known in Iceland as the Women's Day Off. Banks, factories and some shops had to close, as did schools and nurseries - leaving many fathers with no choice but to take their children to work.

There were reports of men arming themselves with sweets and colouring pencils to entertain the crowds of overexcited children in their workplaces. Sausages - easy to cook and popular with children - were in such demand the shops sold out.

  

Those are just two of the many interesting stories – some factual, some fictional – that I enjoyed in Iceland.

Yes, Iceland has a much talked about landscape that looks as if it belongs on another planet. Yes, you can bathe in silica-infused waters that come from the centre if the Earth. Yes, you will no doubt enjoy watching geysers spout water 40 feet in the air.

But the real deal for me are the stories and the charming and witty people who tell them. Go to Iceland armed with an open mind and a full wallet and you are virtually guaranteed a brilliant and quirky break.

Back in Brittany

A good market can capture the essence of a nation as quickly as its anthem.

I’ve just arrived in a Brittany. It is market day and I am instantly infused with unmistakable Frenchness. The influx of aromas has triggered a flood of memories. Images of family holidays in Brittany, a student summer in the Loire, and months working on a hot Languedoc campsite, all start to crystallise in my mind.

The market stalls are pitched precariously on a sloping, cobbled town square, overlooked by the town hall and the old post office. The white canvas that frames each stall is flapping in the salty morning breeze, like sails catching a gust of wind.

France being France almost everything is food. There’s pungent cheese, cooked salamis and hams, raw meats – including horse, fruit - oranges, lemons and grapes, vegetables – olives, onions and garlic, and fabulous fish – as we’re near the coast.

Standing on the edge of the market I get caught in a wonderful crosswind that adds a whiff of freshly baked baguette from a nearby bakery to the heady mix of airborne flavours. The buyers are in charge here. French women are discerning purchasers and the market is full of them – smartly dressed and gesticulating forcefully, locked in commercial combat with the stall owners. I buy a French comic, some Emmental cheese and a few slices of salami. Then I generally amble around, a gear or two below my French counterparts.

After an hour on the cobbles, I take my wares and retire to a café – being careful to retreat a few streets to avoid being charged a premium for a ringside seat at the square.

            

The blackboard outside advertises a set price menu for a modest price – but it’s not quite lunchtime so I opt for a hot chocolate. There is only handful of customers in the café. Some older men are playing a dice game and drinking small glasses of beer. And three teenagers are playing ‘Flipper’ (Pinball) and drinking something that looks like bright green washing up liquid. Apparently it is not as harmful as it looks.

           

The café reeks of polished metal, strong coffee and lingering French cigarettes. It is smart, but ordinary, having all the necessary qualifications for a backstreet pit stop – TV, flipper, basic menu, cheap wine and liquorice spirit, beer, coffee, newspapers and conversation.  

            

The waiter leaves me a small square of a bill with my drink. The bill features an indecipherable array of purple numbers and has a serrated edge where it has been hastily torn from the till. Locating the price on these things can be challenging.  I remember a family holiday when my mum mistakenly tried to pay the date instead of the price.

We had all laughed.  The waiter had simply shrugged in a French way, and wondered how we could have ever thought a cheese toastie could cost so much. 

I wanted to tell him it was because we had just come from Paris.

Puzzled by Pasties

I called into a well-known bakery a few months ago on a cold day fancying a warm Cornish Pasty. 

"We don't serve them" I was told. I argued the point and explained that I had definitely had one at a that very shop in the past. The server looked disbelievingly at me as if he might only be convinced of the validity of my claim on production of photographic evidence, which I didn't have. 

The teenager went on to tell to me in hushed tones that I could have what they used to be able to call a Cornish Pasty, as long as neither of us referred to it a Cornish Pasty and as long as I promised to forget all about the incident afterwards. I agreed. He went on to whisper to me that pasties could no longer be called Cornish unless they are made in Cornwall. I asked him where his were made.

"Pontypridd" he replied

"So can we just call it a Pontypridd pasty and get on with it" I said impatiently, though I couldn't help thinking that Pontypridd Pasty just doesn't sound as good.

I checked out his story when I was back in the office and it turns out he was absolutely right. The Cornish Pasty was indeed given Protected Geographical Indication (PGI) status - in 2011.  The PGI status is the same one that protects champagne, Parma ham, Stilton cheese, Arbroath smokies and Cornish clotted cream. You can make Cornish Pasties wherever you like but you can’t call them Cornish unless they are made in Cornwall.

 All of this made me think about how important words are in making food sound more appealing. Studying a menu in a restaurant a few days later I noticed "trio of sausages” on offer. To me, a trio sing or play music. I would have been extremely surprised if these bangers could have done either particularly well. And I am sure that if I’d asked for a “trio of beers” for me and two mates in my local, I’d have been laughed at.

And now everything is "pan fried" rather than just "fried" which just doesn’t sound good anymore. I mean, what else are you going to fry it in? The same of course is true of “oven baked.”  In “Oven Baked Fillet of Sea Bass" the word “oven” is unnecessary but somehow adds a little romance to the dish and probably justifies an extra few quid for it.

And then there are the sauces. Gravy has been driven into virtual extinction only to be replaced by the far more palatable "jus". "Jus" is rarely just left to be sloshed all over the plate as its predecessor might have been. Instead, jus is usually "drizzled delicately" or perhaps even “doused with glee”, again putting another £3.50 on the desirability factor of the dish.

Finally, there is the description of how the dish is presented. Never can the chefs of today be content with leaving to our imagination the relationship between the chicken breast and the rice and how they got together. No, the chicken must “nestle” on the bed of rice, or even worse be served “alongside a timbale of delicately steamed rice” Whatever next? Will the chicken “sit confidently astride the rice”, “nuzzle up next to the mash” or perhaps even be parachuted into a giant Yorkshire Pudding by a team of singing butterflies?  

So I’ve made resolution to seek out plain English establishment that describes its fayre honestly. This is the sort of thing I want to see:

“Small, salty cottage pie made in a commercial kitchen in Birmingham a few weeks ago, blast frozen, quickly microwaved and presented with a salad garnish to make you think it’s homemade. £14.50”.  

I think I’ll have one of those, please.

A Healthy Halloween?

I'm on Halloween duty because my office is near the front door.! Her argument that she thought ahead and bought all the fun size chocs. First child told me he wasn't doing chocolate, as he chomped on an apple. 

The kids of today, eh?I have now redressed the balance of the trick or treat bowl to reflect 2016 suburban values to include healthy options, veggie choices and gluten free desserts. I suppose I should have them all sign a disclaimer about anything that contains nuts, too? 

"OK kids- treats are on their way but first of all there's some obligatory paperwork to do..." . 

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