Friday, 30 September 2011

Carry On Glamping

As promised prior to the Great Food Poisoning Of 2011, I thought I'd tell you about a thoroughly unexpected, yet rather spanking trip that we embarked on back in July.


Tizer was due to break up for her oh-so-long summer hols, and we thought it would be nice to take a little impromptu holiday. We only had a weekend to spare, so we looked at the usual array of options - a city break, a country pub, a seaside B&B, but nothing was really grabbing us. We wanted something that Tizer would get a kick out of for a change and, short of Disney, we were coming up blank.


So I started trawling the old interweb to try and find a break with a difference and, after a day or two, I came up with:


Camping.


I know. Not all that inspiring and certainly not the sort of thing I'd normally opt for. My experiences of camping were hitherto limited entirely to the 1980s, spent either on a rainswept campsite in a two-tone (brown and fawn) frame tent with my parents, or on a rainswept campsite in a sodden canvas Scout tent with five other, faintly smelly, pre-pubescent boys. Nylon sleeping bags, communal showers, grimy toilet blocks and farting competitions (the latter, blessedly, being limited to Scout camp).


But what I'd found looked a whole world away from this. After all, when camping means a pre-erected tent, hardwood floors, real beds, a wood-burning stove and - get this people! - a bona fide flushing loo, the whole affair starts to look mighty tempting. Oh, and before you ask, yes, they even throw in a kitchen sink. To paraphrase M&S - this isn't just camping; this is Feather Down Farm camping.


That's right - Feather Down Farms. Sounds kinda quaint, don't it? Their website is a masterpiece of marketing, selling the whole affair as 'Five-Go-Camping'-meets-Boden, sprinkled liberally with photos of rosy-cheeked children, roaring campfires and cosy, candlelit tent interiors. Feather Down have their luxury, pre-pitched tents - bursting with the afore mentioned facilities - at 20-odd farms across the UK. They supply the tents to the farms and promote them via the website. For their part, the farmers provide somewhere for the tents to be pitched (of course!), prepare and clean them prior to guests' arrival, provide wood for the stove, shower facilities and a little farm shop.


After much mulling, we chose a farm in North Wales called Glanmor Isaf which I was drawn to, I think, because it sounded like something out of 'Ivor the Engine'. With booking and payment all processed online, the deed was soon done and there would be no turning back.


Feather Down promised much, especially in the comfort department. Clearly, their approach is more 'glamping' (glamourous camping, apparently) than camping. That said, we've always been more about fluffy robes, room service and Molton Brown toiletries than wellies, woollens and wet-weather-gear so, despite the promise of at least some home comforts, it wasn't without a little trepidation that we loaded up the car and headed for the border.


Glanmor Isaf, it turns out, is a sheep and cattle farm set against the backdrop of the slopes of Snowdonia leading down to the Menai Straits, and it really is a lovely spot. Very Welsh, I'd say. We arrived late on Friday afternoon, and soon tracked down Owen, part of the Pritchard family who own the farm. He proved to be a truly warm and welcoming host, showing us where the wood was stored and where to chop it (oh yes, you have to chop your own wood here), the immaculately clean showers, well stocked farm shop, chicken coop (with real chickens!) and, finally, to our - quite frankly - magnificent tent. To be fair, the term tent doesn't do these glorious canvas residences justice. Really, I've lived in smaller flats. Wooden floors, a dining table and chairs for six, a great 'kitchen island' complete with sink and - in the centre of the tent - a wonderful, old-worldey, wood burning stove. There's even the ultimate middle-class accessory - a coffee grinder - fixed to the wall. I mean, god forbid we should have to go without our morning cup of java...


Our 'little' tent


There's a double bedroom, a room with a bunk bed and - much to Tizer's delight - a bed in a cupboard, complete with a little heart-shaped cut-out in the door for peeking out of. All very cleverly done and, to be just a teensy bit cynical for a second, all painstakingly well-planned (some, more cynical even than me, might say 'manufactured'). The dining chairs are all carefully mis-matched, faux 50s tins and nick-nacks are dotted around on shelves, and the loo lid appears to have been hewn by a passing backwoodsman from half a pine tree. Hell, there's even a battered old suitcase that's been discarded casually on top of one of the cupboards. But to criticise the place for this would be churlish; the tent, and everything in it, are just wonderful. Especially the flushing toilet, without the promise of which we wouldn't have found ourselves here in the first place.


Now, I'd read on a couple of blogs by past 'Feather Downers' that the stove can be a temperamental little bugger, and the best advice seems to be to get it going as soon as you can, especially if you tend to like your food hot. So, whilst Mrs V and Tizer used the specially provided wheelbarrows to fetch our luggage from the car, I set to with axe in hand at preparing kindling and hacking logs into variously sized chunks of wood. This was great; I was naught but a checked-shirt away from feeling manly.

We'd brought a homemade chilli con carne with us, so getting the stove lit, and doing it relatively quickly, was pretty important if we wanted to eat something other than digestive biscuits (or cold chilli con carne) for dinner. And, of course, there was the not-so-small question of male pride. Lighting fires - along with parallel parking, wiring a plug and carving the Christmas turkey - is one of those basic 'man-skills' that even the most metrosexual of blokes have to be able to perform with aplomb. I couldn't - mustn't - let the family down on this one.


So, just like Owen showed us: vent half open, small pile of kindling in the grate; firelighter on top of that, then a bit more kindling. Now the easy bit - light the firelighter. Kindling catches nicely, so add some bigger bits of wood. All going terribly well so far. There's a bit of heat going now, so let's go for a small log. It burns! Looking good...


And fifteen minutes later, what do you have? Well, as much as I know you're hoping I'll say "a whole lot of smoke and some unburnt wood", I can't. It was a roaring furnace in no time at all! I oozed manfulness. Only the lack of having a spear to hand stopped me from heading out there and then to hunt down a wild boar, burn it to a crisp on my mighty stove and serve it to my grateful and fawning family for supper.


Failing that, of course, chilli would do just fine. And the stove didn't only heat our dinner to perfection, it also warmed the tent to a very satisfying level of snug-comfiness. Tizer soon crawled into her bed-in-a-cupboard, and we were a little worried that the excitement of it all would mean that she'd struggle to get to sleep, but she was away with the fairies in no time. Left to our own devices, and with no TV, DAB or Wifi to speak of, Mrs V and I had a snifter of red wine or three and played Scrabble. Yes, it's that kind of holiday people, and you slip almost effortlessly into it.


Our bed was comfy, though we were glad we'd brought a second duvet. The farm provide duvets and bed linen (although you need to make your own bed folks) but we brought an extra along just in case, and it proved it's worth. After all, this was Britain in July and, despite the trimmings, there's still only a layer of canvas between you and the great outdoors, so it can get chilly.


Tizer was up first the following morning (as she always is when it's not a school day) and order of the day for her was to explore her surroundings and generally bother the neighbours. There are five tents at Glanmor Isaf, three set in the orchard, with a further two in the adjoining field. Only ours and two others were occupied, both by families, both of which had little girls of Tizer's age. She was, needless to say, elated. In no time at all they'd formed a formidable 'band of sisters', all dressed as is de rigueur for this time of the morning at Feather Down, in wellies and pyjamas. They were soon climbing trees, terrorising the chickens and taking turns on the large tyre swing in the centre of the orchard. Meanwhile, my attentions turned once more to my fire-lighting duties...





By repeating the routine of the previous evening we were quickly up to cooking temperature. Breakfast provisions, bought from the farm's little honesty shop, were soon sizzling away very nicely and, whether it was the wood smoke, the great outdoors, or just down to the farm's excellent bacon, sausage and eggs, it was one of the finest cooked breakfast I've ever had.


Owen came by, whilst I was wiping the last of the porky juices from my plate with a hunk of toast, to let us know that he was heading off to bottle-feed the lambs, and if that sounded like Tizer's sort of thing would she care to join him? Well, he didn't have to ask twice, and we - along with our new neighbours - followed him down to where the lambs were kept. Each of the girls was presented with a bottle which they deftly fed to the four hungry lambs who - judging by their size - probably weren't all that far away from a mint-sauce-related demise. Not that I mentioned this to the kids, you understand; thought it might have spoilt the moment just a tad.


The weekend continued in similar idyllic vein. We visited Caernarfon and toured the mightily impressive castle, took a train ride to the top of Snowdon (quite a long trek to see the inside of a cloud, but lovely views on the way up) and lunched in a couple of smashing local pubs whilst sampling the odd pint of Welsh ale. And, it must be said, it was always a delight to return to our little canvas 'des res' of an evening. My only regret was allowing Mrs V, after much pestering, to have a go at lighting the stove. Let's just say that whoever coined the phrase 'there's no smoke without fire', hasn't witnessed my wife trying to light one. The resulting smoke was so thick we could barely see from one side of the tent to the other, and yet the stove remained resolutely cool. She blamed it on a wet log. Read into that what you will.


On the Sunday, Owen offered us the chance to cook a joint of pork - from the farm's own pigs, of course - in the large, wood-burning oven (essentially a pizza oven) sited in the next field. It gets up to a really eyebrow singeing temperature, and cooked the pork in no time, producing some out-of-this-world crackling. The pork itself was stunningly tasty, way superior to your average supermarket fare and testament to why trying out your local farm shop - or farmers' market - is well worth the effort.

Later that evening one of our neighbours lit a campfire and invited Tizer over to toast some marshmallows. Well, I say 'toast'; 'incinerate' is probably closer to what your average five year old will do when they introduce a skewered marshmallow to a fire. Having said that, they happily wolfed down the resulting blackened and crunchy confection without complaint.


Packing up and heading back to civilisation on the Monday morning was a genuinely melancholy affair. Feather Down Farms have cleverly discovered the formula for the almost perfect family weekend away, helped massively in our case, of course, by the hugely hospitable Pritchard family and their beautiful farm. If camping in comfort, living on a gorgeous working farm, chopping wood, lighting fires, collecting eggs, hand-feeding lambs, eating great local food and hanging around in your PJs and wellies sounds like your kind of thing, then this is the holiday for you.


Saturday, 20 August 2011

Got Those Campylobacter Blues...

You know, I was planning on posting something sooner than this; but then, who was I to know I was going to be struck down most cruelly with food poisoning? An unpleasant little bacterium called Campylobacter which I managed to pick up whilst visiting friends down in Wiltshire.


Campylobacter: Bit of a bastard


Not sure exactly what it was I ate. There was quite a lot of eating and drinking going on throughout the weekend. A fantastic steak, a cracking piece of belly pork, some particularly nice smoked salmon, a doner kebab and a fair few pints of some fine local ales. But which could it be? From whence did I become infected? Just how did this cheeky wee bacterium weedle its way into my gut? Alas, I fear we'll never know...

Oh, who am I kidding? It was the kebab wasn't it? 'Twas a filthy, mucky old doner what done me in. No prizes for guessing that I was just a little inebriated when the jolly idea of a pile of fatty mystery meat rammed into a stale pitta crossed my mind. I mean, has any sober man ever truly thought to himself, 'you know, what I need now - what I really fancy more than anything else - is a sweaty kebab from that equally sweaty bloke on the high street who uses the serving tongs to pull out his nasal hairs when he thinks no one's looking'? Well no; of course not. But, like so many bad decisions in life - wearing traffic cones, dancing in public or having sex with ugly women - alcohol makes it seem like the finest idea your addled little brain has ever conjured up.


And, whilst the traffic cones, discotheques and ugly women of North Wiltshire were quite safe from yours truly (trust me, I learnt my lesson in the early 90s), a doner did seem - after some 8 hours or so of drinking - a capital plan. But dear lord, have I paid the price: The headache started late on Tuesday night. The fever, flu-like symptoms and shivers soon afterward. Then, in the early hours of Wednesday morning, whatever was lurking in my lower intestine decided it wanted out - pronto - and (forgive me, here) it had a one way ticket on the gravy train express.


The sickness started later that day and, with next to nothing on my stomach, taught me an interesting lesson in what I like to call 'The Spectrum Of Bile'. It went through various and generally quite disturbing hues and tints until late on Thursday, at which point it settled upon a rather unsettling shade of yellow. This continued, pretty much without let up, for the next 5 days. On the sixth day, I was back to solids, although in very small amounts, but felt this meant I was on the road to recovery. Then, on the Saturday, everything went into rewind - the fever came back, the gravy train started running a twice hourly service and I felt like death.


I tell you - I was proper poorly. Hell, I even went to the doctor so it must have been bad. It was a good two weeks before I felt well enough to venture back into the office again and now - three weeks on - I'm still so weak that I'd probably lose an arm wrestling bout with Tizer. The upside? Well, if a silver lining has to be grasped at, I've lost a stone in weight, which I'm rather pleased about. Oh, and it looks like I might have stopped smoking (haven't had one for 24 days). I was only really a social smoker anyway, but a fortnight of purging my body seems to have relieved me of the urge, strangely enough.


You see, even an old curmudgeon like me can take the positive out of a pretty negative experience. Quite uncharacteristic, actually, which is a bit of a worry. Christ, I hope this doesn't mean I'm growing up; that would never do...

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

An Apology

Not sure who I'm apologising to really. No one ever followed my blog, such as it was, so there really wasn't anyone to disappoint. Perhaps I owe an apology to the whole world of 'blog'; littered, as it is, with so many projects started with great intentions that came to nowt after a year or so. They're like diaries, really, which people are equally crap at keeping up to. Unless you're Alistair Campbell, of course (or some similar knob), safe in the knowledge that your inane, daily scribblings are millions in the kitty once your career goes tits up. No fear of that here, I'm afraid; I mean, it's not like I started a war or anything.


So, see this is an apology to the blogosphere for not 'sticking it out' or 'staying the course' or whatever. But, to my credit, here I am giving it another go. Can't promise it'll be a terribly regular affair, but let's see where things lead us.


It looks as though we left you back in November 2008 in Miami Beach. Me, the Senior Vs, Mrs V and Tizer were meant to be chilling for a couple of days before driving up to Orlando for our first family taste of all things Disney. Only trouble was, Tizer had flu - bad flu - and stayed that way for nearly all of the trip. She spent 6 days in a hotel room almost spitting distance from Cinderella's Castle in the Magic Kingdom, but could barely shift herself out of bed. Heart breaking, it was. But, on the seventh day, she recovered and with the best part of a week left of the holiday, we made a pretty good stab of things.


Still, we felt so bad (and had so many gaps in the photo album) that we went back in October '09, just the three of us. This time, no illnesses and a rip-roaring success. We celebrated her fourth birthday there. She had her lunch in the castle with the Princesses. Kind of made up for a lot.


In other travel news, we've pretty much maintained our annual trips to Barbados (in fact, we're off again in about 10 weeks). I turned 40 - most depressing - but it did give us an excuse to visit South Africa. And, trips aside, we moved house (all of three doors away, a real stretch for Pickfords) and moved business premises, but other than that it's pretty much same-old, same-old which, at my time of life, is the way we kind of like things around here, thank you very much.


I'm planning on doing a little report on South Africa with some pics, just for the hell of it. And I'll have to post something on my latest travel find: Feather Down Farms. Tents, but with flushing loos. Marvellous concept!


Here's to the next post. Hopefully.

Saturday, 15 November 2008

Hanging In SoBe With The Beautiful People - Or Not

Our brief stay in Miami Beach was something of a mixed bag. The upside was that the hotel – The Loews – was wonderful, and the weather hot and sunny. The downside was that Tizer’s fever was showing no sign of improvement. We were forcing - and I mean forcing - Calpol and Ibuprofen down her at regular intervals which was just about keeping her temperature at a bearable (but still very worrying) level.

During one of her brighter moments we all managed to venture poolside for a spot of lunch (a massive and delicious bowl of freshly fried calamari for me) and a couple of fruity, extravagant cocktails. Tizer was fading fast though and Mrs V was starting to look distinctly ropey to boot; I despatched them both back up to the room with orders to get themselves to bed.

At this point, Mum and Dad would quite happily have stayed at the pool bar, I reckon, but I wasn’t having any of that. We were tourists, for crying out loud, and it was our duty to tour! We may well have lost 40% of our party with less than 24 hours of our holiday spent, but this wasn’t going to stop us. Oh no: I was in Miami Beach; I was wearing flip-flops and an overly-loud shirt; I was in possession of a camera with an oversized lens. We were going to hit Ocean Drive, or I’d want to know the reason why!

Ocean Drive, as well as being the title of an insipid song by wishy-washy 90s crooners The Lighthouse Family, is a rather photogenic stretch of sea-front Art Deco hotels and bars that line their way for 15 or so blocks along South Beach. By day it’s a sun drenched Miami-esque scene of pale pink, yellow and green 1930s properties lazing gently in the sub-tropical heat. By night - to all intents - it becomes a seething hive of neon lights, swish motors, strong mojitos and only the most beautiful of the Beautiful People (which is one reason why we only visited during the day).

The relaxed and bohemian atmosphere of SoBe often attracts Santa Claus for a pre-Christmas break

It passes the Mr V Location-That-Does-Exactly-What-It-Says-On-The-Tin Test, in that you’re left in no doubt that this is South Beach (or ‘SoBe’ as the locals call it) with all the trappings you’d expect – nay, demand – from such a stylised slice of beach-front, Miamitastic chic. I like to apply the LTDEWISOTT Test wherever we travel, and only a handful of places actually cut the mustard: Most of New York passes with distinction and Hong Kong is loaded with many perfect examples. However, the Caribbean coast of Mexico, for instance, fails miserably. You could be anywhere – or, at least, anywhere that has blue sky, blue sea, a big swimming pool and loud Americans.

Strolling down Ocean Drive we passed Versace’s gaff – Casa Casuarina – on the steps of which he had a rather ill-advised and somewhat infamous argument with a gun-toting nutter, which he subsequently lost in a quite spectacular - and terminal - fashion back in 1997. I thinks it’s a hugely expensive boutique hotel now, complete with Versace be-decked security guard/male model on the gate. It’s just one example of some cracking Art Deco architecture all along Ocean Drive, most of which set this tourist's camera shutter a-snapping.

After 10 blocks or so mother’s legs were starting to fail her so we returned to the hotel to find my two favourite ladies in bed: my fears regarding Mrs V’s demeanour at lunch were confirmed as she was now competing with Tizer in the ‘how hot can I make my body’ stakes. We had a four hour drive to Orlando to get through the following day and, at this rate, it was going to be pretty hard going for all involved. I left them both to get as much sleep as they could.

Ma, Pa and I dined in the hotel restaurant, leaving the sickly duo to their beds. The food was cracking; I had a spanking piece of blackened snapper, followed by a beautiful Key Lime Pie, which I thought was particularly Floridian of me. A couple of post-dinner snifters was all we had left in us so, with a big drive ahead of us – and hopes of a swift recovery for Tizer and Mrs V – we retired for the night.

On the upside, the paper parts of our driving licenses had arrived via courier that morning so, at the very least, we could hire a car. Small mercies and all that. Let's see how things pan on out from here on..