Disaster!

After almost 3 years of loyal service, our trusty little Apple Macbook finally had a hiccup. A big one. Since the start of the year Bec has been working on a special DVD project to celebrate Kath's 30th birthday - a chronicle of the trips we took together while Kath was living in England. It was finally all done a fortnight ago, but it seems the final effort of compiling the DVD was too much for the Mac's Seagate hard drive, which shortly after refused to produce anything other than ominous ticking noises.

"Oh well" we hear you say, "you guys would have backed up all your stuff regularly, so no big deal". Well, ummm... We last backed up in January this year. That means we've potentially lost ALL our digital photos from Iceland, Marrakech, Carcassonne, Bletchley Park, Rutland and the Peak District. About 1000 in all we estimate. Damn and blast.

A trip to some expert data-recovery people confirmed that the drive was indeed cream-crackered. They could attempt a difficult and dangerous "spindle swap" operation but chances of recovery would be slim, and the cost of finding out would be steep. We've declined this option and will be looking at other companies for a second opinion, as there is no shortage of disaster-recovery specialists around the country. We're clearly not the only ones not backing up often enough!

As of now, a new brutal backup regime is swinging into place. We're talking multiple backup disks, periodic copies, automatic internet uploads, the works. Remember people, if your stuff doesn't exist in at least two places, it doesn't exist!

Take a Peak, Part 2

Monday morning, another monster Full English and we were on our way to one of the country's finest stately homes. You might remember Chatsworth House from such films as: Pride and Prejudice (2005) with Keira Knightley and The Duchess (2007), also with Keira Knightley. She must be well acquainted with the residents, the 12th Duke and Duchess of Devonshire.


We toured the extensive gardens first. Visible from a considerable distance, The Cascade is an incredible water feature commissioned by the First Duke for the usual reason - to impress his guests. Water is stored in a man-made lake high behind the house, and comes down through a pipeline, off the (artificial) waterfall just visible at the back, optionally tumbling down the roof of the Cascade House (it can even be made to come out of the floor and ceiling inside). From there, it descends 24 stone steps of varying height and texture, so that there is a symphony of splashes. The amount of water used would make a Melbournian need a quiet sit-down and a biscuit, so it's rarely turned on. By complete fluke we happened to be present at one of the few times a year when it's given the full monty, Cascade House roof and all, and very impressive it was too. Hot tip to see the Cascade in action - Bank Holiday weekends in May.


The entire area around the house was quite literally knocked into shape by legendary 18th-century landscape architect Lancelot "Capability" Brown, who was employed by the 4th Duke of Devonshire. Brown didn't like the positioning of the nearby village of Edensor, so he had it moved. As one does. Similarly, he had the course of the River Derwent changed to make the views to and from his "park" more agreeable. Here's Johnny doing his best "Mr Darcy waiting for Miss Bennet", with Capability's park stretching out behind.


The 6th Duke of Devonshire was not content with the grand vistas, and engaged another gardening genius, Joseph Paxton, in 1826. Paxton, as far as we can tell, was given a blank cheque and went completely ballistic, not only creating giant fountains, greenhouses, and extraordinary rock gardens, but inventing new machinery in the process. Some of the stones in his rockery weigh several tons, so Paxton created a machine which could pick them up and delicately put them in exactly the right position.


Of Chatsworth's 126 rooms, less than a quarter are visible on the public tour. But it's still an incredible visit, if in that slightly strange "it's really fancy, but I'm not sure I'd actually want to live in it" way. The interior drips with priceless artwork and elaborate furniture, while some of the painted ceilings are Sistine Chapelesque. Our favourites were the library and the dining room - elegant and spacious:

And then, in true Jane Austen fashion, we took our carriage, and withdrew to London.

Take a Peak, Part 1

A couple of weeks ago, if you'd asked either of us about England's Peak District you would have got an answer along the lines of "umm, it's in the middle somewhere, and ummm <cue frantic Googling>, it's more peaky than the Lake District, which, in contrast, probably is a bit more lake-y" . Despite knowing very little about it, we knew our time in the UK would not be complete without visiting. The second May Bank Holiday was a perfect opportunity.

Like the Lakes, the Peak District is a magnet for Serious Walkers aka Red-Socks, who like nothing more than slamming down 2000 calories of Full English, loading up the 60-litre Karrimor with a couple of sandwiches, and heading out for a bracing 10-mile hike along something called Willey's Willie or Knobgoblin Pass. Indeed some people go to the Peaks for a whole week with a book written by a fellow nylon-fan and do nothing but:
Strenuous; 8-10 hours; Frequent precipices; Unpredictable conditions; Inform authorities; Update will beforehand; walks every single day. But that's not really our thing. Instead we chose a two-hiker-icon, 3-hour "pleasure walk" along a ridge from a book our lovely B & B lady found for us. We figured we'd stomp that in no more than 4 hours and have time to call in to at least one other of the Northern Peak District attractions.

Perhaps we were a little naïve, but the extremely warm conditions turned the pleasure walk into a death march. The mercury was soaring into the upper half of the 20s (don't laugh unless you've experienced this in the UK) and the cheerful directions were always light on the detail when you really needed it most. These authors must go on a special "How to be Specific In Your Vagueness" course before writing - together with their "Scale Is For Losers" map-making colleagues. At the 3-hour mark we were actually only half-way around the loop, but convinced ourselves that our frequent photo-stops were the culprit. After all, it was absolutely stunning, with a clear view right the way back to our starting point, the village of Edale on the valley floor.

Bec also took what could well be her Photo Of The Year: Johnny taking a breathtaking leap off a rocky crag. Taken with a point-and-shoot digital camera with the usual annoying button-to-shutter lag, this was a genuine one-shot wonder!


We took some time out next to a lovely waterfall before taking a wrong turn and playing chicken with a family of sheep on a goat-track. How agricultural! At last we were on the descent, but even this was strenuous, as it frequently criss-crossed the babbling waters of the Crowden Brook, requiring combinations of careful footwork and energy-sapping jumps to make progress.

When we finally rejoined civilisation, we were dismayed to see the sign pointing back to Edale - still a mile and a half's stagger away! Eventually we slithered into The Old Nag's Head back in the town, some six hours after setting off. Our other plans for the day were shattered (as were we!), but a quiet pint by the river helped to compensate!

Carcassonne Cuisine

The walled French town of Carcassonne has been on our radar since 2005, when Bec's lovingly-constructed European tour itinerary included it as a stop between Bordeaux and Barcelona. Due to forces beyond our control, we never made it then, and have been meaning to "tick it off" ever since. We finally managed it over the first May bank holiday, taking our second RyanAir (boo! hiss!) flight of the year to the lovely South of France.

Carcassonne is famous for the lovely castle/château that looms over the river, quite literally lording it over the "New Town". And rightly so:


The Old Town is still fully-functional, albeit dominated by tourist traps and restaurants these days. Actually staying within the town's walls is possible but ludicrously expensive, so we took the economical option and stayed in the Ibis just over the other side of the Old Bridge, getting a great view and plenty of exercise climbing that hill!


We determined that two days in Carcassonne is exactly the right duration - you could potentially "do" the town and be gone in one day but then you would miss seeing the sun set over a scene that really hasn't changed much in hundreds of years. Also, you'd be depriving yourself of another 6-8 courses of delicious French food. Indeed, we seemed to spend most of our time deciding where to eat next! The local speciality (and hence centrepiece of countless prix-fixe menus) is Cassoulet, a slow-cooked white-bean casserole of duck and pork - delicious, but there were many other things to enjoy, the only exception being a very rough pork sausage that Bec chose as an entrée, which was a little too pig-sty-esque for our tastes!

We ate like nobles, we took a turn around the château with surely the finest view in all of France, and then we ate like nobles again. Life is tough...

Home Town Toy Time

The Easter break saw us heading to possibly the least exotic holiday destination ever featured in this blog - namely, the county of Rutland, in England's damp and grey East Midlands. Rutland's main claims to fame are:

• Being small - the smallest county in England
• (Possibly due to the first point) Being the only county to not have a McDonald's
  
• (Possibly due to above 2 points) Having the best-performing schools in the country

Fascinating. As you've probably guessed by now, Rutland is the county of Johnny's birth, and he had a long-overdue appointment with one of his best childhood mates, who still lives there. Despite being 6 months younger, James is putting Johnny to shame. He is the Chief Technical Officer of a very successful digital agency, husband to the lovely Emma and father to the adorable Annie-May and Millie.


We had a fantastic time, with James and John seamlessly picking up where they'd left off (after a twelve-year gap) and all the girls getting on like a house on fire. But there was another reason for being in the middle of nowhere. For his double-birthday present from Bec, Johnny was about to drive in a 4-way supercar shootout! Sunday morning saw an endlessly-patient Bec standing around a nearby ex-RAF base in the drizzle, with Johnny driving:

- A Porsche 911 Carrera S (996) - brilliant power and handling. Seemed like just caressing the throttle gave a glorious shove in the back, with the steering giving endless feedback. Lovely solid gearshift and stunning build quality. Truly a car to dream of.

- A Lotus Elise S2 - a road-legal go-kart, but even more fun. A really physical driving experience, with a small sueded wheel and a notchy gearshift. The engine is small and you wring its neck to make progress, but you can chuck it into the corners like nothing else. The greatest weekend-warrior/track day car ever.

- A Ferrari F360 - meh. Yes, believe it or not, the most expensive (by far) in this lineup was also the most disappointing. In the slippery conditions the car could not put its power down to the road (as the instructor said: "The Germans and Japanese are clever enough to properly do traction control, the British save weight by not doing it, and the Italians tried to do it, but made a mess of it"). The "F1-style" semi-automatic flappy-paddle gearbox is a complete waste of money and, literally, time. At full chat it took about 2 seconds to decide to obey a command to change gear! An expensive toy for non-drivers.

- A Subaru Impreza WRX (2006 edition). Driving the Subie was just like meeting up with James again - a great and trusted old friend. The Scoob's All-Wheel-Drive allowed it to carry much higher speed through the corners than anything else on the wet track, and Johnny's top speed at the end of the back straight was the same as in the Porsche. This version felt a little less nimble than Johnny's old "organ-donor express" 1998 model, but also much more solidly screwed together. Truly a giant-killing car.

We're hoping to catch up with James and the gang again very soon - Bec and Emma have now exchanged contact details so there won't be another 12-year radio-silence! And as for the supercars... Elise and Carrera, we'll be back for you later!

Marrakech Mayhem, Part 2: Found

With our confidence rising all the time, we could set our sights on attractions further away from our riad; shaking our heads at dubious offers of assistance and sometimes even laughing at the audacious claims of cheeky young locals. "C'est fermé!" or "It's closed!" is apparently a witty and helpful thing to shout at tourists as they walk along a street. At least there were no sexist slurs - our friend Beth had been on the receiving end of quite a lot of unwanted attention when she visited Marrakech with a female friend.

After checking out the lush Jardin Majorelle we visited the one of the amazing royal palaces, Palais-el-Badi:

After 48 hours in Marrakech, we'd started to notice a pattern - a few hectic hours out on the streets would be followed by a period of recuperation in a quiet restaurant, palace, garden or riad, before we could face the mayhem again - but we were definitely warming to the craziness, the pace, and the sheer inventiveness of the locals. At the risk of being a bikesnob, observe if you will, this superb example of Moroccan bicycle style:

Of note:

• Front brakes completely disconnected
• Rear brakes also purely for decorative purposes
• "Moroccan singlespeed conversion" with gear ratio chosen using the rule "whatever stops the chain from falling off too much"
• Missing seatpost clamp, ingeniously replaced with padlock (Hah! That'll stop 'em!)
• Asymmetrical seat orientation; this actually suits the sidesaddle riding position adopted by most riders for easy ejection (see first two points)
• Cargo rack - this allows the vehicle to carry livestock and building materials with ease. We spotted a full-size front door being carried like this.

We decided to brave an al fresco dinner in the "big square", delving somewhat apprehensively into the crazy maze of smoky, smelly food stalls, teeming with beggars, pickpockets and extremely inventive spruikers. Easily the cheapest meal of the trip, the food was surprisingly good and the atmosphere incredible. We caught this little guy red-handed, trying to relieve Bec of some change!

For our last full day in Morocco we ventured out of the city, our guide Majid taking us into the Atlas Mountains to experience the rural life of the Berber people. Johnny was kept busy translating as Majid was much more comfortable in French than English, but Bec was improving all the time. By the end of this year she will probably be as good at French as she is German, if not better!

The scenery was spectacular, and quite astonishing at times, seeming more Swiss Alp than Moroccan Atlas:

We enjoyed a scrambling climb up multiple waterfalls before heading back into the city for a very different watersport. The Hammam. Neither of us really knew exactly what this was, but we knew it had to be done and Thierry had organised a visit to a very special one close to our riad, operated by another French expat. Veronique gave us a lovely welcome on her rooftop terrasse before Bec was sent off to be Hammam-ed. She came back in a dressing-gown looking somewhat dazed, but refused to give any details to Johnny before he was sent to his fate.

Now, not being at all knowledgeable about ancient North African cleansing rituals, we cannot definitively say that our experience was the norm. If there is an expert reading this, does this sound right?

1. Enter a small bathroom-like cubicle with no fittings beyond taps and drain
   
2. Strip down to bathing suit
3. Large member of the same sex enters the room
4. Large person also strips to bathing suit
5. Large person fills plastic buckets with warm water
6. Large person pours water over client
7. Large person applies soap to client
   
8. Large person flagellates client with what feels like cheese grater (coarse side)
9. Repeat steps 5-8 using ever-finer grating devices until all client skin has been removed
10. Large person sloshes a final 20 litres of water over client
11. Client dons dressing-gown in order to stop internal organs from falling out

Our hammam experience in many ways mirrored our overall impressions of Marrakech; confronting, unfamiliar, a little scary, but somehow simultaneously fascinating, enjoyable and totally unforgettable.

Marrakech Mayhem, Part 1: Lost

There are four levels of being lost:

1. Oh no! We're not going the same way as we did last time! But it's OK, because there's a sign telling us we're still going towards our destination, and frankly, where we are is pretty nice anyway. This variant is frequently experienced in Venice, and is known as Pleasurably Lost.
2. Hmmm. None of this looks familiar, but we've got a map that correlates to the street signs, so we can work this out. This is a feeling you might get in a large foreign city - Lost In Translation.
3. This is not good. Where the hell are the street signs? There are no other tourists around, but I've just got a feeling that if we go towards that thing, we'll get to the nice stuff. This is not a good state to be in for too long - Lost In Space.
4. Omigod omigod omigod. Everything looks the same. No signposts, no landmarks, the map isn't making sense. No tourists, people are telling me things but they want money so I can't trust them. And now there's a crowd of vultures following us. Lost In Marrakech.

Yes, we had a level 4 nightmare when we arrived in Marrakech. We hadn't taken enough notice of our Riad's neighbourhood before venturing out into the madness of this crazy Moroccan city, and we paid dearly. Our lovely host, Thierry from Bordeaux, had drawn a line on our map showing how to navigate back from the main square, but the scale was way too tiny to really help. In the end, in 11pm desperation we had to ask a shopkeeper for assistance - he delegated to a seven-year-old boy who led us through the dark alleyways for what seemed like an eternity, while suspicious characters lurked a few paces behind. At the door to our Riad, we gave him a banknote which would feed him for a week (the smallest thing we had) and he still wanted more. We were scared he and his mates would still be there waiting for us the next morning - not a nice way to spend your first night in a new city.

We had determined that things could only get better from here - and we were right. The next morning, a fantastic breakfast on the sun-drenched terrasse of the riad helped a lot, and we spent a good half hour learning the landmarks near our accommodation so as not to be flummoxed again. Suitably confident, we jumped right into the tourist circuit, taking in the Ben Youssef Medersa, a former religious academy featuring a stunning internal courtyard in the local Arabic tiles-stucco-and-wood style.

Next stop was the Musee de Marrakech, showcasing more of the extravagant interior wall ornamentation. Exterior walls usually form the streets and alleyways, so no effort is spared when it comes to decorating the internal courtyards!

Following a relaxing rooftop lunch we plunged into the exotic, colourful and pungent souks. Your nose really takes a battering in Marrakech, going from the foul smells of poorly-tuned diesel and two-stroke engines in the streets to sweet confections in the patisseries, before turning a corner and having the raw odour of tanning leather grab you in the back of the throat.

After several hours of meandering through the seemingly-endless array of glassware, carpets, pottery and random tat, we found ourselves people-watching at the amazing Djemma-al-Fna square - Marrakech's crowning glory:

And after a couple of Tagines, we headed home nice and early. It had been a much, much better day, and we didn't want to push our luck!