Category Archives: Travel

Italian Festival – Come With Me & Meet Bafana By Amanda Brake, Frost’s Le Marche correspondent

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6th January Italian Festival – Come with me and meet Bafana.  By Amanda Brake, Frost’s Le Marche correspondent.

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We got up early on this glorious morning to do our normal hour of chopping wood for the fires. We have two fires.  One heats the radiators, the other heats the hot water and is situated in the centre of our house keeping us warm. Our chopping and other chores finished, we relaxed, seduced by the warmth into staying inside. By mid-afternoon it really was time for us to kit up, and find where Bafana may be flying. But hang on, we were all feeling too cosy to adventure out into the cold, so stayed put for yet half hour.

Finally, shaking off our reluctance, we hurried into coats and boots, and we set off for our small town of Amandola . By the time we arrived things were just about getting started; in fact witches were everywhere.

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There were many activities: balloon blowing, drawing for the children who created many and varied pictures of Bafana and over it all,  music played. The walk had warmed us and we were all in the party mood as the atmosphere became more and more lively. As well as the games, which had begun for the kids, many of the girls had dressed as Befana,  the witch.

It was a shame our boys were too shy to join at first but as more arrived and joined in the festivities so did they.  Toys and sweets were finally given to all the children, and the band played their music into the night until reluctantly, we headed home.

3italySo what is this festival? In Italy the festival is known as La Befana after the legendary old woman who delivers gifts on her broomstick. She is said to visit children on the eve of January 6 to fill their socks with sweets and presents if they have been good or a lump of coal or dark candy if they have been bad.

4italyThere are many versions. In Milan, authorities set up what they touted as the world’s longest Epiphany stocking – two kilometres long, it was made with thread derived from recycled bottles in the colours of this year’s world’s fair, Milan Expo 2015.

In Venice, a regatta is held in the Grand Canal with rowers dressed up as old women competing for best costume.
In Rome’s Piazza Navona, the holiday is focused on children with activities aimed at kids and the arrival of the three kings on horseback.
In the seafaring port city of Genoa, the Befana arrives on a water scooter, and Befana divers deposit a crown on the sea floor near Gallinara Island. Florence celebrates with a procession down the Arno River by 100 vessels from the city’s rowing club, while in Naples fire fighters organize a feast for children that also taught them about fire safety. In the southern city of Brindisi, the Hellenic Community carries out a traditional blessing of the port.

We look forward to next year’s local Bafana, at which we will meet our friends, and welcome in the New Year.  I do hope that 2015 is a good one for all Frost readers.

 

 

Return Ticket To Ireland Please by Wendy Breckon

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The year is 1968, September, in the gentle mist on the dark, dark, sea.  There I stand, age fifteen, on the top deck, watching the twinkling lights of Belfast harbour slowly vanishing.  With an Ulster accent, a case crammed full of Irish potato bread and some ‘cracking’ memories, I am on my way to England’s green and pleasant land.

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My return visits over the years have been frequent and much documented.  Lingering walks by Loch Neigh, and gazing upon the beautiful Mourne Mountains.  Ambling through Carlingford in search of the perfect Irish coffee.  Following the haunting sound of the fiddle and an Irish voice or two to the nearest pub.

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There is one place though that is more than magical.  The small village of my roots,  Scarva, (Scarbhach in Irish), in County Down.  It is placed on the map beside County Armagh and marked by the Newry canal.

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Visitors come by bike or foot, or the humble motor car, to relax by the water, to take refreshments or maybe like me, to people watch with a notebook not too far away.  It’s a delightful way to spend a day.

My grandparents lived in a cottage with a small holding up a nearby lane.  They grappled with mucky pigs, squawking hens, belligerent cows and needy sheep.  Paradise!. Eventually they moved down to the village in the main street minus the livestock and the early hours.  Here their new window on the world gave me many opportunities for writing a story or two., but I missed the early sound of the cockerel and the clanking of the milk churns. though I’m sure they didn’t.

In search of nostalgia, I recently revisited the now tumbled down and derelict Drumilla Cottage where the seeds of my writing first appeared.  There it was … a crumbling reminder of a childhood spent amongst the fields and lanes of the delightful County Down.

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We decided to take the winding road to Portadown, eight miles from Scarva in County Armagh.  This used to be a small market town in the fifties and sixties, where I attended secondary school, Portadown College, until the age of fifteen.

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One of the defining moments for me will always be the morning that Mary Peters (our ex Head Girl) hid behind the curtain on the school stage.  Curious?  So were we young first years.  She had recently won a medal for Great Britain and Northern Ireland in the Pentathlon, so how on earth did she have the time to be here?

“Well, I’m sure you have no idea who is behind the curtain children?”  Said our headmaster, mischievously.

“Could it be Jesus Christ sir?” said a brave lad in the front row.

Mary appeared with her warm, friendly grin clutching her medal. Everyone cheered.

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“Go for what you want in life.  Aim high.  Never give up” she told us with great passion.  We all nodded like a hundred puppy dogs in the back of a vintage camper van.

Later that morning, Mary visited my cookery class to judge a pastry rolling competition.

“Now then class, who can roll the longest piece of pastry for our local champion and there’s a prize …”.

I was off… the class were completely mesmerised.  The long, thin, discoloured snake of pastry touched the ground, sweeping up the fluff at the bottom.

“And the shilling goes to Wendy, it’s a  really good effort.  Well done”.

“But it’s a wee bit dirty miss,” said one girl in a disgruntled manner.

“Colour doesn’t matter dear.  It’s all about the attitude”, said the teacher passing me the shilling.

Mary Peters kissed me on the cheek and I got to hold the shiny medal.

As the car ambles through the winding roads on the way back to the ferry, there was much laughter as I recall this and other moments, to him beside me.  We both agree, not just because I was born there, that Ireland is magical, mystical and magnificent.  If you haven’t been before why not cross over the Irish Sea this year.  Drive to the North or to the South for a short while or even longer.  Just say, “RETURN TICKET TO IRELAND PLEASE”.

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Lyme From The Outside…By Philippa Brewer

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We decided we needed a post Christmas escape to shift the lethargy that settles in between the over indulgence of Christmas and the start of the new year: I suggested Lyme Regis.

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I’ve visited Lyme several times, so I thought I knew what to expect: a beautiful English beach resort, basically unspoilt but with just enough kitsch to keep everyone happy.  If you’ve been to Fowey in Cornwall, Lyme has a similar feel but is closer to London – and has (a key factor where I’m concerned) a good deal more vegetarian food.

I was looking forward to it until I tried to book into a hotel.

There was literally no room at the inn: every guesthouse and hotel in Lyme declared no vacancies loud and clear. I remembered the received wisdom that holiday towns are dead from October till the end of April: clearly this meant that even the guest house owners and hoteliers had shut up for the winter and headed for sunnier climes. Trying to put this to the back of my mind (after all, we could still enjoy ourselves walking on deserted beeches, couldn’t we?), I eventually managed to reserve a room in Illminster, Somereset, some 12 miles inland.

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So it was that on the 28th December 2014, we headed for the West Country, wondering what would we do in deserted Lyme? And even more importantly, what could we eat?

For those not familiar with the town, there are many, many interesting small and medium sized shops, tea houses galore, restaurants, a quaint old cinema, the beautiful cob and beach. We loved Ilminster but nonetheless we headed to Lyme. It was a beautiful day, and to our utter surprise the town was full to bursting and everything was open.

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We took our breakfast next morning in the beachfront cafe, sitting outside warmly wrapped up against the sea breeze, but in the sun; at the end of December, in England.

We strolled around the town, walked on the beach. Everywhere was busy, everyone was enjoying the sunshine. But I was still puzzled: how had the businesses known that there would be good weather and that it would be worth their while opening? When we stopped for lunch, I asked our waiter. Apparently, Christmas in Lyme is always lovely and always busy: all the businesses know it and cater accordingly.

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So now we know. I love living near London most of the time – but every so often a trip to a place like Lyme is a real tonic – I’ll just need to remember to book early next time.  Definitely the place for a winter weekend break.

 

 

 

A House in Italy by Amanda Brake, Frost’s Le Marche Correspondent

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At the stroke of midnight, an explosion of fireworks cascaded over the medieval village of Force, in Le March on the east coast of Italy, marking the end of one year and the start of the next. My family and I remained in our house, relaxing and drinking our local wine while we watched the display.

It was the best way for us to enjoy the celebrations this year, because, after a Christmas with lots of friends and relatives, the children were whacked. They loved the skating on the rink put on this year in the town square particularly, so the local bars and restaurants will have to wait for next year, before we join them for their fabulous New Year celebrations.

So what brought me to Italy in the first place?

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I suppose it was the same as so many other people: the stunning countryside, the wine, the food, the lyrical language, and of course the Mediterranean warmth. Italy is full of history and culture and this is what intrigued me when I first visited the country at the age of eighteen. I was introduced to the Le Marche area, by friends. It was the up and coming place to buy, ‘the new Tuscany it was labeled, but a lot cheaper

On my first morning in the area, I threw open the slatted shutters of my rental accommodation and the view was more than breathtaking: the mauve coloured mountains stood out like giants in front of me stretching out from the valley. Even to this day, though I live here, and could become careless of its charms, this stunning area never ceases to impress, especially with the changing seasons and weather.

Today, in early new year, we have the magical deep snow of winter contrasting with the deep blue skies, or the tumble of snow clouds, before moving onto the rich greens of the rolling hillsides, in the hazy heat of the summer.

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I won’t say the twelve years here have not been challenging with Le Marche’s old antiquated ways, which often make us feel that we are living in a world that is closer to the UK fifty or sixty years ago. But of course, that is part of the reason for be being here in the first place.

Things are so different. If a house starts to crumble, a house that has been in the same family for generations, the family just build another next to it.

‘Piano, Piano’ is the common expression meaning ‘slowly, slowly’ everything in good time, which gives you time ‘to smell the roses’. You have to learn a completely different pace, and to remain laid back when the work that needs to be done for you, takes forever.

Here, in Le Marche, they inhabitants grow their own food, and breed their own animals. The small hamlets and villages are full of culture, their individual history not to mention a long line of local families. Each area has its own dialect, which makes learning the language challenging.

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Those native to Le Marche are slow to embrace you but if you, in turn, embrace the local environment and activities, you one become part of their community more quickly than you would have thought possible.

So, come, if you are thinking of a new life at the start of 2015. Just remember that you are not living in an ex-pat community. You will need to live as the Le Marche people do. Live, drive (an experience) work and local schooling can all help one to settle

I still struggle to adapt sometimes, but trust me, letting the old ways go and doing things the Italian way instead opens up your life more than you could ever hope.

So, what do we do, here, to earn a living? My boys have taken up most of my time up while my partner has found some building work, some house maintenance, or gardening. Whatever is about reallya little house maintains, gardening whatever is about really. As time has passed and the house has become more together, we have decided to start adventure holidays.

The area is packed with activities: mountain bike tracks, 4×4 off-roading, climbing, horse riding, rafting, beaches. This coming year we are hoping to provide accommodation above and beyond our existing self-catering apartment for back-packers, as the hiking potential in this area is limitless, in addition to our self-catering apartment.

You can see that our life here is a work in progress, but it is such a good life, though a hard working one. Like I always say to our two boys nothing is easy without a little effort.

 

 

November in Salema, Portugal – a Good Idea? By Jan Speedie

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I was invited to visit friends who live in Salema in the Algarve, Portugal, in November . It seemed like a great idea, but what’s a girl to pack? Is it cold, hot, or what?  And would it be a modern complex miles from anywhere or something that dreams are made of?

Dreams won out, and ‘warm’ was the order of the week. Salema is a fishing village situated on the coast of the western Algarve. As you drive/walk down the steep hill to the cobbled square in the centre of the village you pass doorways hung with bougainvillea, making a brilliant splash of colour.

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Once there, the day must start with a coffee and a pastel de nata (Portuguese custard tart) while you take in your surroundings, and people watch.  The fishing boats still go out daily to supply the local restaurants with fresh fish.  The narrow cobbled street Rue de Pescadores winds up through the old part of Salema.   A great many villa and apartments have been built but most are empty and unfinished waiting for new owner when the European economy revives.

Now that the long hot summer is over and the holiday makers have returned home, the village settles down for a period of rest and recuperation after the long exhausting season.

November brings moments of much needed rain that softens the sun parched ground and nature comes to life again. It actually feels ‘spring like’ with the almond trees in blossom.

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The gardens of the houses and villas are coming to life again. The long sandy beach has lost its sun loungers and umbrellas but the Atlantic waves roll in for the waiting surfers to enjoy, clad in their wet suits.

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November is when the Medronho berries ripen. Medronho trees grow wild on the poor soil of the Algarve and the berries are collected by farmers to process by hand into a drink known as ‘firewater’ because of the hot sensation felt in the throat when drunk. Aquardent de Medronhos (firewater) is very popular with farmers and fishermen and often drunk for breakfast to ‘waken the spirits’.  I’ll stick with a coffee, please.

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Salema is situated on the edge of the Parque Natural which extends down to Cape St Vincent. This nature reserve is designed to protect the outstanding beauty of the coastline, the wildlife and the region’s unique flora and fauna. The whole area is rich in history with remnants of Roman and Phoenician settlements.

If after a few days at a gentle pace of life you feel the need to see modern life again the large town of Lagos is only 20 minutes drive away with its shops, bars, restaurants and marina.

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Yes, Salema is indeed the place of, and for, dreams.

 

 

Sam Wannamaker’s Globe Works Its Magic By Penny Gerrard

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After unexpectedly warm and fine autumn days the weather has taken a sharp downhill turn and it’s cold and very, very wet.  What better on such a day than a visit to an outdoor theatre?  Courtesy of Amazon local we have half price vouchers for the Globe Theatre exhibition and tour.   We owe the reconstruction of such an iconic building to Sam Wannamaker, the American Shakespearean actor, who made it a lifelong project, sadly dying before he could see its completion.

 

As we walk across Southwark Bridge the contrast is stark between the Elizabethan style of the Globe Theatre, the original of which was built some 300 metres away in 1599,and the brutal architecture of Tate Modern which towers over it.  I know which I prefer.

Sam Wannamaker’s ‘Globe’ works

Inside the exhibition centre we are greeted by a series of fascinating exhibits bringing the world of Shakespeare to life.  We are struck by the London cityscape as it was in Shakespeare’s time with its low rise buildings dwarfed by the original St Paul’s and love the idea of the Frost Fairs which took place on the Thames in times of colder winters .

 

In a display cabinet I spot two small pottery objects – spherical with an elongated pointed top and a slot on the upper slope. One is intact and the other has a jagged fracture on it as if it has been dropped or hit. I recognise these as “boxes” which were used by the ticket sellers to collect the pennies which it cost for a standing only ticket in front of the stage and somewhat more for an actual seat.    There was no stopper at the bottom as in modern money boxes. Instead they were taken round to the “office” where they were broken open to retrieve the takings.   Hence the expression “box office” which we still use today. It also accounts for why intact examples are so rare. It seems to me that replicas would sell like hot cakes in the gift shop?

 

We embark on our tour, escorted by Simon, almost certainly an actor from his voice and demeanour.  We find ourselves sitting on the pine benches (slightly more comfortable than the oak used for most of the theatre construction).    The rain lashes down into the unprotected area in front of the stage – where the hardy audience known as “groundlings” stood in the past and still do today, come rain or shine, but now at the price of £5 (a 1200% increase).

 

My mind travels back across the four centuries since Shakespeare’s time and I can visualise the cast, all male of course, putting on one marvellous play after another, all in broad daylight and with little in the way of scenery. Despite that they still managed to ignite the imagination of the audience in a way that continues to this day. I promise myself to come back next spring and share that timeless experience with them.

 

By Penny Gerrard

 

 

Top Picks From Dream Magazine | What To Read

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I couldn’t be a writer if I wasn’t a reader. I am a complete magazine junkie. Online, print, iPad: it doesn’t matter. All that does matter is good content. But there are a million blogs, sites and magazines out there. It can be hard to find something good, to know what to read. My latest favourite is Dream Magazine. It ‘explores the stories of the people, places and races that bring life to Honda’s world-leading innovation and engineering’ so it has lots of great stuff on cars and transport, something that can be sorely lacking in general women’s magazines. We like cars and adventure too.

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On my bucket list is an LA road trip so I loved this piece about the Gold Wing’s LA adventure. They also had another great piece on Los Angeles being the city of the car, which just fuels my obsession. They have this great picture of LA’s Petersen Automotive Museum.

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I love reading about innovation so this piece was great. Their back catalogue is also full of awesome stuff and you can subscribe to Dream Magazine.

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Separated into sections of Innovation, Adventure, Life, Adrenaline, Videos and Offers, it is hours of fun and interesting reading for anyone who loves life, traveling, cars, motorbikes and a sense of adventure. The only bad point is how envious I get of all of the amazing trips I see people going on. I just add them to my bucket list. Well, the ones I am brave enough for anyway. Mission extraordinary: motorcycling across Afghanistan sees former Royal Marine, Chris Short, talk to Dream about his epic motorcycle journey from Afghanistan to Goodwood. I would love to do this but I reckon I am too much of a wimp. Maybe one day….

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Does Gran Canaria hit the spot? By Margaret Graham

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The name, Gran Canaria, means ‘Great Island of Dogs’  – and there are some still there, tiptoeing about at the end of leads, in the smart pedestrian precinct of Las Palmas. It is here one can shop until one drops. Fantastic shoes, lovely leather – deep pockets needed.

So what does Gran Canaria mean now?  Sun, sea and… sangria will do.

Eager to snatch a ‘recharge’ week before I had to set to work on the first of a three book contract for my publishers, Random House, he who must be disobeyed and I dropped our dog with her ‘besties’, (who manage my daughter and her husband rather well) and set off for Riu Club Vistamar.

1. Infinity pool, Riu Club Vistamar

Set high on a slope overlooking Puerto Rico one side, and Puerto Amadores the other, the food, rooms, pools, staff and all inclusive tariff, were excellent.

2. Dining Room at Riu Club Vistamar

On our first evening we were treated to the most amazing sunset.

3. Puerto Amadores by sunset from the hotel

Two pools were available at Club Vistamar but on our first day we thought it a better idea to walk down the 750 steps to the beaches, then a light skip round the headland to admire the marina, and yes, why not sip a cool drink?

We then tackled the 750 steps back up. Rather a long time later, two chubby, sweaty, deeply unappealing beetroots stumbled into the hotel, on the verge of an ugly death.

In spite of being the world’s worst traveller, the next day we took a ferry to Mogan, just 20 minutes along the coast.

4. One of the beetroots en route for Mogan with Riu Club Vistamar in the distance.

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Rattling with seasickness pills, I twanged on my acupuncture bracelets, but it was overkill. The sea was so calm the whole thing was a delight, as was Mogan, called Little Venice. It is festooned with bougainvillea, criss crossed by canals, and bridges

5. Mogan

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Again we staggered up the steps on our return and were the same unappetizing sight. From then on we took the courtesy bus. It was kinder to everyone.

The next day our trip to the capital city, Las Palmas, took in the house of hands, just off the main shopping area.

6. Las Palmas House decorated with Hands.

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Dick and I then found the cathedral where we were lucky enough to sit in on an organ practice for Sunday Mass. Organs and Cathedrals are made for one another. Glorious.

7.  Las Palmas Cathedral

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Gran Canaria is not a place of beauty but there is an arid fascination in its desert interior and fissure vents, typical of such a volcanic ‘birth’. Clearly tourism is its main ‘crop’ and what’s more, it delivers on a laid back holiday. If you want a city break and lots of history, it isn’t the place for you.

8. Mount Tiede on Tenerife from the hotel at sunset.

Mount Tiede on Tenerife

We booked through Thompson, High Wycombe.