An island of cockatoos

A slightly different entry today - the first time I've written about travel in my city of origin; Sydney, Australia. And why not?

Sydney is justifiably renowned for its harbour, which most people would agree is pretty special. Ask anyone about Sydney and you're likely to get comments about the Sydney Opera House and the Sydney Harbour Bridge, both iconic structures on the harbour. But even most Sydneysiders won't know too much more about the many other sites to be found in and around the harbour, and in particular the various islands in the harbour.

Originally there were 14 islands. Two, once separated by a narrow stretch of shallow water, have been joined to form the present Spectacle Island. Five others, formerly islands; Garden, Bennelong, Darling, Glebe and Berry Islands, have been joined to the mainland. The other remaining islands are Shark, Clark, Fort Denison, Goat, Cockatoo, Snapper and Rodd Islands.

The Turbine Workshop, Cockatoo Island

Many of the islands have either a penal or industrial (or both) background. The largest of the islands is Cockatoo Island, which has been at various times in its life a prison, a reformatory school for girls, and a shipbuilding dockyard. Activity reached its peak during the time of the world wars, and continued until the facility was closed in 1991. It stayed abandoned and becoming derelict until 2001 when the Sydney Harbour Federation Trust took it over and undertook restoration works. Today it's been listed as a Unesco World Heritage site and is open to the public.

But enough history. This morning I took a ferry down the Paramatta river to Cockatoo Island. I'd made this trip before, but had never actually visited the island, simply passing by since I'd been heading to the city. Today however the destination was Cockatoo Island to do something I hadn't done in years: a bit of Orienteering ("cunning running"). Orienteering is more associated with navigating through the bush, but in fact can also be done in an urban environment. On an Island there's not much risk of getting lost (keep running in one direction long enough and you'll get wet) but it was a fun event navigating around and through old workshops, dry-docks and so on. A little extra interest came from the several tunnels bored through the sandstone of the island, as well as working out the most efficient way of getting from the sea level areas up to (and down from) the middle section, which is up on a cliff.

Orienteerers adding a little colour to the sandstone-and-iron island

Apart from the orienteering aspect of the visit, it really struck me how easy it is to know so little about your own city of origin. I've travelled all around the world, to some pretty remote and obscure places. I've even travelled extensively around Australia. Yet so much of Sydney remains to be discovered: it's the usual "too close to home" syndrome I suppose; having grown up in Sydney I have tended to take it for granted. Note to self: must spend more time discovering Sydney.

Relics of a different era (actually, not that long ago)

Another day, another flight

The Ambassador - production is finally ending after almost 60 years

The drive to the airport is fascinating; the time passes quickly with so much to see along the way. It's a visual and olfactory adventure going from my hotel in down-town Dehradun out to Jolly Grant airport. The driver is taking a different route, which passes through little villages and through a forest. It's a windy road, made more so by the fact that whoever built it seems to have had an aversion to cutting down trees. So the road meanders around large trees, and there's even several (many, in fact) places where there's actually a tree in the road, and the roadside barrier goes behind the tree rather than in front of it. I try not to think of the safety aspects of this system. Cows walk leisurely along, and across the road. Motor bikes rush past, all of them with at least two people. In most cases the rider is "wearing" his helmet by putting his arm through it, rather than having it on his head. Perhaps this somehow satisfies the requirement of motorbike riders having to use helmets? Once out of town, we see few of the almost-ubiquitous Ambassador cars. These still ferry government representatives around, and are also used as taxis in some areas.

The road passes through some small villages, where it becomes very narrow. We're in a little Tata, but often very much larger Tata trucks bear down on us from both directions. "My Tata is bigger than yours" you can almost hear the truck drivers thinking as they take right of way. forcing us out of their path.

Singapore Changi

Self portrait with A380

Singapore airport: a world apart from any other. I arrive on schedule (of course) at 06:00 from Delhi. My connecting flight leaves an hour later and in any other airport attempting a connection with so little time would be a complete lost cause. It takes me ten minutes to walk from my arrival gate to the departure gate and a few minutes to go through the security checks. I even have time to connect to the airport's WiFi, which is a painless experience (unlike other airports I can think of). The WiFi has a speed an order of magnitude faster than the lamentable connection at Delhi.

Not long after, boarding starts and then the flight leaves, right on schedule (of course). I wonder about my luggage, but when I arrive at my destination, my bag is there waiting for me. Not only have I made a connection in less than an hour, but my luggage has made it too. I am very impressed!

I've come from an A380 and connected to a 777. I am enjoying the comfort of the business class seating on these flights and it is virtually the same in each aircraft; it feels sort of nice to be in a familiar place despite the change of plane. The seat is the massively wide cocoon which Singapore Airlines first introduced when we were in Paris; Ann and I happened to take the very first flight out of Paris that featured the new seating (how we managed to wrangle business class then I do not recall, but we did not complain!)  I still remember the bemused reaction of the cabin staff when we sat next to each other in the one seat (just to show how wide it really was). But today my seat isn't working; it won't recline and the reading lights don't work. It's like the whole seat has lost power. The staff is brilliant and immediately offer an alternative seat but for the moment I prefer to keep my spot by the window. A moment later the cabin manager appears, addressing me by name, apologising for the trouble. Even better, he fixes the problem by rebooting my seat. So now we live in a world where even the chairs can crash and need to be rebooted!

As I have a window seat I spend much of the flight looking out the window rather than at the screen in front of me; things are more interesting out there. We skirt several impressive cumulonimbus - we are at over 36,000 feet so these are serious thunderstorms. The islands of Indonesia pass below. Some time later the west coast of Australia comes into sight: red earth meeting a turquoise blue ocean under an impressively bold blue sky.

First sighting of Australia

The Forest Research Institute

The Forest Research Institute

Finally, on my third visit to Dehradun, I make it to the Forest Research Institute. What an amazing place! While I had read that the building is quite impressive, I wasn't prepared to see what could be taken for an Indian version of the Chateau de Versailles essentially in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by gorgeous forests. It's a very impressive example of British Colonial architecture and building; an enormous structure, built entirely of red bricks. It is a vast structure, set in manicured lawns surrounded by forests. Dating from the beginning of the 20th century, the building covers an amazing 2.5 hectares just by itself. It is worth visiting for its own sake and there are some wonderful photo opportunities in the long arched colonnades.

The building houses several museums, which can be visited by purchasing a ticket from the princely sum of 25 rupees (about 50 cents). I buy a ticket and walk around the complex, losing myself in the many passageways and getting constantly distracted by the terrific perspective views everywhere.

The first of the museums I visit is the Sylviculture museum. I have never heard of sylviculture, but now I learn that it is essentially the science of improving forests through selective use plants and seeds. The room looks old fashioned, which it is. It is dominated by large dioramas in wooden cases with glass fronts. Each one represents an enormous amount of work by someone, depicting a scene of forest life, deforestation and so forth. Clever, but not really very exciting. More interesting is the stuffed tiger in a beautiful glass and wooden display box. There are a couple of round white mothballs at his feet and then I spot one in his mouth, which somehow takes away from his fierce look. It's a little like he's sucking on a lolly. There's also a large collection of old B&W photographs which have been hand-coloured. There's an interesting one titled "Australian exotics successfully introduced into India" showing a presumably British colonial forester wearing a pith helmet (they really did dress like that) standing underneath a large eucalyptus. I can't help wondering how "successful" eucalypts really are in India, and what their long-terms effects have been on the native forests. A little further along in a lovely hand-coloured photograph of a teak plantation with an Indian forester, stiffly standing to attention in his colonial uniform. I walk around, regretting the fact that none of the exhibits have any dates on them. Then I spot another photograph: "Effect of the frost of 1905, seen six years later". So now I have a date for these images; 1911.

Bright tops compensate for the drab uniform of these schoolgirls

A long line of schoolgirls shuffles through the museum, politely looking into all the display cases while secretly whispering and giggling with each other. I am guessing they may not be discussing the exhibits. Later I ask a couple of them which school they are from, and am quickly corrected: they are from a "college". A little later, one of their teachers asks me for directions (which I find quite amusing, given that I am as lost as they are, but as it happens, am heading for the same place). From her I learn that this is a nursing college and these girls (and in fact a couple of boys) are training to be nurses.

Next I visit the timber museum, which is much more to my liking. It's a large room, with three of the four walls lined with panels of wood from all the different types of trees in India. Each panel has a picture of the tree, and a sample of finished and unfinished wood. Wonderful. There's a large assortment of models of wood-drying kilns and the like. First I am impressed by a section of a 330-year old tree, but then I spot at the end of the room an enormous slice of tree, which is almost 800 years old, having been "born" in 1215 AD. The diameter of the tree is almost 3 metres! The explanations and markings on the cross-section state that the tree is 704 years old, so the exhibit itself dates from 1919.

At one end of the room are a couple of replica living rooms, built entirely from wood panelling, wooden floors, and lovely wooden furniture. Beautifully rich. In one of the rooms, there's a curious apparatus built into the sideboard. It's a rotating (wooden) drum that contains many cut-outs which hold glass plate photographs. It's internally lit and looks like some sort of slide display system; something that would predate slide projectors and of course television (and even commercial radio, for that matter) as a source of family entertainment perhaps.

Colours at the Forest Research Institute

More notes from India

I'm in India for the week in an aging and run-down building that appears to be undergoing a "renovation" of sorts. During the week I have been trying to decide whether the building actually needs renovation, or whether demolition would be more appropriate. There's scaffolding set up all around the outside walls. The scaffolding is supported in places on the uneven ground by pieces of brick under the legs and it doesn't appear to be tied to the building anywhere. What exactly is holding it up, if anything, is mystery. There's a workman using a high-pressure hose to clean the outside of the building. He's standing up on the scaffolding, several floors up in bare feet and I can't help thinking about how slippery that wet scaffolding must be. He's wearing a safety harness, but the harness is connected to a rather sad-looking piece of rope which is tied to the scaffolding below him. The mind boggles - if he falls he's going to go crashing down until the rope pulls him up, possibly before he hits the ground. I'm not sure which would be worse - falling on the ground or being smashed into the side of the building on the end of a piece of rope (assuming the rope doesn't break). Something that smells remarkably like diesel or perhaps kerosene is being used in the high-pressure cleaning and there's a mist of it wafting around the corridors.

The mystery source of the Naan - found!

Lunch and morning and afternoon tea is served in the "Executive canteen". Tea consists of a cup with a tea-bag in it, which is then filled with teeth-tinglingly sweet milky water from a large urn. Lunch is essentially the same every day, and while it doesn't look particularly appealing, the contents of the large stainless steel trays sitting on burners are actually not bad at all. One of the trays is marked "non-veg" (it's the one that contains meat, although they mostly all look the same, hence the need for the sign I suppose). This is a different take on what I am used to: having one or two dishes marked "vegetarian". Here in India, vegetarian is the norm and eating meat is the exception, not the other way around. Every so often someone appears from behind the scenes with a tray of freshly-cooked Naan, which is quickly snapped up by the lucky few who are nearby. I wonder in passing where this Naan is coming from. Later in the week, while I am on a walk around the complex, I spot a guy standing outside the building next to a tandoor, with a table of balls of dough. He's preparing the dough, then popping it into the tandoor. I've found the source of the Naan!

In the training room, there's an overhead projector hanging from the ceiling. The remote control is long gone, which is hardly a surprise of course. But I find an old stick (actually the base of a roller-screen which presumably hung on the wall at some time in the past) in the corner of the room which I can use to just reach the on/off button on the projector. It's my "remote control" for the week.

The class is quite varied, including people of widely differing seniorities in the company. I'm pleased to see that there are also four female students in the group. During the week I continue to be impressed with the ability of the students to pay attention throughout the entire day, and not only that, but to also retain the material to a remarkable level of detail. The quiz held at the end of the course confirms the impressive ability of these students to learn - and not just memorize -  the material.

The morning commute

I begin to recognise the same things every morning: The cow in the middle of the intersection, scratching itself against the (not working) traffic light. The mangy stray dogs lying peacefully on the roadside while the traffic rushes past. The man on the scooter with a steel milk urn strapped on either side (presumably making the morning milk delivery). The woman riding side-saddle on the back of the scooter, her thick braid of black hair hanging all the way down her back and her sari flapping in the breeze (at night the sari neatly obscures the tail light). The previously neat, but now abandoned traffic police stands in the middle of intersections. The vagrant with a mop of unruly hair and pants that haven't been washed - or probably even taken off - in perhaps years, lying on a traffic island in the middle of an intersection. The collapsing buildings with pieces of masonry dangling ominously from upper levels, handing by their reinforcing rods. The old men with white beards and turbans, squatting on their haunches by the side of the road. The piles of rubbish collected along the roadside. The occasional rubbish skips, full to overflowing, with a collection of cows, dogs, and people rummaging through their contents looking for something to salvage. The roadside barber, rickety chair on the footpath, mirror tied to a tree or to a wall, wet-shaving someone with a cut-throat razor. The impeccably neatly dressed school boys in their blazers and ties, running to catch the next rickshaw.

Colourful shops along the road

Looking ahead, there are two cars, a couple of scooters, and a bicycle bearing down the road in the opposite direction, each overtaking the other. The driver doesn't flinch - or slow down - and as we meet, somehow all the vehicles manage to pass by each other unscathed. I'm reminded of the story of the mad man who had come up with the idea that since everything is made of atoms which are moving freely in space, it should be possible for any object to simply pass through another, emerging on the other side intact - and then tried to prove his theory by driving his car through the one in front. A bit later, there's a woman on a scooter coming down the middle of the road towards us. Naturally I expect her to pull back to her side of the road, but no, she continues gradually crossing over to our side, and then as we meet, she passes down our left side since she wants to turn onto a side road (there are other oncoming vehicles passing our right side). So we go through the middle of two opposing lanes of traffic. At the only intersection where the traffic lights are working (complete with a count-down timer to show when the lights will change) the middle of the intersection is filled with scooters and motorised rickshaws who are positioning themselves to jump the red light on any gap in the traffic. They have stopped, but there's no way that they are going to wait for the light to turn green before heading off.

Recycling old engine oil at Vijay Motors

Notes from India

I get into the back of the little Tata taxi which is to take me from the airport to my "home" for the next week; a hotel in central Dehradun. Unlike the cars I've had on my last visits, this one actually has working seatbelts in the back, although they are the old non-retracting type I haven't seen in decades. They have clearly not been used for a very long time (probably never) and I spend quite a bit of time struggling with them before I get them working and fitting properly. The driver is no doubt wondering what I am doing - I don't think I've ever seen anyone wear seatbelts in the back of a vehicle here and he probably hasn't either.

The drive from the airport to town takes something like 45 minutes and for the uninitiated is definitely an eye-opening experience. Even for those of us who've made this type of journey before, it's still an interesting experience! Driving here is characterised by constant use of the horn and driving on wrong side of the road when it seems convenient - if necessary forcing the motorbikes (not to mention cyclists) off the road. It's often a bit of a game of "chicken" with traffic coming from the opposite direction bearing down upon your car as your driver overtakes the motorbike overtaking the motorized rickshaw overtaking the bicycle. Who will get back to their own side first?

I spot little stalls along the road with big signs advertising "goggles" - "Lucky" and "Fancy". It turns out that they are selling sunglasses, but why not call them "goggles"?

The section of the road passing through a forest populated with red-bummed monkeys seems to be still the same as it was back in January. The dual-lane road is still under construction, so that sometimes you have opposing traffic on your side of the median strip, and sometimes it's on the other side of the median strip. It's a bit random, and there's no formal indication of whether you're driving on a section that has one-way or two-way traffic. Just the fact that suddenly there's traffic coming in the opposite direction on your side. The monkeys are still there, scratching themselves by the side of the road, or flashing their red bums and enormous balls as they scuttle across the road. I have yet to see a squashed monkey on the road, although I can't imagine how many of them are not hit by cars each day.

We arrived unscathed at the hotel, which is on Rajpur road, the main road running through the centre of town. It all looks much the same as it was ten months ago, which is good in the sense that it's all familiar, but not so good in the sense that it doesn't appear to have improved at all.

Room with a view

The hotel has been (or is being) refurbished - which seems to mean essentially new painting: everything is painted, even things that shouldn't be. There are multiple botched repairs and in the bathroom of my room there is mould growing in the new grouting, there's loose plumbing, exposed wires to a light in the cupboard, remnants of cement on the bathroom floor under the basin and so on. The new paint is already bubbling in places on the walls where moisture, probably from the bathroom next door, is seeping into the wall. The curtains are drooping from broken tracks and the pull cords are brown from years of greasy hands on them. Cigarette burns already pockmark the new(ish) carpet. Apart from these little details, the room is fine and the air-conditioning works. There's what appears to be clean towels in the bathroom and the bed linen looks good. I am not game to even think about what might lurk under the mattress or under the bed. Then I remember reading a news article about a dead body that was discovered under a hotel room bed after having been there for 13 years, although that was in the USA, not India. I resolve to definitely not look under my bed.

In the hotel restaurant there is a couple who sings on a little stage at the end of the room almost every night. I recognise them from my previous visit. It must be deadening - every night going on stage, singing (accompanied by mechanical-sounding recorded music) while your audience, who at times number only one or two, are eating and completely ignoring you. But I don't have too much sympathy for them, as their music is pretty awful, and it is overpowering as well.

Tonight the restaurant was full - something I haven't seen before. There's a large table set up near the stage and tonight we are being treated to the raucous sounds of a farewell party for someone. My initial joy at seeing that the usual singing couple were not performing is quickly replaced by dismay when I realise how noisy this group is. And it gets worse. There's some sort of singing theme to this farewell party, and the guests begin taking it in turn to serenade the rest of the group. Some of them can sing; most of them most definitely not. There's two who stand out from the group: a woman with a half-decent voice, and an older man who has the uncanny ability of looking like he's having a conversation or giving a speech, but he's actually singing. The restaurant is big enough for me to get a slight delay between his movements and the sound of his voice, which adds to the surreal feeling of the event.

I'm surrounded by the babble of voices in multiple languages: to my left there's an Indian couple. She is heavily made up with black eyes and red lips, and she talks at a rapid-fire pace. Her partner doesn't have to say much and I can't understand a word (of course). To my right are a couple of guys form Africa, speaking heavily African-accented English. They are stereotypes in their mannerisms and actions, and instantly take me back to Nigeria. Across the way is a large group of Indian businessmen with what are probably two foreign guests. One of the guests is enormous and he looks even bigger sitting next to his colleague who is rather small. The big one is also loud (and his English sounds American-accented) and he's dominating the table, both physically as well as vocally.

Interestingly, both on the night I arrive, and the night before I leave, there are large wedding parties being held at the hotel. My room looks out over the lawn (I use the term rather liberally) and it is again set up with tables and a stage. There's a band (incredibly loud, and the old unsealed windows of my room give me the full benefit of its repertoire) and a large crowd of people, many of whom, especially the women, are beautifully dressed. It's all colourful flashing lights and bling.

The wedding party in full swing - the happy couple is on the stage for photographs

Speaking of weddings, the Sunday paper has a complete "Matrimonials" section complete with several pages of classified advertisements for brides: Wanted Brides / By Caste. One ad reads, in part: "We are looking for non Manglik extremely beautiful, slim, tall & smart bride...". Probably not an ad you'd see in a European, US, or Australian newspaper.

Airports & Contrasts

I am in transit in Singapore, an airport I haven't been to in quite some time. Of all the airports I have been to over the years I've always had a soft spot for Changi airport, which is probably also the first overseas airport I ever went to. This visit only served to confirm the airport's standing as far as I am concerned; this is so obviously an airport that tries - and succeeds - to be not only different but also better than other airports. How many airports can you think of where you actually want to spend some time and are disappointed when your transit time is too short? The contrast between Singapore Changi, and Paris' CDG airport is stark and you have to wonder why airport designers don't seem to learn from the mistakes of others. Or perhaps that's the role of CDG - to be an airport whose mistakes the others learn from.

Sad times when you need Wi-Fi for your excitement

Delhi's new airport is a far cry from the airport I first saw here many years ago. Then it was a typical dirty, tired and sad place; built in a hurry with good intentions but without much skill and in common with so many airports in Asia and Africa at the time (and in some cases still) maintenance was almost non existent. Now it's a modern place but if you look a little closer it still has obvious local characteristics, which is not necessarily a good thing.

The queues are more like free-for-alls. There are many instances of where for some reason it's been decided that the original layout might not be ideal, but rather than actually modify or update it, "temporary" barriers or signs are put up (often hand-written and with innovative spelling). Arriving from the plane, and before descending to the immigration section, there's a pole with a hand-written sign informing passengers from certain countries to go through a hastily set-up medical control section. This appears to be completely un-manned, and it's completely ignored by all the arriving passengers.Signs showing which queue to join at immigration are ignored and those familiar with the system are obviously taking shortcuts.

Everything you need to travel in India

Uniformed officers all over the place perpetuating the bureaucracy inherent in almost every interaction. Systems are set up and then bypassed with hand-written signs. Passengers going from International arrivals to Domestic departures (like me) are led to a corridor where papers are checked (although there's nothing to indicate what or why) and then find themselves in an area with a single elevator, which is completely inadequate for the task of moving the crowds waiting for it, resulting in the expected melee and free for all.

The toilets smell and there are broken taps. There are some sponges placed underneath the leaking taps, neatly "solving" the problem or the leak. The lights dim when the hand drier starts (it is, in fact, impressive that it starts). The water from tap slows to trickle when a toilet flushes. Someone with a cartridge of silicone has been making "repairs" where the tiles are loose or the grouting has come away; this has not been done with much skill or care.

The Jet Airways flight from Delhi to Dehradun is an interesting example of flying for a short distance. We spend a good 40 minutes driving around airport before finally getting to the runway for departure. The actual flying time is around 30 minutes, followed by 10 minutes holding to wait for the (single, small) runway to be cleared before a too-fast landing and really heavy braking to stay on the short runway. Without even counting the check-in and boarding and waiting times, we've spent more time driving the plane than flying it. 

A couple of soldiers are standing lonely on and around the taxiway, presumably guarding it from imminent attack - more likely it's a job to keep them occupied, since this is also a military airfield I think. Walking from the plane to the terminal building we have to wait for the Air India plane which has landed behind us and is now taxiing between us and the terminal. Planes have right of way over pedestrians.

Arriving in Dehradun - your driver is waiting

A mass (or  gaggle or herd - whatever the appropriate collective noun is) of drivers is waiting outside, each holding their hand-written sign for their passenger. Their fleet of little Tata and Maruti Suzuki cars are at the ready. 

Welcome to Dehardun!

Unusual tastebuds

I've been in Pau for a week now, combining work with a little sightseeing and culinary discovery. Since I've been in Pau a few times already my sightseeing this time has been more casual and away from the usual suspects: I've been strolling around the town, finding little snippets here and there rather than looking for the big events. I've been a flâneur as the French would call it, and I can't think of a better word in English (something like "strolling" but that doesn't really capture it).

For tonight I've again made a reservation. This is not the usual way I do things, but there's a little place that's been on my list for a while and I am obviously not the only one since it's invariably full. I've done my reconnaissance and have been there on the Saturday I arrived. I found the place and went in to find two guys in what looked like a wine shop with a few tables. They were obviously preparing for the evening, slicing plates of saucisson and cheese. My kind of place I immediately thought. When I asked about the possibility of a table for one they were at first apologetic: "We're full", they said. "Any day of the week is fine", I replied, "I'm only here for the week", lowering my self esteem and preparing to play the 'I've come all the way from Australia' card. They exchanged glances, "How about Friday?" "Perfect", I replied, "It's my last night", without even having to stretch the truth.

I arrive to find the place filling up already. But I spot an empty table set for one and know it's mine for the night. None of this 'you have to leave by nine o'clock' (so we can squeeze in a second sitting and make more money) nonsense here. A table in a restaurant is yours for the evening. I am impressed; the restaurant is indeed full and I am the only lone diner, occupying a table that could seat two. I promise myself to eat and drink enough to make it worth their while.

Les Papilles Insolites

The two guys who run the place just exude enjoyment of what they are doing. I am greeted by name as if I'm someone they are welcoming back (which of course is technically true since I was here to book my table, but is very impressive nonetheless). These guys are genuinely friendly and interested.

There's plenty in this place to keep me occupied while I'm not eating - apart from the the other diners of course. All around there are various knick-knacks displayed; it's a rather eclectic collection including a full-sized traffic light, some old radios, various wine paraphernalia, and of course, wine. There's a glass panel set into the floor in the middle of the room, through which you can see the cellar below. The walls are covered in shelves with neat rows of wines, arranged by region. Each bottle has a large, hand-written number on it, and throughout the night I am distracted by trying to work out whether these are the prices (the numbers would make sense) or whether it's simply a cataloguing system. There's a cast iron stand with a wooden platform on it. On this is a large assortment of wine bottles. I discover a bit later that the stand includes a mechanical arrangement connected to a pedal, which is connected through linkages to the platform, which can in fact pivot. It might have been some sort of old sorting table? The pedal is blocked by a piece of wood stuck underneath it, and during the evening I am distracted by thoughts of the consequences of that piece of wood coming unstuck and someone inadvertently pushing that pedal. Images of bottles of wine coming crashing to the ground appear. Another thing which fascinates me is the bottle that the water is served in. It's an old (English) lemonade bottle - I've heard of these but never actually seen one: the stopper is a glass marble, which is captive inside the bottle. There's even some clever moulding of the interior of the bottle to not only trap the marble, but also - as long as you hold the bottle a certain way - to prevent the marble from tolling back into the throat of the bottle and blocking the flow as you pour. When the bottle is full of fizzy drink the pressure inside presumably pushes the marble up, sealing the bottle. An engineering marvel. Later research shows it to be known as the "Codd bottle", named after its inventor, an engineer - of course - by the name of Hiram Codd, from Suffolk.

This is a wine bar that serves food, which seems to me putting the priorities the right way around.

The Codd bottle
(note the captive glass marble)

One of the two guys comes over to ask if I'd like a drink. I tell him I'll have wines (of course).  Since I am not familiar with their wines, and as there's no wine list anyway, I decide to leave the choice of wine up to him. I give him an idea of the sort of wine I like and wait and see what he comes up with. A bit later he returns with a glass of serious-looking red. He explains, almost apologetically, that it's a Côtes-du-Rhône - not from this region. This is a blend of Syrah (Shiraz, if you're Australian) and Grenache, and he's spot on - I like Côtes-du-Rhône, and this is a good one.

We're off to a good start, and it only gets better.

The second guy, who is handling the food and customer interaction part of the show, comes over with the blackboard menu. He knows I'm not French, and so he asks if I need any help or explanation with the menu. I tell him it's the handwriting I'm having more trouble with ("Poulpe" looks a bit like "Poulet" - and octopus and chicken are definitely different, so I want to know which it is!) He's good at describing and suggesting and the meal for the evening is soon established.

I'm starting with the Duo de cèpes, sablé parmesan noisette, granités persil. This arrives and is a combination of a cooked and uncooked mushroom, placed on a parmesan-flavoured biscuit, contrasted with a parsely sorbet. It's a rather unusual combination that actually works remarkably well. I'm sold, and am already looking forward to the main course now.

Joues de cochon confites, anciens légumes et wasabi is my choice for the main course. The wasabi initially put me off choosing this, since although I like the taste of wasabi, I normally find it too sharp and overpowering, particularly with a nice wine. Actually, I would normally never have chosen pork cheeks either, but hey - we're experimenting tonight and when I suggest to the waiter that I might have this but am undecided, he immediately says "ah, that dish is really popular, everyone loves it - you'll really enjoy it". Normally when a waiter starts trying to sell a dish at the table like this my suspicions are immediately raised. I'm far too cynical to believe that they really mean it. I mean, how many times have you heard something like that, only to be told - when you decide on another dish - that you'll really love that one too and that it's an excellent choice? Like they are going to tell you not to order something because it's really bad? But somehow this guy is simply too genuine and I believe him.


The wine half of the couple comes back to my table, since he's noticed that my glass is empty. "Something else?" he asks. Of course! This time he comes back with a wine that's obviously a bit lighter, which surprises me (since I've started with a serious wine, it may have been better the other way around). This time it's a Cahors, something more local. It's very unusual and is almost - but not really - pétillant. Very different and I'm not sure I like it or not. As I'm working on discovering my wine, I realise who the wine guy reminds me of. In fact, if he was wearing a cowboy hat and had a roll-your-own in his mouth it would definitely be him. With his stovepipe pants (how does he get them off?), his sideburns, his slicked back hair - it's him. He is Lucky Luke, the cartoon character created by Belgian cartoonist Maurice De Bevere. I'm guessing that if he wasn't inside his restaurant he probably would have the cigarette too.

Trilogy of Cheeks

The pork cheeks arrive and there are three on the plate; I suppose that they come from more than one pig, unless pigs are asymmetrical or these are not whole cheeks (I've never had pork cheeks, so I am easily convinced). The plate is arranged with the three cheeks in a line, interleaved with vegetables and with a swirl of what I first assume is potato puree, but which is actually the wasabi. It is absolutely wonderful.

The waiter comes over an asks me if the meal is OK. "The wasabi isn't too strong?" More like the opposite, I have to admit - I can barely taste that it's wasabi, which isn't in fact a bad thing. But I'm bemused that he could think that it could be too strong. Then I remember that I'm in France, the land of aversion to spicy food. Have you ever been to an Indian restaurant in France? It's a disappointment. The food is pleasant enough, but nothing is even remotely spicy!

The conversations at the tables around me are becoming more animated as the evening progresses and more wine is served. I remember my earlier comment about French restaurants being quiet, but this is a wine bar after all.

It's time for dessert. I am thinking; cheese or dessert? "Have them both", he suggests. "But the cheese we didn't make ourselves so we can't take any credit." I like this statement, so I am sold on the dessert, and I choose the Biscuit moelleux guanaja/tonka, potimarron/orange. I struggle with this choice, since I keep wondering what Tonka Trucks have to do in my dessert. I haven't had a full explanation of this one, and it's only when I do some later research that I discover that Tonka is a type of aromatic bean (which has - another thing to add to my "only in America" list - apparently been declared illegal in the USA). The Guanaja is actually a type of chocolate (sourced from the island of Guanaja I suppose). Whatever the case, the dessert is a big success. It's sublime. A sort of chocolat mi-cuit (fondant) with an orange- (and pumpkin!) flavoured sauce, but which is much better than that description would have you believe. That no doubt explains the exotic description, which I have to admit is more appropriate.

People at adjacent tables are starting to talk to each other. There's even some comparison of dishes going on and one group is asking advice from the next table, who are all trying to "sell" their choice. Not something you'd normally find in a French restaurant. But it's that sort of place.

It's quarter past ten. I've been here for more than two hours and it hasn't seemed that long at all. I am just having my coffee. I can't help thinking again of the article I was reading in Sydney that was bemoaning the fact that more and more restaurants there were starting to limit the time you could spend over dinner so that they could have two sittings in an evening. Following the American model. Sometimes it really does seem that Australia likes to copy America's bad habits. I am glad that in France when you book a table it's still yours for the whole evening. 

But now it's time to go. I still have to pack, and I'm getting up at 04:30 in the morning to catch the first flight out of Pau. I'm very glad I made this booking and didn't decide to have a sensible early night, and I walk back to the hotel very pleased with my choice for my final meal in Pau.

Familiar Territory

Le Lavoir just doesn't want me to eat there. Tonight was my final attempt since tomorrow I have already made a reservation at another place. After a brisk and cold walk I have again found myself facing a closed door, with no indication of whether this was 'exceptional' or normal. Time to admit defeat and move on.

Bondi Beach in Pau, France - familiar territory, sort of

I'd made a small detour on the way to Le Lavoir to check whether another restaurant I knew from a previous visit was open. Perhaps I had secretly known that Le Lavoir would be closed. Whether or not I had had some sort of premonition, I now head back the way I have come, up a narrow flight of stairs to Gusto. I remember the stairway to be rather dark and foreboding but now it's brightly lit and the steps are painted with vibrant colours. I had discovered Gusto by chance on my first visit to Pau and this will now be my third visit. The first time, I had been exploring the lower part of the old town one evening and happened to glance into a small passageway off a dark stairway to see an unexpected flood of light and colour, with people sitting at tables having dinner. I had no plans for that night so I decided to go in. It turned out to be a great place, serving an Italian inspired cuisine, and doing it very well.

It's nice to have a few places in towns around the world that you know and can come back to. Of course inevitably some of them disappear or change (usually not for the better) but you discover new ones too.

The Tiramisu (not your average Tiramisu!)

Gusto is exactly the same as it was almost year ago. Even the menu is the same, so I already know what I'll have for the entrée and dessert. The bizarre - sounding foie gras crème brûlée and the tiramisu are both specialities and are very good. That leaves just the main course and the wine. I choose a vegetable Lasagne and a glass of red wine, which is an acceptable if unremarkable local variety. On my first visit here I made the mistake of ordering a half bottle. When it arrive I discovered that all the 'half' bottles

in this restaurant are actually half a litre and not the more usual half of a normal bottle. I like my wine, but half a litre is pushing the friendship a little far. This time I know the rules so go for wine by the glass.

Restaurant Gusto (picture from their website)
(you can imagine me sitting at the table next to the pillar)

I have a table in the middle of the restaurant; not ideal, but one of the drawbacks of solitary dining: you generally end up in one of the less desirable positions. Still, I have a pretty good view of things and there's enough to keep me occupied. The place is almost empty when I arrive around 20:15 but it quickly fills and a half hour later it is full and bustling. Again I can't fail but to be impressed by the ability of the two wait staff to handle the whole place, while still providing attentive service.

They are even not flustered by the arrival of a party of five (they have obviously booked as they head straight for the one remaining unoccupied table, which is set for five) who come with two enormous prams each containing what looks like newborn babies. The prams are the type you see young mothers jogging behind, clearing a swathe in front of them. They're more like convertible sports utility vehicles than baby transporters. They barely fit on a footpath - certainly they don't leave room for anyone else to get by - and they only just squeeze through the door into the restaurant. After a complicated series of multipoint turns followed by partial disassembly, the prams are finally parked. Luckily, the babies take all this in their stride and remain remarkably quiet throughout the process.

Colourful Contradictions

Later in the evening I notice that the two women in the party are chatting together over wines. The three men are at the other side of the table, cooing over the babies, which are being nursed by two of the men. The role reversal is complete. I wonder who will be driving the prams home.

On the wall I am facing there are several quotations relating to food and dining, written by hand on a large blackboard. In the restaurant last night there was something similar. One of the quotes is even the same; perhaps there are only a few people who've said memorable things about food, or this is a particularly good one. It's certainly by a well-known Frenchman, even if he's not particularly known for his food. 

Cuisiner suppose une tête légère, un esprit généreux et un coeur large: Paul Gauguin.

The Chatterboxes

After two nights of disappointment in my quest for a nice dinner, I was determined to get it right. And I'd planned for this one, since I had taken the, for me, unusual step of booking a restaurant for tonight. I'd spotted an interesting candidate in my earlier searches, and when I happened past the place several days ago it looked like it would be a nice place. So I went in and made a booking.

I'm happy to report that I had a memorably good meal, so it was third time lucky for me.

The Jurançon sec was a revelation

Le Pipelettes - Restaurant Bistronomique is a tiny little place run by two girls: one takes care of front of house and the other works in the (open) kitchen at the back of the restaurant. It's almost more like dining at someone's house than at a restaurant, and I liked that. With ten customers the restaurant was about two-thirds full. The decoration is minimalist and I couldn't help finding the "chattering" decoration on the windows a bit tacky (I got to look at it during the entire meal, and it distracted me by forcing me to decipher what it said in mirror image since I was looking at it from the wrong side of the glass). It was also a little cool in the restaurant and with no visible heating, I wonder what it would be like in winter. During the evening, I couldn't help noticing that apart from the fact that I was the only single diner (not unusual) I was also the youngest person eating there. But the waitress and chef made up for that by making me feel quite old in comparison.

The waitress was easygoing and cheerful, had a stud through her lip, and looked like she was barely out of her teens. She did a terrific job looking after everyone throughout the evening. The chef looked no older than her partner and also did a great job: everything was nicely prepared, plated, and of course most importantly, was delicious. Even if it wasn't all something I might have chosen. You see, this little place had no menu; you ate what you were served. But the good part was that it was a "degustation" consisting of six courses. And not tiny little morsels on enormous plates like you might see in some appallingly expensive places; passing bite-sized snacks off as "courses". Not here. In fact this was almost too much in the other direction; we're talking six courses, each pretty much the size of a normal restaurant course.

Velouté de cresson avec crème à l'ancienne started the food service. I'd already begun the evening with a glass of Jurançon Sec, which was something new to me. I'd always thought Jurançon was (only) a sweet wine, but the dry variety was a revelation - particularly to me as an almost wine-is-red-by-definition person. This was a complex and interesting wine, with a rich almost orange colour. The soup, which had a dollop of crème fraiche infused with moutarde de Dijon (I think) in it, was served in a glass and it was good. If I'm going to be picky, I would say that the spoon it was served with was too big for the glass. Actually, while we're talking about cutlery, this is probably my other gripe about the place; the cutlery wasn't changed between courses, meaning that some flavours of the previous course risked finding their way into the subsequent course. I did what any good French person would do and wiped my cutlery on my bread (which of course I then ate).

I am forced to admit - and this blog contains the evidence - that I broke another of my restaurant rules: don't take pictures of your food. But I was very discrete about it and somehow it seemed like the right thing to do here.

Souvenirs of the Camino de Compostela

Coquilles Saint Jacques followed. These arrived in their shells - of course - and instantly took me back to my three-week bike ride on the Camino de Compostela, the subject of most of the posts in this blog so far. An interesting connection. Not at all something I'd normally select on a menu, and so all the more interesting. And in fact, rather nice it was too.

Filet de Merlu

Filet de Merlu, served on a risotto of white and black rice as well as linseeds followed, and I was impressed. Again, not something I'd be ordering, but here I was enjoying it.

Daube de Boeuf was prettily served in a miniature cast iron pot and it was delicious. Even better, I accompanied it with a very pleasant Syrah. Not a big wine to be sure, but interesting just the same.

Daube de boeuf

After four courses it was time for desserts (plural, since the final two courses were both desserts). The penultimate course was a little tarte aux pommes which has an incredibly delicate pastry base and was nicely caramelised.

A meal like this would not be complete without some chocolate, and the final course was a gâteau au chocolat façon brownie, which was better than it might sound: moist, dense, rich, yet delicate.

At the end of the meal - something like two hours after I'd started - I had a chat with the the girls, complimenting them on the evening. There was the usual "where are you from" discussion, and they were suitably impressed to discover that I'd flown in from Australia just to eat at their restaurant. The restaurant had been going for just on nine months "it's like a baby" and the girls were clearly still very enthusiastic about the whole thing. I wondered if I should ask if they were the "chatterboxes" behind the name of the restaurant, but thought better of it.

I walked back through the cold, drizzly streets of Pau content and thinking that perhaps I might have eaten just a little more than I should have, but not regretting it for a second.

Another day another restaurant

The lower display lists all the rules and regulations
governing your use of the funicular railway

Spending a week on a business trip involves nightly forays into town to have dinner. On the one hand it's an appealing concept, being able to eat out each night at a different restaurant, discovering something new each time. On the other hand there's always the downside of a bad restaurant experience and the sense of lost opportunity that brings. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I head out into the night, a short list of potential restaurant candidates in my head. I've been going through restaurant reviews online, and while walking out from the hotel I try to remember how I would have done this in the pre-Internet days. The good old Michelin Red Guide would have played a role of course, assuming I'd had brought one along on the trip. We used to put our dining faith in the hands of one organisation and its reviewers; now we try to sort out the serious from the trolls and scammers on the Internet instead. Which results in a better dinner I wonder?

Although I have another restaurant in mind, as I walk past the Continental restaurant I am suddenly struck by a lack of enthusiasm for another lengthy walk through the back streets of Pau, and I manage to convince myself to break one of my restaurant rules (Never eat in a hotel restaurant unless you're staying in a place where the alternatives are even worse). The Continental restaurant is next door to the Continental Hotel, and although it's not officially part of the hotel, it seems to have a very incestuous relationship with it. I go inside anyway, and am now committed, despite the rather bleak vista of the large and almost empty space inside.

There's a table of three near the door, strategically placed by the window. This, I know from experience, is standard restaurant strategy: seat your first guests by the window, so it looks to the casual passer-by that the restaurant has lots of people inside, and therefore must be a popular and good place - disguising the fact that the place is actually almost empty. I get allocated the next table along, also at the window, helping to perpetuate the illusion that this is a popular place.

The already-seated party turns out to be an American family; mum, dad and daughter. During the course of my meal, I don't hear the father at all and the mother only every so often. But the daughter makes up for that, talking the entire evening. Americans - and I generalise of course - tend to stand out in French restaurants. There's many reasons for this, but one of them, amply demonstrated tonight, is that they talk loudly and a lot. Go into a French restaurant and it's a generally quiet place with muted conversations happening in the private space of each table. Go into an American restaurant and you're instantly confronted  by loud voices from all directions; nothing quiet or private about any of it.

As the evening progresses, more people arrive. At one stage there are five tables with lone diners, which sets the tone of the sort of place this is: these are business travellers staying at the hotel.

I order a half bottle of wine, and am treated to quite a show when it arrives. Two waiters appear and one of them - he turns out to be the manager - turns the serving of the wine into a training session for the other waiter, explaining how to remove the foil, put the corkscrew into the cork "never turn it too far, and be careful with half bottles because the corks are shorter" and so forth. I'm stunned. It's one thing to do some on-the-job training, but right here on my table without even so much as a word of explanation or perhaps confirmation that I don't mind? Maybe I'm being snooty, but there are ways of doing things, and this isn't one of them. Right at the end of this impromptu show, the manager explains, rather redundantly, that the jeune homme was a trainee. Really?

Actually, the manager looks rather like a trainee himself, with his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar (with a tie), his shirt-tails half out, and a general scruffiness about him. He somehow epitomises the restaurant: it has pretensions of being a somewhat upmarket, slightly formal place with nice tablecloths, strategic plants, good glasses, wait staff dressed formally and so on. Yet when you scratch the surface ever so slightly, a casual scruffiness appears. And we haven't even talked about the food, which although it was perfectly acceptable, was in no way memorable.

The red wine is Domaine Guilhemas,  Béarn AOC, by Pascal Lapetre  vignerons de père en fils depuis 1909 (4 generations). Just a little reminder that you're in France, where they've been making wine quite a long time. It is good.

The trainee waiter comes and clears the main course. Without any preamble he begins to recite the dessert choices: moelleux au chocolat, gâteau basque, glaces et ... je ne sais plus (I don't remember any more). The best part is he does the whole thing without the slightest trace of emotion, feeling, or showing that he's actually interested. Even the "I don't remember" at the end of his list is simply included as if it were another dessert in the list, rather than an admission of any kind. Somehow, this nicely finishes off the evening for me; it couldn't have been better if it had been scripted.

The following evening I am out on the road again, on my nightly voyage of culinary discovery. It's cold tonight, and there's drizzle about. I have a destination tonight: Le Lavoir, which is a restaurant I've been wanting to try since my previous visit to Pau. Last time I was here, each time I went to try the restaurant it was closed either "exceptionally", or because I was there on one of the days it was normally closed. This time I'm prepared and I've checked the restaurant's hours. Tonight is the first night of the week that it's open. I walk briskly (it's cold) straight to the destination, which is about a kilometre from my hotel and arrive to find that, yet again, the restaurant is refusing to be nice to me: it's closed again!

So I go to Chez Canaille, the place next door, which is my backup plan. It's also a place on my list, although quite a bit further down.

It looks quite nice inside, and there's a table with a large group already inside (strategically placed so it can be seen from the street, of course). There's nobody else in the restaurant. The waiter is friendly and things are looking good. Then I scan the menu, which is quite elaborate, and begin to realise that there's nothing on it that actually has a lot of appeal to me. I'm not looking for pigeons, wild black boar, scallops, or sweetbreads. But there's hope, because this restaurant prides itself on its specially aged beef (origin controlled...)

I notice that the large group is speaking English and with dismay realise that it's a table of oilfield people. This is not a good sign.

I choose the Faux Filet since the other cuts are either huge (600g of beef on your plate?) or meant to share with 2 people. The meal arrives amazingly quickly, arousing my suspicion from the start. How could they have had the time to prepare and cook it?  I'd ordered saignante (rare) but this was pushing the boundaries. The meat looked the part, but it was barely even warm. A beautiful tender meat completely ruined by being full of sinew and other, to me, inedible bits. I imagine that had it been cooked more it would have been tough, so the chef - I am perhaps using the term lightly - has decided to cut his losses and not risk actually cooking it very much. The accompanying thick-cut chips were floury and old. The salad was tired with lots of bruising and brown bits.  It looks like the plate (actually a wooden cutting board) had been sitting there with chips and salad for some time. Pass the meat on the grill for a couple of minutes, plonk it on the board with some coarse salt and then serve.

I decide not to risk dessert (I had read bad reviews about the desserts, and the meal had certainly not impressed) and leave disappointed and unfulfilled. Two strikes in a row in my restaurant evenings.

Sunday lunch in Pau

There's a knock on the door. It's the 'femme de chambre' wanting to do the room.  I start thinking about what an interesting expression femme de chambre is, but then realise than in English there is the equivalent (and equally archaic) word 'chambermaid' so that train of thought goes back to the station. It's just as well she has arrived or I would possibly have spent the whole day messing around on the computer. So I take the opportunity and leave the hotel to go for a walk. I head for a nearby park, one of the few green bits on my map. The hotel isn't far from the centre of town but it's on the edge and in a pretty seedy area. I've stayed here a couple times before and know that at night in order to get into town (and dinner) I have to negotiate a path past the drunks and tramps who congregate outside a bar near the hotel.

The park is a bit like a fairy tale, but one with a dark storyline. There are areas of trees with low-hanging branches over dark leaf-strewn paths. I discover what turns out to be a holly tree, complete with red berries. I realise that I had no idea that holly grew as such a large tree. The holly somehow completes the fairy-tale image for me. I half expect to come across a little girl in a red cape carrying a basket in the woods ahead.

The promenade along the cliff looking out to the Pyrenees has a Sunday arts and crafts fair; the usual wood carvings, sculptures made from recycled materials, necklaces made from string and beads and paintings that mostly look like they were made by the dozen, which I suppose they were. You never seem to see anyone buying anything. The sellers are sitting in their little stalls, knitting, reading, having lunch - but not selling.

I end up near the castle, which is still bring restored. It doesn't look like a lot of progress has been made since I was here almost a year ago. No sense in rushing these things I suppose.

A strategic lettuce leaf completes the meal

Passing through the square near the castle, with its restaurants with tables set up outside, I decide to have lunch today. After all, I might not make it to dinner since I know jet-lag is going to set in around that time. Normally these sort of restaurants don't have a lot of appeal, since they invariably seem to aim rather low in terms of quality, relying on a tourist trade that doesn't depend on repeat business. But I see quite a few groups that look like they might be local, so against my usual (and it turns out, better) judgement, I sit myself down at one of the places. The blackboard menu announces the day's special: Souris d'Agneau au miel et au thym, avec garniture du chef. The 'garniture du chef' turns out to be chips and a single lettuce leaf. Clearly the chef is lacking a little imagination. The lamb isn't bad, but it's not at all inspiring either. Plus it takes forever to arrive, which is pretty impressive, considering it's the special of the day and it's a dish that is cooked well beforehand. Perhaps it took them a long time to select which single lettuce leaf to add to my plate.

Still, the Madiran by the glass arrives quickly, and isn't actually at all bad. While I'm waiting for my food there's plenty of opportunities for people watching in a place like this.

An impossibly cool (at least, I suspect he thinks so) guy in a suit and sunglasses walks by. Or rather, he struts by. He's the sort of person who'd be wearing those sunglasses inside as well. A little later, Ronnie Corbett (half of the Two Ronnies) walks by. I know it couldn't have been the Ronnie Corbett, but it was definitely his twin. At the restaurant across the street, a woman who looks nowhere old enough to be the mother of the girl she's with - but probably is - is changing tables to take the one vacated by someone there. The waiter arrives and she explains that her daughter wasn't happy at the other table; the waiter obligingly shuffles tableware between the tables to accommodate her. A bit later the daughter decides she wants to sit on the other side of the table, meaning she's pretty much sitting on the street now. The mother is negotiating with her daughter about this, but clearly losing the argument. Not long after the daughter decides she's had enough of the restaurant and they leave. Clearly it's the daughter who is running this relationship.

At the table next to me is a guy in his early sixties with his daughter. Or is it his girlfriend? It's hard to tell, and although I do my best, by the end of the meal I still haven't worked it out. It keeps me occupied though. Surprisingly he asks me if I mind him smoking - an unheard of question in France, particularly when sitting outside. Even more amazingly, he doesn't light up when it's obvious that I do mind. I am impressed.

The dessert I've ordered finally arrives and proves itself to be definitely not worth the wait. I remind myself that this is the reason why I don't eat at places like this and tell myself "I told you so". Maybe next time I'll pay more attention.

Fragile eggs on the road