My not insignificant forehead has been red raw this week and is only just recovering. For the first half of the week it felt like I'd had a particularly heavy injection of botox as I was finding it difficult to lift my eyebrows (and spending days on end with the inability to lift your eyebrows is most inconvenient – a look of surprise is misconstrued as a look on constipation).
The sun had once more got the better of me. After a day spent lounging about a beach on Elie harbour without any form of protection I suffered. I should know by now that even though the sun may not be obvious at times, it's still there. Quite often, as soon as I've set foot on a beach, be it Ibiza, Lanzarote or Largs, I’ve turned a violent shade of red.
The family, or in this case, families, were all gathering in the Fife coastal town of Elie for a beach barbeque. My Aunt Anne had arranged it with the extended family of my Granpa Reid’s sister’s, my Great Aunt Nan’s, side as, unfortunately, we only ever seem to really see each other when somebody dies. Anne had got talking with a few of her cousins at the last funeral, my Aunt Maureen’s, and had decided enough was enough. She was determined to bring the two families together for something that wasn’t a death.
So Dad, Mum, Lynsey Ann, Ka and myself all jumped into Dad’s citroen on the Saturday, and travelled up to Leven, and to the Caledonia Hotel, a half hour drive from where we were headed the next day. We arrived at around half past eleven and, as check-in wasn't until after one, we decided to take our picnic, organised and provided by Mum and Ka, down to the waterfront. Unfortunately the weather wasn't up to much and as soon as we climbed down the large stone steps on to Leven's short sand beach, the rain started to fall.
Not just normal rain though.
This was large, big, splodgy dollops of rain which made a fantastic attempt at soaking us before we ran for shelter, cowering under the shelter of a large tree, we'd spotted earlier, back up towards the streets, alongside some park benches. As the rain eventually lightened, Mum and Ka quickly started preparing the tea, coffees and sandwiches, the Firth of Forth stretched out before us under the continuously moving clouds.
After our lunch, we decided to take a wee walk around the seaside town.
It didn't take very long.
We walked up on to the rather neglected looking High Street, not even paying any attention to the decorative signposts which pointed the way to the town's various hotspots. Not that there was much in the way of hotspots.
The bigger hotspots consisted of the local Lidl, which stood opposite our hotel for the night and served as our picturesque view from our hotel window. An indoor swimming pool stood lay, across the road from the bus station, at the end of the short High Street. A Sainsbury's sat across the road from that. There was an Arcade amusement shop, a bounteous amount of charity shops and a few pubs.
My Dad and I left the women in a wool shop and wandered further up the street and came across and slightly more curious looking little shop which displayed examples of it’s wares in it’s window. World war helmets, military caps, uniforms, nazi war medals, gas masks and beer flagons were just a few of the collections adorning the shelves and walls of this particular shop all leading you into a false sense of security as you ventured forth into the back of the shop and found a bog standard second hand book shop. Dad bought some Michael Connelly books for a pound each (cheaper than the charity shops) before we headed back down the street to find the women in the hotel buying in the drinks.
Following check in, during which we checked over our basic, but clean, rooms admired the view of the local Lidl and unpacked our small cases of belongings, we headed out to Crail to meet up with Tom, Linda and the just arrived Jim who had driven all the way up from London. We arrived at Tom and Linda’s camper van just in time to see Cavendish and his team get beat in the Olympics cycling road race and decided to head up to Crail’s Main street and a pint in the Golf Hotel where Anne and Ian caught up with us and Mum noised up the barman for not delivering Ka’s coffee.
We headed back to Leven for the remainder of the evening, driving through the pouring rain, which seemed to suddenly only exist outside of Crail, and enjoyed dinner with Anne and Ian in the Caledonia, where the waitresses had neglected to book our table and then nearly forgot to take our dessert orders.
With the rain finally giving itself a break, we took a short walk afterwards, ending up in one of the pubs we’d passed on our walk earlier in the day. Now it was a little livelier and the Saturday night entertainment was in full swing with the pub’s DJ and karaoke machine. The karaoke only made up half of the entertainment though as we were introduced to the lively residents of Leven’s Molly Malones. Most of the singers were awful, successfully destroying perfectly good songs. One of the guys, who would probably have ate himself if he had been chocolate, could barely sing the last three words of each screen, struggling to keep up with the colouring text. A few girls attempted Lady Gaga and the like whilst one of the biggest karaoke stars of the night turned out to be a lady called Margaret.
At least we think she was a lady.
Usually Margaret is a lady’s name so we opted for the female option. This ‘lady’ would strut up to the microphone in her suit jacket and belt out the hits with a deep, but not completely tuneless voice, and was overjoyed to hear the cheers from Mum and Anne following her various song interpretations. Insinuations were even made the next morning about Mum getting a few heavy winks from Margaret.
After a quick drive across the road to Lidl, where we packed a couple of boxes full of chicken, burgers, ribs and wings along with wine, juice and a couple of large bottles of water for the beach feast we headed out to Elie.
Arriving at Ruby beach, Sarah Jane turned up with Yvie, Christopher and Daniel before Anne and Ian drove up and met us where it was decided we should change location and we settled down on a small section of beach in a rocky alcove on a southern point of Elie harbour.
The sun was out but the wind was strong as we started setting up camp. Tom kitted me out with some shorts and a pair of spiky soled sandles as I’d left the shorts at home not expecting much from the Scottish coastal weather, much to Tom and my Dad’s disbelief. Earlier, on the Saturday, Dad almost swerved off the road with incredulity when I told him that I’d not brought any shorts.
Anyway, tents were built (and never used), barbecues were laid out ready for use, canoes were blown up, windbreakers were erected and a couple of castles were built as the family gathered to meet the more distant, extended family. Granpa Reid’s sister, my 87 year old Great Aunt Nan, soon appeared on son-in-law Stanley’s arm, the majority of her family, all following soon after.
Considering I only see these distant relations briefly at funerals I still find myself getting names mixed up, if I can even remember the names in the first place. There were a number of occasions on Sunday when I had to ask reminders from Mum, quietly and subtly whenever I think none of them are looking. There was Paul married to young Nan, Joan married to Stanley, Allison married to Ken, Kathryn married to Vince, Claire married to… Paul… I think it was Paul. Gawd, see, there I’ve started forgetting the names already?!
Anyway, on the day mixing up the names and relations didn’t get in the way of the food. Before long the BBQ’s were lit, the cans were cracked open, the wine unscrewed (we realised in Lidl that we had no bottle opener) and Linda’s trifle was out whilst the sun shone down, the strong wind succeeding in fooling us into being cool, whilst the occasional shower pestered us from time to time.
In all there was probably around 35 folk crowded round that small piece of beach before some of the blokes disappeared off to the Ship Inn for a pint, or to see the hanging baskets, as some were claiming, and to watch the game of cricket taking place further along beach. Apparently Elie’s hanging baskets are lovely at this time of year, I suspect they’re even lovelier when there’s a pint or two involved.
Unfortunately for me I made the unwise decision to stay on the beach and get merry with the wine, my Dad only realising later that we could well have been breaking the law.
It wasn’t until I got back into the back seat of the citroen at the end of the day, after returning the shorts to Tom and spending around an hour saying goodbye to people, that Mum turned a fetching shade of scarlet, Dad got dizzy and tripped over a wall, Lynsey Ann started to feel a little drowsy and my whole head started buzzing with heat. It wasn’t until the next morning when I awoke that I realised I could no longer look surprised, let the water from my shower hit my head or dry my hair or head without screaming in pain. I walked into the office with a head resembling a expertly polished tomato. Now, a couple of days later, and after copious amounts of after sun cream, that tomato is now peeling.
Showing posts with label Hotels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hotels. Show all posts
Friday, 3 August 2012
Monday, 2 April 2012
Going Underground with Adventure Ted
5 minutes to midday late on a Thursday morning and I’m standing at the bar ordering a pint. Possibly the earliest pint for a long while.
Ka and myself were in the Arrol Bar in Glasgow Central awaiting our train, due to leave at 12.40. It was the start of our holiday weekend in London so we thought we’d while away the half hour awaiting the arrival of our Virgin train with a pint and a glass of wine. Adventure Ted came out of the handbag for a tipple too. She came out for a sip of Ka’s wine as we sat in the pub’s front window watching the early afternoon world go by.
Yep, I did say ‘she’ as Adventure Ted is a girl. Her usual abode is, of course, the ELU Nursery, Ka’s work, but as one of the current projects for the kids involves London, the Queen and all things Jubilee, Adventure Ted thought she’d make the trip to London with us, her weekend goal to get her picture taken outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.
We perched Adventure Ted on the stool at the side of the table, moving Ka’s glass of wine to within her grasp, and snapped a photo of her with the phone, texting it to Vicki, who was hard at work back in dreary old Hamilton in the Early Learning Unit. There were a few fellow early drinkers in the bar around us but none seemed to even bat an eyelid at the appearance of a medium sized teddy in an all in one red polka dot outfit and sunhat perched, smiling on the barstool close by. Then again, perhaps the appearance of a bear in polka dots drinking at the next table is not a particularly strange sight for some of the folks that drink around midday in the middle of town.
As the announcement was made over the Central Station tannoy, we made out way out and up to Platform 1 where Adventure Ted obediently posed with our luggage, sitting before another of Richard Branson’s wonderful machines, one of the 390 Pendolino’s, which would deliver us successfully, in around 4 and a half hours, to our destination of the country’s capital.
Once we arrived in London Euston it was around half 4 and by the time we got down into the Underground to make our way to our hotel in Notting Hill it was the height of rush hour as we shuffled our way through the London crowds with our two cases.
Tuts, sighs, conversations, murmurings, all in various different languages, circled us as we made our way through the claustrophobic tunnels and trains of the London Underground, all with their own fantastic fashions, faces and furrowed brows. Singing and guitars echoed along a few of the more acoustic tunnels with the occasional announcements from the tannoys overhead as escalators struggled to ascend to the various different warm station levels carrying the massive crowds piled on top.
It always takes a few wee trips to get back into the London Underground mode when you visit the capital but nothing much has changed.
Spinning adverts and movie trailers on digital screens have now replaced some of the Underground’s escalator posters which follow your ascending or descending to the next level which I thought was quite a cool change though a pretty pricey one, I would have thought.
Never mind the aged track and train replacement, let’s get some 50 odd flashy digital display screens installed on this one escalator.
That can’t be very cost effective surely?
Anyway, after finally arriving at the Shaftesbury Premier Notting Hill Hotel we were helped up into the reception with our cases by a concierge and greeted by a friendly receptionist who got us to fill out our accommodation form and then informed us that we could not stay.
Ka and myself had been ready for a spanner in the works. We had been gearing up for it. Something had to go wrong.
Apparently there was a problem with the air conditioning in our room and, as a result, we would have to be moved to a sister hotel. The receptionist swiftly called a taxi.
A large merc soon pulled up and swept us along to the Shaftesbury Premier Paddingstion Hotel and after a short ten minute drive, in which we seen a biker get his moped trashed after braking too heavily at a corner infront of a car following it from the rear, we were dropped off in the middle of the far busier Westbourne Terrace, five minutes walk from the Paddington Underground station and it’s surrounding shops and restaurants.
The room, and hotel in general, was very nice and we had been promoted to a higher bedroom and would now be welcomed to breakfast on the three mornings of our stay, for our inconvenience.
After quickly unpacking and getting ourselves settled, we hit the streets of Paddington for dinner, ending our walk in the Villa Rosa restaurant on Craven Road, greeted by a pair of stinking armpits and salads with no lettuce. The cannelloni was good though. Ka, however, was put off by the mince being a suspicious grey colour. In retrospect, perhaps not one of our best choices of restaurants.
After our wonderfully average meal we jumped on the tube and headed into town, aiming for Covent Garden. Unfortunately I mistook the Victoria line for the Piccadilly line and we ended up disembarking at Oxford Circus surrounded by shoppers heading home. Moving onwards we ended up in Carnaby Street eventually finding a small bar and a couple of seats for an after dinner beverage.
Another short walk later, we ended up in the bustling Piccadilly Circus where we were to return on our first stop the next morning on our trip to the Royal Academy where we would meet Ann in the sunshine filled courtyard, see some David Hockney, whilst battling pensioners, go out on a tourist quest to see as many sights as possible with Adventure Ted, annoy many a policeman, watch battling ducks, argue over whether it was a pelican or a stork, stand in red telephone boxes and come across more than a few Easter eggs on our way.
Ka and myself were in the Arrol Bar in Glasgow Central awaiting our train, due to leave at 12.40. It was the start of our holiday weekend in London so we thought we’d while away the half hour awaiting the arrival of our Virgin train with a pint and a glass of wine. Adventure Ted came out of the handbag for a tipple too. She came out for a sip of Ka’s wine as we sat in the pub’s front window watching the early afternoon world go by.
Yep, I did say ‘she’ as Adventure Ted is a girl. Her usual abode is, of course, the ELU Nursery, Ka’s work, but as one of the current projects for the kids involves London, the Queen and all things Jubilee, Adventure Ted thought she’d make the trip to London with us, her weekend goal to get her picture taken outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.
We perched Adventure Ted on the stool at the side of the table, moving Ka’s glass of wine to within her grasp, and snapped a photo of her with the phone, texting it to Vicki, who was hard at work back in dreary old Hamilton in the Early Learning Unit. There were a few fellow early drinkers in the bar around us but none seemed to even bat an eyelid at the appearance of a medium sized teddy in an all in one red polka dot outfit and sunhat perched, smiling on the barstool close by. Then again, perhaps the appearance of a bear in polka dots drinking at the next table is not a particularly strange sight for some of the folks that drink around midday in the middle of town.
Once we arrived in London Euston it was around half 4 and by the time we got down into the Underground to make our way to our hotel in Notting Hill it was the height of rush hour as we shuffled our way through the London crowds with our two cases.
Tuts, sighs, conversations, murmurings, all in various different languages, circled us as we made our way through the claustrophobic tunnels and trains of the London Underground, all with their own fantastic fashions, faces and furrowed brows. Singing and guitars echoed along a few of the more acoustic tunnels with the occasional announcements from the tannoys overhead as escalators struggled to ascend to the various different warm station levels carrying the massive crowds piled on top.
It always takes a few wee trips to get back into the London Underground mode when you visit the capital but nothing much has changed.
Spinning adverts and movie trailers on digital screens have now replaced some of the Underground’s escalator posters which follow your ascending or descending to the next level which I thought was quite a cool change though a pretty pricey one, I would have thought.
Never mind the aged track and train replacement, let’s get some 50 odd flashy digital display screens installed on this one escalator.
That can’t be very cost effective surely?
Anyway, after finally arriving at the Shaftesbury Premier Notting Hill Hotel we were helped up into the reception with our cases by a concierge and greeted by a friendly receptionist who got us to fill out our accommodation form and then informed us that we could not stay.
Ka and myself had been ready for a spanner in the works. We had been gearing up for it. Something had to go wrong.
Apparently there was a problem with the air conditioning in our room and, as a result, we would have to be moved to a sister hotel. The receptionist swiftly called a taxi.
A large merc soon pulled up and swept us along to the Shaftesbury Premier Paddingstion Hotel and after a short ten minute drive, in which we seen a biker get his moped trashed after braking too heavily at a corner infront of a car following it from the rear, we were dropped off in the middle of the far busier Westbourne Terrace, five minutes walk from the Paddington Underground station and it’s surrounding shops and restaurants.
The room, and hotel in general, was very nice and we had been promoted to a higher bedroom and would now be welcomed to breakfast on the three mornings of our stay, for our inconvenience.
After quickly unpacking and getting ourselves settled, we hit the streets of Paddington for dinner, ending our walk in the Villa Rosa restaurant on Craven Road, greeted by a pair of stinking armpits and salads with no lettuce. The cannelloni was good though. Ka, however, was put off by the mince being a suspicious grey colour. In retrospect, perhaps not one of our best choices of restaurants.
After our wonderfully average meal we jumped on the tube and headed into town, aiming for Covent Garden. Unfortunately I mistook the Victoria line for the Piccadilly line and we ended up disembarking at Oxford Circus surrounded by shoppers heading home. Moving onwards we ended up in Carnaby Street eventually finding a small bar and a couple of seats for an after dinner beverage.
Another short walk later, we ended up in the bustling Piccadilly Circus where we were to return on our first stop the next morning on our trip to the Royal Academy where we would meet Ann in the sunshine filled courtyard, see some David Hockney, whilst battling pensioners, go out on a tourist quest to see as many sights as possible with Adventure Ted, annoy many a policeman, watch battling ducks, argue over whether it was a pelican or a stork, stand in red telephone boxes and come across more than a few Easter eggs on our way.
Friday, 29 July 2011
Desperate in Dundee
The sky was a brilliant blue. Any clouds a mere whisper in the vast sky over the expanse of the Firth of Tay. The strait lay shimmering, over the large valley before us, reaching over towards Newport and the north east of Fife.
Both Ka and myself had never been to Dundee before so, just for the jaunt in the summer sunshine, we thought we'd go up on Saturday and have a wee night away in a B&B followed by a day on the beach in St. Andrews on the Sunday.
With a few hours to kill before check in at our hotel we parked the car in the town centre and decided to have a wander, maybe grab some lunch on the way as we were both starving.
We walked through the shopping centre, Ka making a quick stop at Primark for a pair of work trousers whilst I kept walking, going out into the town square, taking a few pictures of Desperate Dan and a catapult weilding Minnie the Minx. The 8 foot bronze statue of the cow pie eating cartoon character stands in the middle of Dundee's city square, dragging his 'dawg' along behind him, Minnie the Minx following. Both characters appeared in two different comics, The Dandy and The Beano, both published by the same company DC Thomson, a company Ka's Dad, Dougie, is more than familiar with, and the annuals of which my brother Kenny and myself would usually receive copies of every Christmas.
On our walk around Dundee Ka and myself explored the Tayside, seeing the R.R.S. Discovery moored up at Discovery point, Captain Robert Falcon Scott's ship that conquered Antartica. Just as I was taking a quick picture of the historical ship a small couple with a strange accent approached us and asked if we'd like a photo taken. After posing under the tall ship the older couple started chatting away, some of which I understood, telling us they were over on holiday from Melbourne, first time back in Scotland in twenty five years. That explained the odd accent. A weird amalgamation of Aussie and Scots. An accent Kenny may well adopt after his continuing trip around Oz.
It does make me wonder, hearing so many stories of people emigrating to Oz in search of a better life, and finding it.
Is it really the land of opportunity? Do we need to travel so far, in order to gain this fantastic life that so many people talk of? Is Britain, and Scotland specifically, so abysmal that you have to move to the land of 'Neighbours', 'Home and Away' and 'Priscilla Queen of the Desert' to have a satisfactory life? I do like BBQs mind you... and the fact you can go next door whenever you want and help yourself to their fridge or sit on the beach all day and drink lager.
After getting back to the car we finally found somewhere to get some food. A rather shadey wee baguette shop, across the road from the carpark, on the edge of the University grounds. After successfully misunderstanding a hungry Ka I strode into the small shop and ordered a baguette, standing in the tight, white tiled take away, looking down at the bowls in the glass cabinets before us. Chicken in various sauces and in various states of decay met our eyes as the man behind the counter warmed our baguette, eyeing us suspiciously. I'd never had an inclination to run from a cafe or take away shop after placing an order before.
"Run for your life!" I screamed through my head and I imagined running out the shop, grabbing Ka as I went, escaping across the road, jumping into the car and speeding off, door slamming shut over the spinning wheels as the wee Baguette man ran out after us, shouting indian swear words whilst gesturing wildly with a tikka stained bread knife.
Upon receiving the baguette, which Ka had to pay for with her wealth of change, she dared me to eat the horrid looking thing, filling me with guilt after she was now £4 out of pocket. I couldn't back down. I had to eat it. Two day old salad hung from the sides of the bread littered over the greasy, gorey looking chicken tikka which lay inside. I gulped and bit my first bite.
"It's not bad" I shrugged at Ka, lying uncontrollably.
I managed to get halfway down the baguette before my stomach started churning.
Time to head on to the hotel, I told Ka, and the room's bathroom, I thought.
We were greeted at the Shaftsbury Hotel by Heather, the friendly and slightly flustered hotelier, with horn rimmed glasses and muddled paperwork, who showed us up to our room at the top of the large, Victorian building. The hotel had originally been home to one of Dundee's rich jute Barons, James Scott. The jute industry being one of the city's main incomes in the nineteenth century. The building structure has obviously been largely untouched since those days, a lot of the original features still in place.
Our room at the top of the house was large and airy, with a view looking out over the Tay, only slightly obscured by the few rooftops before us. As we opened the curtains wide to admire the panorama we smiled, taking in the nice view. The sun shone, the Tay sparkled, a few gulls cackled at one another and the chickens clucked.
Hold on.
Chickens?
"Bock,bock,bock,begowwwwk" echoed through the streets below from the neighbour's garden straight across the road. The chicken tikka in my belly turned oddly inside my digestive system but thankfully settled before we headed out for dinner to Papa Joe's, an American style diner along the same lines of TGI Fridays but, we discovered, with far superior burgers. I almost went for the chicken burger but thought against it, going for the cow meat instead, just like Desperate Dan.
Both Ka and myself had never been to Dundee before so, just for the jaunt in the summer sunshine, we thought we'd go up on Saturday and have a wee night away in a B&B followed by a day on the beach in St. Andrews on the Sunday.
With a few hours to kill before check in at our hotel we parked the car in the town centre and decided to have a wander, maybe grab some lunch on the way as we were both starving.
We walked through the shopping centre, Ka making a quick stop at Primark for a pair of work trousers whilst I kept walking, going out into the town square, taking a few pictures of Desperate Dan and a catapult weilding Minnie the Minx. The 8 foot bronze statue of the cow pie eating cartoon character stands in the middle of Dundee's city square, dragging his 'dawg' along behind him, Minnie the Minx following. Both characters appeared in two different comics, The Dandy and The Beano, both published by the same company DC Thomson, a company Ka's Dad, Dougie, is more than familiar with, and the annuals of which my brother Kenny and myself would usually receive copies of every Christmas.
On our walk around Dundee Ka and myself explored the Tayside, seeing the R.R.S. Discovery moored up at Discovery point, Captain Robert Falcon Scott's ship that conquered Antartica. Just as I was taking a quick picture of the historical ship a small couple with a strange accent approached us and asked if we'd like a photo taken. After posing under the tall ship the older couple started chatting away, some of which I understood, telling us they were over on holiday from Melbourne, first time back in Scotland in twenty five years. That explained the odd accent. A weird amalgamation of Aussie and Scots. An accent Kenny may well adopt after his continuing trip around Oz.
It does make me wonder, hearing so many stories of people emigrating to Oz in search of a better life, and finding it.
Is it really the land of opportunity? Do we need to travel so far, in order to gain this fantastic life that so many people talk of? Is Britain, and Scotland specifically, so abysmal that you have to move to the land of 'Neighbours', 'Home and Away' and 'Priscilla Queen of the Desert' to have a satisfactory life? I do like BBQs mind you... and the fact you can go next door whenever you want and help yourself to their fridge or sit on the beach all day and drink lager.
After getting back to the car we finally found somewhere to get some food. A rather shadey wee baguette shop, across the road from the carpark, on the edge of the University grounds. After successfully misunderstanding a hungry Ka I strode into the small shop and ordered a baguette, standing in the tight, white tiled take away, looking down at the bowls in the glass cabinets before us. Chicken in various sauces and in various states of decay met our eyes as the man behind the counter warmed our baguette, eyeing us suspiciously. I'd never had an inclination to run from a cafe or take away shop after placing an order before.
"Run for your life!" I screamed through my head and I imagined running out the shop, grabbing Ka as I went, escaping across the road, jumping into the car and speeding off, door slamming shut over the spinning wheels as the wee Baguette man ran out after us, shouting indian swear words whilst gesturing wildly with a tikka stained bread knife.
Upon receiving the baguette, which Ka had to pay for with her wealth of change, she dared me to eat the horrid looking thing, filling me with guilt after she was now £4 out of pocket. I couldn't back down. I had to eat it. Two day old salad hung from the sides of the bread littered over the greasy, gorey looking chicken tikka which lay inside. I gulped and bit my first bite.
"It's not bad" I shrugged at Ka, lying uncontrollably.
I managed to get halfway down the baguette before my stomach started churning.
Time to head on to the hotel, I told Ka, and the room's bathroom, I thought.
We were greeted at the Shaftsbury Hotel by Heather, the friendly and slightly flustered hotelier, with horn rimmed glasses and muddled paperwork, who showed us up to our room at the top of the large, Victorian building. The hotel had originally been home to one of Dundee's rich jute Barons, James Scott. The jute industry being one of the city's main incomes in the nineteenth century. The building structure has obviously been largely untouched since those days, a lot of the original features still in place.
Our room at the top of the house was large and airy, with a view looking out over the Tay, only slightly obscured by the few rooftops before us. As we opened the curtains wide to admire the panorama we smiled, taking in the nice view. The sun shone, the Tay sparkled, a few gulls cackled at one another and the chickens clucked.
Hold on.
Chickens?
"Bock,bock,bock,begowwwwk" echoed through the streets below from the neighbour's garden straight across the road. The chicken tikka in my belly turned oddly inside my digestive system but thankfully settled before we headed out for dinner to Papa Joe's, an American style diner along the same lines of TGI Fridays but, we discovered, with far superior burgers. I almost went for the chicken burger but thought against it, going for the cow meat instead, just like Desperate Dan.
Thursday, 17 February 2011
Cookies on call
Just back from Dunblane. Ka and myself stayed at the Doubletree Dunblane Hydro, a monster of a hotel perched on a large hill at the edge of Dunblane village. As Ka and myself drove up the winding road towards the front of the building we couldn't help but be impressed by the large Victorian structure with it's towering height standing over us like a traditional hollywood style haunted house or murder mystery setting. One of the best things was the greeting at reception.
Standing on the plush carpets before the tall wooden panelled reception desks we were greeted with, not only genuine friendly smiles and offers of help with luggage, but also, most importantly, a large, steaming hot chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven wrapped up in a thin paper envelope. The receptionist had just pulled them out from a small storage unit under her desk. No wonder she was all smiles. What a fantastic perk to the job. Chocolate cookies on call. As we waited on the elevator to take us up to the top floor, the beautiful stench of cookie filled the air. The need for tea grew within me as we waited with the cookie smell wafting around me. The champagne we'd brought for our overnight stay could wait. Tea had to be made immediately in order to accompany this smoking hot baby.
Of course, Ka opted for coffee, (that ain't right is it?) and after enjoying our 40 grams of fat in cookie form we thought we'd walk the dietary sin off by exploring Dunblane. A town we'd never visited before and were curious to have a walk around. We returned to our rooms an hour later, considering a trip to Stirling. From what we could see, Dunblane has a Cathedral, and a Tesco. Oh, and a Railway Station, presumably for escaping by, sorry commuting by. That's about it.
After our short walk we opted to stay in the hotel and take advantage of it's amenities enjoying a dip in the pool and a sweat in the steam room, all the while I mulled over the location of the Doubletree chocolate cookie factory. Could it have been in the Hydro's basement, with small serving lifts rising the cookies up into the receptionists desks, just in time to serve to the lucky arriving guests?
Could Celebrity tv chef, Nick Nairn have had a hand in creating the cookies?
Ka and myself dined in the luxurious setting of The Kailyard, Nick Nairn's Restaurant, housed within the hotel. Beautiful meals of duck and tagliatelle served with a nice, crisp Pinot Grigio (crisp, hmm, I may become a wine connoisseaur yet). We then retired to our room where we danced to the final tunes from a dying iPod and ate strawberries with champagne.
The breakfast, this morning, was immense. Tables of cereal, freshly cut fruit, bacon, sausage, egg, scrambled and fried, potato scone, porridge and whisky, racks and racks of toast and baskets of chocolate chip muffins. Muffins, but no cookies. The cookies were disappointingly absent at breakfast.
After breakfast we went for another swim in the hotel's pool which was more of a challenge than yesterday, as it seemed far more difficult to keep myself afloat after my platefuls of food in the past 24 hours, not to mention champagne and wine.
All in all, not bad for a short Valentines break.
A Valentines all kicked off on Sunday night by a visit to Tricia and Tommy's.
Tricia was on a mission. Ka, Lynsey Ann and myself walked into her house only to be bombarded by a plethora or hearts. Tricia had transformed her living room into a Valentines wonderland with candles, confetti, balloons and paper hearts hanging from the ceiling in coloured, curving, twisting, acetate papers. Tricia had went to town with it all presumably just stopping short before she had painted it red. Christopher and Martin hummed in quiet but amused disapproval, well used to their Mum's fantastic enthusiasm. After dinner Tricia had organised a game of Mr & Mrs for the gathered couples. All two of them. Tricia and Tommy themselves and Ka and myself. Chris, Martin and Lynsey Ann opted out, thankful, for a change, that they were single.
After around twenty questions, with a possible 300 points up for grabs, Tommy and Tricia managed to win the game. Winning only by a mere five points I should add but with totals, which Chris quickly pointed out, that were not even a third of the possible total. A miserable performance by both parties. As a luxury item of clothing I thought Ka would have preferred a pair of her boots to underwear but hey, what do I know? Not enough, as it would turn out. It was the iMac on a desert island and the purple pants that tripped me up. How was I to know that particular desert island would have no electricity supply?
As a result of the Valentines games we all won a prize regardless of how bad our result was. The girls all got various items of smelly stuff and chocolates whilst I got a large, heavy wrapped box. Puzzled, I started unwrapping my present, nervously laughing upon revealing the Mr. Men Library.
A boxed collection of every Mr.Men title by the late, great Roger Hargreaves. The reason I was nervously laughing is because I immediately became slightly emotional as the Mr. Men Collection had been the one thing I had informed Ka would be the first purchase I would personnally make for Baby Reid's own library. Obviously I did not bring everyone down at the dinner table by mentioning this as Tricia started telling of how she always used to read the tale of Mr Tickle to me as a wee tyke.
Mr. Tickle had hands on enormous long arms, with which he could reach people from far off and give them a damn good tickle. Mr Tickle could also lie in his bed and reach downstairs, into his kitchen and get himself a cookie from the jar. He'd have loved the Dunblane Hydro!
Standing on the plush carpets before the tall wooden panelled reception desks we were greeted with, not only genuine friendly smiles and offers of help with luggage, but also, most importantly, a large, steaming hot chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven wrapped up in a thin paper envelope. The receptionist had just pulled them out from a small storage unit under her desk. No wonder she was all smiles. What a fantastic perk to the job. Chocolate cookies on call. As we waited on the elevator to take us up to the top floor, the beautiful stench of cookie filled the air. The need for tea grew within me as we waited with the cookie smell wafting around me. The champagne we'd brought for our overnight stay could wait. Tea had to be made immediately in order to accompany this smoking hot baby.
Of course, Ka opted for coffee, (that ain't right is it?) and after enjoying our 40 grams of fat in cookie form we thought we'd walk the dietary sin off by exploring Dunblane. A town we'd never visited before and were curious to have a walk around. We returned to our rooms an hour later, considering a trip to Stirling. From what we could see, Dunblane has a Cathedral, and a Tesco. Oh, and a Railway Station, presumably for escaping by, sorry commuting by. That's about it.
After our short walk we opted to stay in the hotel and take advantage of it's amenities enjoying a dip in the pool and a sweat in the steam room, all the while I mulled over the location of the Doubletree chocolate cookie factory. Could it have been in the Hydro's basement, with small serving lifts rising the cookies up into the receptionists desks, just in time to serve to the lucky arriving guests?
Could Celebrity tv chef, Nick Nairn have had a hand in creating the cookies?
Ka and myself dined in the luxurious setting of The Kailyard, Nick Nairn's Restaurant, housed within the hotel. Beautiful meals of duck and tagliatelle served with a nice, crisp Pinot Grigio (crisp, hmm, I may become a wine connoisseaur yet). We then retired to our room where we danced to the final tunes from a dying iPod and ate strawberries with champagne.
The breakfast, this morning, was immense. Tables of cereal, freshly cut fruit, bacon, sausage, egg, scrambled and fried, potato scone, porridge and whisky, racks and racks of toast and baskets of chocolate chip muffins. Muffins, but no cookies. The cookies were disappointingly absent at breakfast.
After breakfast we went for another swim in the hotel's pool which was more of a challenge than yesterday, as it seemed far more difficult to keep myself afloat after my platefuls of food in the past 24 hours, not to mention champagne and wine.
All in all, not bad for a short Valentines break.
A Valentines all kicked off on Sunday night by a visit to Tricia and Tommy's.
Tricia was on a mission. Ka, Lynsey Ann and myself walked into her house only to be bombarded by a plethora or hearts. Tricia had transformed her living room into a Valentines wonderland with candles, confetti, balloons and paper hearts hanging from the ceiling in coloured, curving, twisting, acetate papers. Tricia had went to town with it all presumably just stopping short before she had painted it red. Christopher and Martin hummed in quiet but amused disapproval, well used to their Mum's fantastic enthusiasm. After dinner Tricia had organised a game of Mr & Mrs for the gathered couples. All two of them. Tricia and Tommy themselves and Ka and myself. Chris, Martin and Lynsey Ann opted out, thankful, for a change, that they were single.
After around twenty questions, with a possible 300 points up for grabs, Tommy and Tricia managed to win the game. Winning only by a mere five points I should add but with totals, which Chris quickly pointed out, that were not even a third of the possible total. A miserable performance by both parties. As a luxury item of clothing I thought Ka would have preferred a pair of her boots to underwear but hey, what do I know? Not enough, as it would turn out. It was the iMac on a desert island and the purple pants that tripped me up. How was I to know that particular desert island would have no electricity supply?
As a result of the Valentines games we all won a prize regardless of how bad our result was. The girls all got various items of smelly stuff and chocolates whilst I got a large, heavy wrapped box. Puzzled, I started unwrapping my present, nervously laughing upon revealing the Mr. Men Library.
A boxed collection of every Mr.Men title by the late, great Roger Hargreaves. The reason I was nervously laughing is because I immediately became slightly emotional as the Mr. Men Collection had been the one thing I had informed Ka would be the first purchase I would personnally make for Baby Reid's own library. Obviously I did not bring everyone down at the dinner table by mentioning this as Tricia started telling of how she always used to read the tale of Mr Tickle to me as a wee tyke.Mr. Tickle had hands on enormous long arms, with which he could reach people from far off and give them a damn good tickle. Mr Tickle could also lie in his bed and reach downstairs, into his kitchen and get himself a cookie from the jar. He'd have loved the Dunblane Hydro!
Sunday, 25 April 2010
118 118
Desperate Housewives is blaring away in the background as I sit in the bedroom writing this. Ka has curled up on the bed to watch the programme but has, rather unsurprisingly, fallen asleep. I suspect she's had a little too much of the old vino and the soft comfort of her pillows has lulled her off to dreamland. Wherever her dreamland maybe.
It's back to work tomorrow after a pleasant week off, half of which was spent walking round London and the other half recovering. Ka and myself travelled down on an overly busy train, first thing on Monday morning, after just managing to catch the Number 20, the bus that writes its own timetable.
That morning Kenny was making his own way to work, sitting on the top deck, leafing through the ever essential Metro when he just happened to see two early morning numpties running frantically over the Calderwood footbridge, one struggling with a large silver case, which may or may not have contained a kitchen sink. At half past six in the morning Ka and myself gave Kenny something amusing to watch on his morning bus to work, wondering if we'd make it to the bus stop in time. After the disappointment of us making it he went back to his Metro.
We arrived in London around half one and immediately headed for the underground and towards our hotel on Primrose Hill, just west of Camden. The Hampstead Britannia Hotel, a rather grand name for a rather dismal hotel. When I say dismal, it wasn't ALL bad. It was mostly clean and tidy and served its city stay purposes, however, the brochure claimed it to be a three star when two would have proven more than generous. Most of the foreign staff were marginally helpful and unsmiling, the windows dotted over the whole tower were all filthy and the rooms were all in serious need of an overhaul, decor and utilities. The baths were grimey and the shower curtains at least five years old. Ka commented on the fact that we had no idea how many big hairy things had used those shower curtains. As I immediately started pondering what big hairy things Ka was referring to I quickly decided it was probably best not to dwell on it. One of the elevators also squealed alarmingly, in the best Tower of Terror like fashion, when you pressed the button for reception, which rang out through the corridor, surely waking up any late sleeping guest nursing a hangover.
Upon arrival a scary, warty, hooked nose, foreign receptionist handed over our room key, speaking with the kind of accent that sounded like she was suffering with a bad case of catarrh. As I took the key I couldn't help but stare at the woman's warts. Paranoia pinched me and I realised I may have been staring and shifted my gaze. The woman's hooked nose reared into view and I then jumped impulsively scanning the room for any flying monkeys. We were off to see Wicked the next night so perhaps my thoughts were elsewhere. As the woman eyed me with her beady eyes, and I considered asking for a bucket of water, I looked down. The key was to Room 118.
118 is perhaps what we should have called when we seen the room. Gawd awful wallpaper, bumpy mattresses, ancient television and a door in the wall to the next room, locked but still clearly linked by the voices from the other side. We did not get to sleep till around three listening to the couple next door through the card thin wall seperating our rooms. Thankfully they were not partaking in anything too cringe inducing. The english couple were only talking to each other about the television serial they had on, what seemed like full volume, wishing their home bedroom was as big as Harolds (whoever Harold was) and the all important decision of what drawer she was keeping her socks in. At two in the morning, after a pretty good but tiring day, I lay in the dark listening to a long half hour discussion of what drawer this woman was going to keep her socks in. I snapped, pulled my jeans back on and stomped down to reception demanding a new room for the next night. We got our key to the new room the next morning. Room 321. They're having a laugh, I thought. That's where Dusty Bin lived isn't it?!
It's back to work tomorrow after a pleasant week off, half of which was spent walking round London and the other half recovering. Ka and myself travelled down on an overly busy train, first thing on Monday morning, after just managing to catch the Number 20, the bus that writes its own timetable.
That morning Kenny was making his own way to work, sitting on the top deck, leafing through the ever essential Metro when he just happened to see two early morning numpties running frantically over the Calderwood footbridge, one struggling with a large silver case, which may or may not have contained a kitchen sink. At half past six in the morning Ka and myself gave Kenny something amusing to watch on his morning bus to work, wondering if we'd make it to the bus stop in time. After the disappointment of us making it he went back to his Metro.
We arrived in London around half one and immediately headed for the underground and towards our hotel on Primrose Hill, just west of Camden. The Hampstead Britannia Hotel, a rather grand name for a rather dismal hotel. When I say dismal, it wasn't ALL bad. It was mostly clean and tidy and served its city stay purposes, however, the brochure claimed it to be a three star when two would have proven more than generous. Most of the foreign staff were marginally helpful and unsmiling, the windows dotted over the whole tower were all filthy and the rooms were all in serious need of an overhaul, decor and utilities. The baths were grimey and the shower curtains at least five years old. Ka commented on the fact that we had no idea how many big hairy things had used those shower curtains. As I immediately started pondering what big hairy things Ka was referring to I quickly decided it was probably best not to dwell on it. One of the elevators also squealed alarmingly, in the best Tower of Terror like fashion, when you pressed the button for reception, which rang out through the corridor, surely waking up any late sleeping guest nursing a hangover.
Upon arrival a scary, warty, hooked nose, foreign receptionist handed over our room key, speaking with the kind of accent that sounded like she was suffering with a bad case of catarrh. As I took the key I couldn't help but stare at the woman's warts. Paranoia pinched me and I realised I may have been staring and shifted my gaze. The woman's hooked nose reared into view and I then jumped impulsively scanning the room for any flying monkeys. We were off to see Wicked the next night so perhaps my thoughts were elsewhere. As the woman eyed me with her beady eyes, and I considered asking for a bucket of water, I looked down. The key was to Room 118.
118 is perhaps what we should have called when we seen the room. Gawd awful wallpaper, bumpy mattresses, ancient television and a door in the wall to the next room, locked but still clearly linked by the voices from the other side. We did not get to sleep till around three listening to the couple next door through the card thin wall seperating our rooms. Thankfully they were not partaking in anything too cringe inducing. The english couple were only talking to each other about the television serial they had on, what seemed like full volume, wishing their home bedroom was as big as Harolds (whoever Harold was) and the all important decision of what drawer she was keeping her socks in. At two in the morning, after a pretty good but tiring day, I lay in the dark listening to a long half hour discussion of what drawer this woman was going to keep her socks in. I snapped, pulled my jeans back on and stomped down to reception demanding a new room for the next night. We got our key to the new room the next morning. Room 321. They're having a laugh, I thought. That's where Dusty Bin lived isn't it?!
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