Memories of Soller

Our recent trip to Majorca took in Palma – which except for the solidly gothic cathedral I can take or leave – and the rather more magical Port de Soller. Reached by a heritage rickety railway that winds through olive groves and lemon tree orchards, the symmetrical bay seems like it was created by the Gods for Majorcan postcard producers. Luxury yacht owners lent a hand by posing their craft in the bay at artistic angles. Icing the cake was our hotel, Esplendido, which served fine food, refreshing spa experiences and a fantastic view as the sun set behind the lighthouse-crowned rocks. A great destination for Sloths!

Oh the Glamour of Ryanair!

From HolyMolys’ Rules of Modern Life:

“Ryanair: less an airline and more a psychological experiment into how much humiliation people will stand in return for getting something cheap.”

Ryanair’s latest tricks to save every last penny include sticky vinyl seats that don’t recline and have no map pockets (easier to clean/maintain) safety cards stuck to the back of the seat in front so you have to stare at cartoon depictions of doom for the entire journey, and now they’re selling advertising space on the overhead lockers, just like on the Tube. They even ask you to clean up your part of the jet, the cheeky gits! And don’t get me started on their Pringles and Mars bar “menu.”

And still, with those 99p fares, snobby middle class people show no signs of resisting sharing cabin space with the great unwashed – they just sit in their plastic seats and loudly debate the airline industry’s contribution to global warming instead.

A Few Days in Provence

To celebrate my dad’s birthday, we flew to Provence for a few days to take in some great food, fine wine, and serious slothing.

After a painless flight to Nimes via Ryanair we picked up a hire car and drove to St Remy de Provence, were our bed and breakfast Sous Les Figuiers immediately struck as an idyllic base for our trip. As its name suggests, the charming hostelry is shaded by fig trees which are over 200 years old, with a modern yet rustic flavour in each of the uniquely decorated rooms.

Gorgeous 30degC temperatures and clear blue skies only heightened the impression of sweet fresh air and the sheer scale and abundance of the French countryside. On the whole, the provencal folk were friendly and helpful no matter how much we politely butchered their language, in contrast to the often surly Parisians.

Provence, being an area of Roman settlement, has many Roman artefacts, the most impressive of which is the Roman Theatre at Orange, which dates back to 1BC. I was amused by the commentary which stated that initial high brow theatrical productions at the theatre descended into displays of pornography, which shows that cultural dumbing down is nothing new.

On the way back to St Remy, we took in the famous wine making area of Chateau Neuf du Pape and negotiated its twisty streets, ruined castle and wine tasting shops in the baking sun.

A drive to the Camargue area was disappointing, with a desolate wasteland dotted by a few motorhomes being a far cry from the shores in Nice. Even the flamingos kept their head underwater, as if bored by the view.

The food was delicious everywhere we went, from street cafes to the Chateaux des alpilles where we basked in the setting sun as we devoured delicious meaty dishes and fine wine. French cafes and restaurants stick strictly to the French idea of mealtimes, so it was tough if you felt hungry at 3pm.

And unlike the UK, where you can find a quality snack at any time, Provence offered a salad or sad baguette or a full three course meal – there seemed to be no happy medium between snack and stuffed.

But what Provence does best is let you sit back and relax, with food, wine and company of your choice. After nightfall, you could hear a pin drop, and the closing time boisterousness in even the smallest British town was totally absent.

It’s easy to see why ex pat Brits invade Provencal villages en masse. But these Brits must like a quiet life and no 24×7 shopping opportunities, which is not something I think I could live with myself. But for a short break from the stresses and strains of congested British life, Provence is perfection.

Nice to See You!

The Chef and I visited Nice over the weekend to celebrate Ian’s 50th birthday with 21 of his closest friends, and a fabulous time was had by all. This was in spite of me blowing my holiday money in Ted Baker at Stansted airport before we boarded the SleazyJet flight.

We stayed in the sumptious Goldstar Hotel which upgraded us free of charge to a suite. Merci beaucoup!, as my Grandad used to say. (The only words of French he knew, in which case he was about two words more fluent than me.) So it only seemed sensible to enjoy the facilities including a heated pool and a sauna. We felt positively A-list swanning about in our complimentary gowns. Dahlink!

Once again another mini-break was blighted by drizzle, but that was OK as we mooched from Cafe to Cafe is search of the perfect pain au chocolat. And the pastries on offer were indeed several light years removed from the dry old bits of cardboard served up by Starbucks. Shame that you couldn’t get a decent cup of tea to go with them, but this is universal to everywhere outside of the British isles.

The locals were happy to switch into English when our French faltered, unlike those rude Parisians up north. Unfortunately, they also had a penchant for owning extremely silly small dogs coupled with an aversion to scooping poop. Only in France would you see a heterosexual male walking a chihuahua without looking embarrassed. The poodle parlour near our hotel gave rise to unrelenting amusement.

The tall dark strangers with their raincoats and scarves looked suave but high maintenance. I was rather taken with a dashing chap wearing a stripy top and a beret. What a statement of French identity! It turned out the chap was American, which actually makes him a bit of a prat.

I got several funny looks from black people when they heard me speaking English. I guess it sounds funny to them, in the same way as I found Chinese people speaking French a little surprising.

The birthday meal in a seafood restaurant was a roaring success, and once happy Birthday had been sung in English and Welsh, we headed off to an Irish pub for drinks, where British folk were very much the majority.

Sunday was a glorious, almost balmy autumn day, so we found a nice cafe on the seafront, and I had a delicious omelette with a side order of frites. Because when I’m by the sea, I insist on chips and ice-cream. Must be my northern roots showing.

So what to make of Nice? It’s like Brighton with an accent I guess. Only it’s more laid back, much more upmarket and not blighted by chain stores and franchise bars (yet). Now if only the French would scoop that dog poop.

Sitges self down

I recently returned from a week in the Spanish resort of Sitges with a few friends.  Sitges is to Barcelona as Brighton is to London, and I won’t bore you with a history lesson – read wikipedia instead – indeed most of the holidaymakers of Sitges seemed more keen on visiting another type of large monument, if you get my drift.

Because Sitges is one of the gayest holiday resorts in Europe and the atmosphere was very much that the whole town seemed to be on the pull. Walk down any street and you learned the meaning of the phrase “being undressed with the eyes”. It was as though you were being assessed for future devouring just like the legs of ham in the local butcher, which appropriately enough, was right next door to the Men’s “Spa”.

What Sitges needed was cold shower. And sure enough we got one, because wherever I go on holiday, a torrential downpour follows. This time, the rain was confined to one huge thunderstorm, which naturally started as we left a restaurant, leaving us completely drenched.

What Sitges excels in is its relaxed cosmopolitan atmosphere, with a friendly crowd ranging from Spanish day trippers to hairy blokes attending the International Bear convention intermingling with a nonchalant ease. The compact size of the town – we didn’t get a cab once -was the ideal antidote to hellish commuting, with our apartment a short stroll from the beach and restaurants.

It being Bear Week and all, the gay beach was suprisingly not at all intimidating, though a few muscle Marys were hell bent on posing by the seafront. And someone really should have told the Peter Stringfellow lookalike that a rainbow thong is not a good look.

The food we sampled ranged from good to excellent, though for the cheaper establishments the rule seemed to be to stick with the local dishes. Which meant lots of paella, tapas, whitebait and sardines. Add this to my mandatory daily ice cream, and it was a good job we had packed the Gaviscon.

Entertainment highlight was the raucous Piano Bar, where the Welsh contingent in our group could speak their mother tongue to the bar staff, and live sing-alonga-showtune was on offer. The single boys in our group had PLENTY of other “entertainment” highlights, but I shall leave that to your imagination, this being a family blog and all.

I resorted to doing what I do best – absolutely ball all. I could barely drag my carcass from the apartment down to the beach and back again. I most have been vertical for about 5 minutes, in total. Now that’s what I call a successful holiday!