Needles & Pins

Posted on 14 October 2025 by sheg4184

Historical novelist Tracey Chevalier is probably best known for her second novel, ‘The Girl with a Pearl Earring’, a fictional account of the Dutch painter, Vermeer, and his model. This, you may remember, was made into a movie in 2003 with Colin Firth in a dreadful wig and Scarlett Johanssen as The Girl. However, it is Chevalier’s tenth novel, published in 2019, that has stuck with me. ‘A Single Thread’ is the story of Violet, a young woman, who, when her fiancé is killed in WWI, becomes trapped at home, caring for her controlling mother. Eventually, determined to assert her independence and chart her own course through life, she moves to Winchester. There, she finds a passion for needlework and become a ‘broderer’ at Winchester Cathedral. The Guardian critic, Katy Guest, takes full advantage of the plotline to write about the protagonist thus: ‘Violet Speedwell whose thread we follow through the intricate tapestry of this novel.’ And like the great aunts I am currently researching, she quietly defies society’s expectations that she must marry to find purpose. Instead, through small, quiet acts of courage and rebellion, Violet makes her own way in the world.

By coincidence, we were exploring Wells Cathedral at the time I was reading the book, so in my head, I relocated the tale to Somerset, where there are embroidery tours (and classes) designed to promote the art. Here, the quire (or choir) stalls show off the work of mid-twentieth century needlewoman, Lady Alice Hylton and a large group of volunteer embroiderers.  Between 1937 and 1952 these women designed and worked hassocks, seat runners, long kneelers, and 39 panels for the backs of the canopied stalls.

Any cathedral community provides ample opportunity for embroiderersto sew a fine seam for alter cloths, vestments, hassocks and hangings. Generally considered women’s work, needlework became particularly important for middle-class women during the nineteenth century to express themselves through embroidery, needlepoint, tapestry or lace-making. Plain sewing, such as sewing on buttons or hemming clothes, could be done by the servants. Fancy work was an acceptable hobby that could be done in the morning room, among friends. As a skill needed by the Church, it often gave women access to a more public life, away from household chores. Later, according to Dr Jo Vanderpeer ‘it became a conduit to an alternative form of higher education which fostered independent careers for women at a time when that was still radical.’ As I continue work on my speculative biography about my great grandmother and her sisters, I am reminded time and again that not every middle class woman adhered to the social expectations of the time, and without familial fuss or societal bother, refused to be dictated to by the world’s expectations, but quietly forged ahead to write their own stories.

Before I continue this particular story, I must admit up front that I have no talent with needles – of the sewing or knitting variety, before you jump to conclusions! Nor can I crochet or embroider. Over the past couple of years, however, I seem to have gravitated towards those who can, and have come across some fascinating and impressive works of art in the embroidery department.  It has continued to be a theme this autumn, as we meander through Britain.

Months ago, I booked a ticket to attend an exhibition at the Kings Gallery in Buckingham Palace, which I have been anticipating it eagerly. The Edwardians: Age of Elegance is a display of art collected by four members of the British royal family during the Edwardian Era: paintings and porcelain; jewellery and trinkets; furniture and Fabergé pieces; even Alexandra and Mary’s coronation dresses. And it included a piece of embroidery worked by my great aunt and her colleagues at the Adelaide School of Design.

The Edwardian period traditionally spans the reign of King Edward VII, from 1901 to 1910. In this exhibition, however, the time frame is extended from 1863, with the marriage of Princess Alexandra of Denmark to Edward, Prince of Wales, until 1920, with King George V and Queen Mary.  The guidebook tells us:

With Queen Victoria in mourning for her husband Prince Albert and seldom in the public eye, Edward and Alexandra became the public face of the monarchy. Together with their son, the future King George V and his wife, Queen Mary, they started to have an impact on the cultural life of the country in the last decades of the 19th century.

All four royals would have the opportunity to travel around the world as no other British royals had done before, visiting the British colonies that now wrapped around the globe. This would include a visit to Australia at the turn of the century, when George and Mary, then the Duke and Duchess of York and Cornwall, came to Melbourne to open Australia’s first Federal Parliament on May 9, 1901. The only building in Melbourne that was large enough to accommodate the 14,000 guests was the western annexe of the Royal Exhibition Building that still exists in Carlton Gardens. After the official opening, the Federal Parliament moved to the Victorian State Parliament House, until the first Parliament House in Canberra was completed in 1927.

In July, the royal couple sailed up the Spencer Gulf in the Royal Yacht Ophir and landed in Port Adelaide. They were then whisked up to the Adelaide Town Hall for an official reception. They would spend five days in Adelaide, during which time they were presented with a portière, or wall hanging – commissioned by a group of Adelaide Establishment Ladies – to commemorate their visit. A friend of mine who had been researching South Australian 19th century arts and crafts, tracked down the portière a year or so ago, and we were thrilled to hear it would be in the exhibition. A portière is a large, embroidered panel used to cover a doorway and prevent draughts, or as a decorative walk hanging.

There were only two embroidered pieces on display. The Royal portière was designed by H.P. Gill, the Director of the Adelaide School of Design, and embroidered by four talented needlewomen on blue moire brocade, depicting a young gum tree with six flowering branches representing each of the six states that enclose a heart-shaped design, which contains the monogram ‘V.M’ – the initials of the Duchess, Victoria Mary.

Beside it, in the King’s Gallery, hung a very different style of embroidery: a panel from the Kiswah of Maqam Ibrahim, which Queen Mary received from the King of Hejaz (now Saudi Arabia) in 1918.

Two weeks later, needing a break from the motorway heading south from Edinburgh, we stopped into Hardwick Hall, a National Trust property in Derbyshire. Built by Bess of Hardwick in the 16th century, it was designed to show off her considerable wealth and social standing as the highest aristocrat in the land, excepting only Queen Elizabeth I herself. Most notable (to me) were the tapestries. The National Trust holds over 200 historical tapestries, the largest collection of tapestries in Britain. A guide explained that Hardwick Hall contains more than 100 of these. The unusually broad Long Gallery is virtually wallpapered in thirteen huge Flemish tapestries that tell the Bible story of Gideon defeating the Midianites.  The colours may have faded, but the work that went into them is still apparent; work that would have taken years to complete.

The guidebook talks not only of Flemish tapestries but of carpets woven in Persia and Turkey, rare, embroidered chair coverings and luxurious bed hangings which are displayed throughout the house. Bess not only appreciated these fine creations, but was an excellent needlewoman herself and would have worked on many of the smaller pieces with her gentlewomen.  

We then moved west to Ledbury, west of the Malvern Hills, where we discovered this pretty market town, full of heritage-listed, timber-framed Tudor buildings. Quaint cobbled streets weave between top-heavy buildings that seem liable to topple but have somehow remained standing for centuries. There is also a beautiful, Grade 1 listed church, St. Michael and All Angels, and its free-standing bell tower. Again, the many wondrous designs of the embroidered tapestry kneelers in the quire are worth a mention here, several illustrating the historic buildings for which the town is renowned.

Finally, we visited Brockhampton Manor, a fourteenth century medieval manor now owned by the National Trust, on the outskirts of Bromyard, Herefordshire. This homely, moated manor house sits among the largest orchards cared for by the National Trust, which contain numerous varieties of damsons and apples, plums, pears, and quince, cherries and medlars. The house is accessed by a timber-framed gatehouse that has housed farming implements, chickens and possibly even the odd Catholic priest during the Dissolution of the monasteries.

And of course, the thing that I noticed particularly was the needlework presumably done by some of the women who have lived in the house over the centuries, including a sampler done by a nimble-fingered nine year old in 1865. In the Great Hall, we spotted  a more modern piece: a wool wall hanging (a portière perchance?) worked by the Ross on Wye Arts Society. The design, based on the tree of life, depicts images of working life on the estate from the 17th–18th centuries, and includes brightly coloured bees and butterflies, ladybirds and spiders, peacocks and daisies, and tiny outlines of the manor house and the gate house over the moat.

While we have seen a rich array of needlework on our travels, and I find myself fascinated to know more about this ancient art, I can only wish that I had ever learned to handle a needle with such skill and dexterity. Maybe in my next life. For now, I will simply admire.

*For once, all these photos were ones that I took!

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Mallorca Revisited

Posted on 8 October 2025 by sheg4184

It must be 25 years since we first visited Mallorca. All those years ago, a good mate had come back raving about this compact little island off the east coast of Spain. So, we decided to arrange a weekend break while my parents were in the UK and would look after the kids. I remember very little about it, if I’m honest. Our hotel in Palma was a disaster. They had lost our booking, and we were reduced to sleeping on camp beds in what was basically a hallway, while a day trip into the hills made me horrendously carsick. This trip, however, promised to be more successful. Another good mate was turning sixty, so a collection of his oldest friends was gathering in Deia to help him celebrate. And we had booked well in advance this time to avoid camping in a hallway!

Mallorca, also spelled Majorca, is the largest and most popular of the Balearic Islands. Like many Mediterranean islands, it has changed hands several times over the centuries: the Phoenicians and the Romans, the Vandals and the Moors all took turns at colonizing it, each new invader imprinting its own culture, religion, infrastructure and economy. In 1229 it was conquered by the Catalans, and despite revolts, plagues and piracy, Mallorca has remained in Spanish hands since. In 1984 the new Spanish Constitution granted the Balearic Islands regional autonomy. Since the 1960s, however, tourism has boomed, and Mallorca has been invaded afresh, by legions of tourists.

These days, Mallorca, like its smaller neighbour Ibiza, has become hugely popular with the Northern Europeans, who flock to Mallorca all year round. With a population of just under one million, this number grows exponentially during the height of the tourist season. Some visitors come simply for the sun, others to enjoy the food. Those with more active aspirations may hike or cycle through the mountains. We, however, were looking for more sedentary occupations, while rather hoping the number of visitors might have dropped off by late September.

From London, it is only a two-and-a-half-hour flight to Palma – think Adelaide to Brisbane if you are an Aussie. Nonetheless, it was like landing on a different continent. Discarding our fleeces and raincoats at Luton Airport, we cheerfully left behind a wealth of flat grey pancake clouds that were bleaching the colour from the patchwork landscape. Ever hopeful, I had even packed my bathers and suntan cream.

Landing in Palma, we easily found a bus to the city centre. Another bus took us out to the rugged north-west coast, and the small, salubrious town of Deia. At 50 euros or more for the 40-minute taxi ride, five euros for the bus seemed a better option and hardly took any longer. And the road twisted and wiggled just as much either way.

Deia is tucked into a steep sided canyon within the Serra de Tramuntana Mountains. Cobbled lanes wind like tangled wool between shuttered houses that clamber up the sides of the canyon. A wooden boardwalk along the main road keeps pedestrians safe from the steady flow of traffic: huge, unwieldy coaches; teeny weeny fiats; muscley cyclists; trucks and taxis.

In late September, Deia’s terracotta tiled roofs and sandstone walls are still aglow with late summer sunshine. Vivid blue trumpet flowers and bougainvillea in hot pink and vermilion climb the limestone walls. Brightly coloured sundresses hang outside the numerous dress shops, captivating the tourists, like a spider’s lacy cobweb attracts its prey. On our first morning, while the One & Only deals with a business call, I heed the siren call of these pretty boutiques, and return with a bag of dazzling summer dresses. Well, it will be summer again by the time we get home.

On down the boardwalk, and around a bend, it is possible to glimpse an ultramarine sea. Across the valley, terraced hillsides look a little neglected. Perhaps it is just the end of summer, or maybe tourism has replaced the age-old agricultural economy. Abutting the houses, however, there is still an assortment of fruit trees: oranges and figs, tomatillos and avocados, peaches and the ubiquitous olive.

The dry, crusty landscape here reminds me of home, but the architecture suits its environment far better than our cream brick bungalows. There is little room or occasion for lawns here, although a couple of grassy strips suggest the odd English settler. Deia has been designated a world heritage site, so any new buildings must adhere to strict regulations to ensure they blend into the surroundings as effectively as the older ones. At the tail end of summer, the creek that trickles along the bottom of the canyon now contains only a dribble of water. Wine, however, cascades down the throats of the still-prolific visitors.

There is a broad range of accommo-dation, and our group of revellers can choose from the five star Residencia that squats like a sultan in the centre of town, to the more modest family run hotels that cling to the hillside and require guests to clamber up or down the steep public stairways. Wherever you stay, there will be the ubiquitous view of terracotta-tiled rooftops, blue wooden shutters and olive trees. And everyone can find a comfortable chair or stone wall from which to observe the sun make its way slowly over the lip of the mountains, throw out the morning shadows and immerse the valley in full afternoon sun. The One & Only won oh-so-many Brownie points for finding us the perfect family run hotel in a rustic stone villa only three minutes walk from the main road. Villaverde provided us with a simple and comfortable apartment with its own small terrace, where we made ourselves totally at home; the perfect haven in which to relax and unwind between all the merry-making. 

For many years, Deia has been attracting the creatives: artists, musicians and writers come from all over the world to settle here, the hilltop cemetery sporting many Anglo names among its native inhabitants – the English poet Robert Graves, for example (no pun intended). According to its website, Deia is also the gastronomic capital of the Mediterranean. In which case, I would recommend not visiting at the end of the silly season, as many of the local chefs and waiting staff are obviously exhausted and sick to death of feeding tourists. Having said that, we enjoyed two great celebratory meals, where we had few complaints about either the food or the service.

It can be an adventure simply to reach Ca’s Patro March.  This rustic and popular restaurant is balanced precariously over the sea at the end of a narrow, snaking road along which locals drive recklessly, and visitors manoeuvre carefully. The One & Only went ahead to swim before lunch. Don’t expect along, sandy beach, however. Instead, it is a steep descent to a rocky cove, where you must clamber over the rocks to reach the sea. So, it was probably wise to go early, thus avoiding a drunken descent after a heavy lunch and many bottles of wine – a sure recipe for disaster. Meanwhile, I took the precaution of hitching a ride in a friend’s car, to avoid a hot and dusty walk from town.

Hanging off the edge of a cliff above a cerulean sea, this outdoor restaurant has one of the best locations in Deija, which is not short of great views. It is also highly popular, so forget about a spontaneous visit and be prepared to book well ahead. Trip advisor provides mixed reviews, and our experience was similarly mixed. Simple and unfussy, the food was excellent, and the service was mostly friendly, although the icy welcome we received from the hostess was enough to make me flee for the safety of the car. Everything improved once we were seated above the sea with good friends and a glass of wine. And it wasn’t too long before generous platters of seafood began to arrive.  While I would recommend it, for the food and the location, I would advise a taxi, to avoid a challenging search for a park or an equally challenging post-prandial trek back up the hill. And some excellent conversation to keep you entertained while you wait to be served. Also, take cash. Then you can relax and drift through an afternoon of good food, good company and great views.

Restaurante Es Pi – Sa Pedrissa is a beautiful finca or rural estate, dating back to the 17th century.  Three kilometres along the busy main road from Deia, I would recommend booking a taxi again. There is little or no pavement – and it’s a long way in high heels!

From this amazing eerie above the sea, we found ourselves on a broad terrace overlooking both the Mediterranean and the mountains. Serenaded by a friendly Spanish guitar player, we soaked up the atmosphere with our pre-dinner drinks, while gentle sea breezes tickled and teased. Eventually, we were guided to a long table on a higher terrace beneath the trees and served up a sumptuous feast of local produce and wonderful wines.

We were only in Deia for four nights, but it felt as if we had lived there for weeks. I imagine it will linger in our memories as a magical and very special place for much longer than our previous visit to Mallorca. And hopefully the same goes for the birthday boy!

*As always, thanks to the One & Only for sharing his terrific photos!

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“In falling seeds of rain”*

Posted on 23 September 2025 by sheg4184

For the past couple of weeks, we have been pottering through Scotland, from south to north, enjoying hairy Highland ‘coos’ and plenty of tartan. There’s barely a real Highland cow to be seen, though – just a multitude of the soft toy, made-in-China variety in twee souvenir shops. Oh! And water. Water, water everywhere…in the sky, in the lochs, (and the locks!), in the rivers, the canals and the sea. And there were several castles, but I’ll get to those later.

Weather plays a major role in any trip to Scotland. So far, we have been lucky, dodging in and out of rain bursts that blow over quickly – but it’s wise to take those waterproofs for those just-in-case moments.

Our first night in the land of my ancestors was spent on a small and pretty loch, south-west of Gretna Green, and included a fleeting visit to Kirkcudbright, pronounced, most confusingly, Kir-coo-bree, a pretty, coastal town that has become something of a haven for artists, where the One & Only was keen to meet a local print maker. By lunchtime, we were en route to meet friends in Glasgow.

Glasgow, once labelled the European City of Culture, is certainly rich in art galleries and museums. There are also many elegant churches and plenty of beautiful red sandstone buildings from the 19th century. Sadly, many are derelict, or heading that way, and it is a shame to see such elegant architecture deteriorating before my eyes. Oh! for the wherewithal to return them to their former glory. Local artists have tried to pep them up with some super murals, but unfortunately, ‘tagging’ is almost as popular here as it is in Melbourne.

I am not one for pounding pavements indefinitely, so was delighted to find a wooded path along the Kelvin River, that took us on a gentle stroll from the Botanic Gardens to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery & Museum – a sumptuous and palatial building nestled into a soft curve of the river. Lord Kelvin is to Glasgow what Macquarie is to Sydney. We passed a plethora of streets and parks, a bandstand and a statue, all named for this eminent Victorian inventor and scientist. Although not a native Glaswegian (he was born in Belfast) he had a life-long association with Glasgow University. His father was appointed Professor of Mathematics when Kelvin was only six, his older brother James was a Professor of Civil Engineering and Mechanics, and Kelvin himself would be Professor of Natural Philosophy at the University of Glasgow for forty-three years. He also became the first British scientist to be knighted. A studious family to say the least!

Leaving Glasgow and the illustrious Lord Kelvin behind, we headed north again, swiftly passing Loch Lomond and several smaller lochs with great names, such as Loch Oich and Loch Lochy. Yes, really. Apparently, there are more than 31,400 freshwater lochs in Scotland, which includes thousands of smaller ‘lochans’ (or puddles!). We eventually reached our destination, just shy of Inverness, the capital of the Highlands. Drumnadrochit has become a tourist town, its northern end packed with souvenir shops touting tartans, Highland ‘coos’ and Loch Ness monsters, in every imaginable format. Our end of town is somewhat quieter, and has proved a good central spot for touring the region, and we soon headed out to explore.

On one blowy afternoon, we walked to Urquhart Castle. Once an important stronghold in the wars for Scottish independence, it is now a crumbling ruin moated with vivid green lawns. According to the locals, it’s also the best place to see the Loch Ness monster, which is probably why the carpark was seething with tourists. From a look-out point on the high road, we admired the blue-black inky waters of the loch feathered with white-caps, and decided to forego the age-old search for an elusive ‘Nessy.’ The next day, the surface of Loch Ness was like polished pewter, quiet and calm, as if it had been ironed flat. The clouds had rolled across the sky like a giant quilt, and the loch was spotted with paddleboarders far braver than I, as the water must be icy.

We are en route to Brodie Castle, a National Trust of Scotland property, twenty-three miles east of Inverness. The Brodie Clan has occupied this land for over 800 years, although the present castle was built in the sixteenth century.  It is a Z-plan tower house with 17th and 19th-century additions. “Z-plan?” you ask. As did I. It is a common design in Scotland, where there is a central rectangular tower with two smaller towers attached at diagonally opposite corners, so enemies can be seen approaching from all directions without the need for four towers. The original design was completed in 1567, but it was later converted into a Scottish Baronial Hall, more fashionable in the nineteenth century.

Still, it is a cosy size for a castle and looks much as it did when the last laird, Montague Ninian Alexander Brodie, lived there in the mid-20th century. The house was filled with fascinating memorabilia, and paintings of generations of Brodies. Unfortunately for us, however, there was to be a wedding in the house that afternoon, and we were given limited time to skip through the place before the bride arrived to the skirling of the bagpipes at the front door. Wandered through the grounds between showers (there are about 75 acres to explore), we learned that the 24th Laird, Ninian’s father, had been something of a gardener, and had spent many years cultivating daffodils. Trillions of them. Of the thousands of hybrids he created, some even found their way to Australia. I will surely have to make a trip back in the spring to see them in all their splendour.

On the way home, we drove along the coast for a little lighthouse spotting, and dropped into a whisky distillery at Forres, both of which were at the top of the One & Only’s ‘To Do’ list in Scotland. We have come across plenty of lighthouses on our travels, including a ‘Pepper pot’ lighthouse on Loch Ness: a miniature version of the coastal variety, designed in the 19th century to guide boats into the locks. Along the north coast, the winds off the North Sea can almost blow you off your feet, but here we are protected by a tall hedge of beech trees.

It is also hard to avoid distilleries in this part of the world, especially around Speyside – a ‘protected’ whisky region in the Scottish Highlands, between Inverness and Aberdeen, and south to the Cairngorms. About 50 distilleries are located in this region, and together they produce some 50% of Scotland’s whiskies. Benromach is one of them. A family-owned distillery on Speyside, whisky has been made here since 1898, although it has changed hands a number of times over the years. According to their advertising blurb ‘we recreate the whisky character that once defined Speyside – an award-winning single malt whisky with a delicate hint of smoke.’

Well, it turns out there is zero tolerance for drink driving in Scotland so the One & Only was unable to sample a whiskey flight as planned. But don’t feel too sorry for him, he did buy a bottle of 10-year-old whisky to drink later by the fire. And rather than waste the trip, I taste-tested a flight of gins. Tasting gin at a whisky distillery in the Highlands may sound a bit daft, but I can’t abide Scottish whisky. And I, too, came home with a bottle. The Benromach Autumn Gin blends autumnal botanicals with Benromach’s Classic gin, and is most poetically described on their website:

 ‘Inspired by autumnal walks through local Scottish woodlands, along hedgerows laden with blackberries, this seasonal-edition autumnal gin is rich and rounded with the sweetness of wild Scottish blackberries (along with its leaves) and fresh mists of fragrant pine needles.’

We had a quiet night in…

Another day, another castle. This time, we headed north to Dunrobin Castle, the oldest and most northerly castle in Scotland. For seven hundred years, it has been home to the Earls of Sutherland, and the family still live in a wing of the castle. Boasting a ridiculous 189 rooms, it seems there is plenty of space for everyone. Perched high above the Dornoch Firth, Dunrobin has also spent some time as a boarding school and a naval hospital. And, after many a facelift, this mediaeval castle now resembles a French château, from its conical spies to its Versailles inspired gardens. No weddings today, but the arrival of four huge coaches send us scurrying for the pub.

Our last day in the Highlands was spent at Fort Augustus, at the southern end of Loch Ness. Here, a  flight of five locks and a swing bridge take boats from the Caledonian canal to the Loch. We pause for a coffee by the canal, and later have lunch by the loch, thrilled to watch the passing traffic: a sailing boat, a catamaran filled to the brim with tourists, a huge Dutch barge converted into a floating hotel, a small motor-boat, a narrow boat or two. And behind us, the splendid Fort Augustus Abbey, originally a 18th-century military fort that became a Benedictine monastery and school in the late 19th century, and recently converted into luxury apartments. As we soak up the atmosphere, I nibble at my haggis and cheese panini. Life has got far more sophisticated since we stopped for a pub lunch on the Isle of Skye some thirty-five years ago. Back then, it was a simple haggis toastie!

We drive home along the more remote eastern edge of Loch Ness, through tiny hamlets and over hump-backed bridges, past heather-draped mountains looming above the horizon, the tarns and lochs twinkling in the late afternoon sun. And just in case there has not been enough water in the equation, I’m about to pour a gin and climb into the courtyard jacuzzi behind our wee Scottish cottage by the river…

With thanks to the One & Only & Google Images for these pics.

* from the poem ‘Autumn Rain’ by D.H.Lawrence.

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The Wheels on the Bus

Posted on 5 September 2025 by sheg4184

It has been an extremely long, long-haul flight to London, and I am feeling gritty and grey as we drag our bags off the bus at Paddington. But the sun is shining between showers and sparkling in the puddles, and I can’t stop grinning. We play dodgems with our wheelie-bins as we try to navigate the crowds on the forecourt, to reach the Underground. Its taken a day and a half and almost every form of transport to get here: car, taxi, plane, feet, bus, feet, Underground, feet… but we are here at last, and I am still grinning.

Offloading our bags, we shower and head out to explore our old stomping ground. Nothing much has changed, and although it feels like the population has grown exponentially, we are, after all, more used to our small, beachside town far from the crazy crowds of an international city.

The next morning, we continue the theme and set out to visit the London Transport Museum in Covent Garden. There is a small person at home who is mad about London’s red, double-decker buses. So, as we sit atop the number nine bus from Kensington High Street to Aldwych, we made a video call to Australia to share the moment.

The truth is, I’m just mad about London buses too. As we sail along the edge of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park, past Park Lane and along Picadilly towards Leicester Square, through Trafalgar Square and down the Strand, I feel as if we are driving around a giant Monopoly Board. Of course, it is summer in the northern hemisphere, and all the green spaces are dazzling at this time of year. The parks are thrumming with life – flowers, birds, squirrels, dogs – and the sky is mostly blue. I cry out at familiar sites, as excited as a kid hunting for Easter eggs. We remember previous moments strolling through Green Park, visiting the Royal Academy or popping in for afternoon tea at the Ritz. I nod to Prince Albert opposite the Albert Hall, to Anteros in the centre of Picadilly Circus, to Charing Cross Station and Australia House. I bemoan the old buses with the spiral staircase at the rear and the bus conductors no longer in evidence, only to discover that the new buses have two sets of stairs, back and front!

At Covent Garden, I find myself looking for Emilia Clarke in her Christmas elf outfit and searching for Santa in her shop filled with Christmas decorations. Pointlessly, it turns out. Maybe they will both turn up closer to the Festive Season. Never mind. We are on a mission.

The London Transport Museum, on the south-eastern corner of Covent Garden, is about to open, and I am keen to find a London bus (in miniature, of course!) for a small, eager little girl in Australia. The One & Only is also keen to see the museum’s collection of London transport posters.

Despite a minor dose of jetlag, we skip merrily through the museum, pausing to examine the reproductions of a sedan chair, a horse drawn omnibus, an  elderly underground carriage, and read voraciously about the history of London transport – a history that affected the world.

In the early days, London was dependent on the River Thames, London’s ‘ancient highway’.  Can’t you just imagine it crowded with vessels of all shapes and sizes, from small, sturdy rafts to sleek and speedy tea clippers, to large galleons like the Golden Hinde, and naval warships? Bridges were few and far between until the nineteenth century, so wherries (light rowing boats or barges) ferried customers and their goods back and forth across the river.

Now compressed between manmade embankments, this broad river has been the starting point of many a perilous journey: men heading to war for King and country; traders off to explore and exploit distant countries and continents; convicts and migrants bound for Australia, dreaming of a better world, or merely dreaming of survival. In 1815, steam ships were introduced and passenger traffic on the river increased enormously. Although accidents on this now overcrowded highway were all too frequent, thousands of commuters sailed up and down the river daily.

Back in the days when the river was king, London was so small that it took only half an hour to walk out to the fields of Essex, Kent or Hertfordshire. Today, London’s suburbs stretch to the horizon – or to the false horizon of the M25 anyway, that circular motorway built to contain the ever- expanding capital. And this viral spread largely came about because of the development of transport systems – from Cobb & Co. coaches to horse-drawn tram cars, from overground steam trains to underground electric trains and, of course, to the big red double decker buses. All these methods of transport allowed workers from farther afield to travel daily to the City, until today commuters arrive from Brighton, Bath, and Birmingham. Distances and costs may have soared, but still London has a magnetic pull that ensures more than a million commuters dash in and out of the capital every day.

In those long-forgotten days of the 16th century, few could afford any kind of transport beyond their own feet. Wealthy, well-dressed gentlemen might hire a sedan chair, carried on poles by two chairmen, to prevent their own dainty feet getting muddy. And while that might sound luxurious, I am reminded of a letter my great aunt Edith wrote of riding in such chairs in Peking in the late 19th century, who wrote “I am going to buy Mrs. Cummins chair – but it is the bearers who are so expensive.”  It seems this was a more comfortable option than a cart, however, as “It’s hard work in a cart with children you have to try and “protect from bumps as well as oneself.”

Before the red double-decker bus, there was the omnibus, which arrived in London in the 1800s. This was an enclosed carriage drawn by one, two or three horses. Twelve passengers could sit inside on long benches for sixpence, but there was additional seating on the roof, on back-to-back benches. The driver sat on the front to drive the horses. An unknown traveller in 1833 writes of finding himself ‘jammed, crammed and squeezed’ into a bus with ‘six and twenty sweating citizens… like so many peas in a pod.’ Some would say little has changed!

In the 1830s, the first railway in London was built between London Bridge and Greenwich on a brick viaduct. The steam train knocked the stagecoach into a cocked hat, able to carry multitudes of passengers at a far greater speed than the poor old coach horses could manage. hundreds of horses pulled horse-drawn trams across the city, which had first begun operating in 1861. But horses needed food and stables and someone to clear up the vast amounts of manure they left on the roads. By 1910 they had been replaced by electric trams, the poor old horses put out to pasture.

In the eighteenth century, there was only London Bridge, wich crossed the river from Southwark to the City. Covered in shop-houses, the gatehouse often decked out with  the severed heads of criminals beheaded at Tyburn – supposedly a deterrent to would-be thieves and murderers. These days, some thirty-five road, rail and footbridges cross the Thames from Hampton Court to the Tower of London.  

Back at the Transport Museum, I discover that this beautiful old building with its Victorian iron and glass structure – like a miniature Musee D’Orsay – was originally designed to hold a flower market in 1871, the same one in which Eliza Dolittle collects her violets to sell on the steps of the Covent Garden theatre next door. For a century, the flower market held about 500 flower stalls and employed over 2,000 men.  The flower market moved out in 1974, and the building was reopened as the London Transport Museum a few years later.

It is the end of the summer holidays, and the museum is full of kids eager to explore the old train carriages and clamber up into the omnibus, high above the ground. Eventually jet lag kicks in, and we eschew the crowds and find a quiet pub around the corner to sit quietly for a bit and summon up the energy to wander home. Big red bus? Underground? Shanks’ pony…?

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A Beachside Boil: Flavour, Fun and No Frills!

Posted on 25 August 2025 by sheg4184

While the algae blooms, the sand dunes have been washed away in winter storms, and the Normanville jetty is looking decidedly shabby, since the end collapsed into the sea, the latest offering from Aqua Blue has certainly lifted our spirits. Aqua Blue has been opened a little over eighteen months, and is already a firm favourite with locals and visitors alike. On the first floor of the new Surf Lifesaving Club, the restaurant overlooks the sea and a long stretch of Normanville beach, where you can drop in for breakfast or lunch, enjoy an evening cocktail, or a sunset dinner.

This month, as part of the Fleurieu Food Festival, Aqua Blue is hosting a Seafood Boil every Friday evening. For those of you – like me – who have never experienced a Seafood Boil, here’s a short explanation. Originating along the coast of the southern states of the USA, a Seafood Boil is a communal meal in which a variety of seafood, vegetables, and sausages are cooked together in a large pot of seasoned water, to be shared and eaten in a festive, fingers-only family-style setting.

Friends from Adelaide picked up on it faster than we did and came down to stay for a weekend of wine and seafood. And this communal dining experience proved to be a bundle of fun. Even before the food arrived, we were making friends at the long table swathed in somewhat lumpy black tablecloths. (An explanation of this strange condition will follow later).

Our knowledgeable friend ordered a bottle of Golding’s “La Francesca” Savagnin 2022, a crisp fresh white we had not met before. All the way from the foot of the Jura mountains in France, abutting the south western corner of Switzerland, this white wine grape has a quietly floral and citrusy profile, that promised to go well with seafood, And while the grape originated in France, it has found a happy home in the cool climate regions of Tasmania, the Yarra Valley and the Adelaide Hills.

Savagnin seems to have arrived in Australia by mistake. Apparently, someone thought it was a Spanish grape that was popular at the time – to the dismay of growers who didn’t realize their error until they were ready to make their first batch of Albariño wine, in the late twentieth century, never having heard of this green skinned variation of the Traminer grape. Luckily, despite its rocky start, Savagnin has begun to make its mark, and there are now some eighty vineyards in Australia producing wine from this late-ripening, low-yielding grape.

Later, one bottle down, we ordered a bottle of Vermentino from Chalk Hill Winery in McLaren Vale, a variety we discovered with glee in Sardinia last year, which, like Savagnin, has a similar profile to Sauvignon Blanc, typically exhibiting notes of lime, grapefruit and green apple, with a distinctive salty or sea-spray character.  And less grassiness. It proved an even better match with our seafood dinner.

So, enough about the wine. Let’s talk about the seafood. Seated comfortably at our long table, we were keen to start feasting. But first our host handed out given full bib striped aprons and encouraged us to introduce ourselves to our neighbours. Then we were presented with a delicious amuse bouche: a beautifully cooked scallop in its shell. Just one each, unfortunately, as we all agreed we could happily have devoured a plateful. However, there was more to come, and the presentation of our eagerly anticipated dinner proved to be quite a performance.

A team arrived from the kitchen with much pomp and circumstance and proceeded to pour the contents of two huge pots across our make-shift table, having first removed the black tablecloths. This revealed layers of plastic wrap and paper beneath, as well as a slight ridge formed by rolled tea towels to prevent anything slopping over the edges.

As we gasped at the mountain of seafood, the contents of a third pot full of Cajun garlic butter was poured over the top of Moreton Bay bugs, soft shell crabs, huge prawns, New Zealand green-lipped mussels and our own blue mussels, as well as chunks of smoky chorizo, boiled potatoes, and sweet corn. I have never been a huge fan of chorizo, but nor have I had it cooked liked this, and it proved a most enlightening and flavourful experience. And while I was a tad nervous about the texture of the soft shell crab, the flavour was HUGE.

Our host encouraged us to stand and wander as we ate, to ameliorate the opportunities of meeting our fellow diners. Without the bondage of knives, forks and plates, this was no sooner said than done. Picking and dipping, we thoroughly enjoyed the food and the company, quickly making inroads into the hearty mounds of crustaceans and molluscs. And yet, despite a dozen very healthy appetites, there was a surprising amount left over. To our joy, we were encouraged to take home as much as we could carry, and I am here to report that our hoard was converted into a delicious spaghetti marinara for lunch the following day. We also went home with the contact details of some of our new friends!

Although you may have missed the opportunity to join a table before the end of this year’s food festival, we are assured that this may well become a signature event for Aqua Blue. So, if you would like to participate at a later date, keep an eye on their Facebook page. I can absolutely recommend it; it will be well worth the wait.

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Black Sheep Let Loose

Posted on 26 July 2025 by sheg4184

At the end of a strenuous semester of research, writing, travel, and hospital stays, I was delighted to receive an invitation from Mary & Hugh Hamilton to join them for a long lunch at the National Wine Centre in Adelaide, where we would sample some of the best HH wines on offer, beautifully paired with some excellent food. The One & Only had other plans, but I was footloose and fancy free. I accepted with alacrity, and, with great anticipation, I headed off to join an excited bunch of Black Sheep Club Members at the National Wine Centre on the edge of the Adelaide CBD.

Dedicated to promoting the Australian wine industry, the NWC was officially opened almost two dozen years ago, in October 2001. Located on the corner of North Terrace and Hackney Road, the site originally housed Adelaide’s first lunatic asylum, which was built in the 1850s. The stone wall around the periphery was apparently constructed by the hospital inmates and has been heritage listed by The National Trust. In 1938, the asylum building was demolished, and the grounds became part of the Botanic Gardens, and an orchard was planted on the site.

Then, in 1997, it was decided to clear the site again to make way for the first dedicated wine centre in Australia. Resembling a deconstructed wine barrel, the NWC was designed by Adelaide architects Cox Grieve and constructed from rammed earth, stone, timber, and stainless steel. This bright and spacious venue contains an interactive exhibition and educational facilities, as well as a range of bars and function rooms. In the Tasting Room, you can try more than 120 wines from over 55 of Australia’s 65 wine regions – if you have the stamina for that much wine in one sitting! This time, however, we were focussing on Hugh Hamilton’s wines, which were complemented by some delicious dishes created by the expert culinary team at the NWC.

At midday, I wander upstairs to join a profusion of other Black Sheep members in the Exhibition Hall. We are greeted by smiling staff and promptly offered a glass of Drama Queen, HH’s famous sparkling wine made by the smae méthode traditionnelle that is used to make French champagne – a labour-intensive process of creating bubbles, in which the wine undergoes a secondary fermentation inside the bottle. The Drama Queen is a glorious blend of Pinot Noir, Chardonnay and Pinot Meunier that provides a light touch of strawberry colour and flavour – and a lovely fizz! (I have always got a couple of bottles to hand, and I am happy to share, if you happen to be passing.) She fits perfectly with the cold canapés: a smooth mushroom parfait on croutons and a barramundi rillette on toast (a chunky pâté), providing an Australian twist to the French version that was truly scrumptious.

Guests are seated at tables named for the winery’s ever-expanding ‘Flock’ Series: the Scallywag (Chardonnay), the Trickster (Pinot Grigio) and the Floozie (Sangiovese Rosé); the Scoundrel (Grenache Shiraz Mataro), the Villain (Cabernet Sauvignon) and the Mongrel (Sangiovese); The Ratbag (Merlot), the Moocher (Mourvèdre) and the Rascal (Shiraz); the Larrikan (Shiraz Cabernet), and the Disrupter (Grenache). Oh, and don’t forget the Ruffian (Liqueur Muscat). Behind every name, the Hamiltons provide a great story. To hear those tales in all their glory, you will need to visit the cellar door…

In the meantime, we are treated to a sparkling duet from our hosts, Hugh and Mary (the father and daughter team at HH, and the 5th and 6th generation of winemakers in the Hamilton family), who bounce their polished and cheery introduction back and forth to the great delight and contagoius merriment of their audience. (The duo would continue to engage warmly with their guests throughout the meal, both publically and privately, making everyone feel part of a large extended family).

We begin our meal with an entrée of roasted chicken breast served cold with a tarragon aioli and a sweetcorn salsa. It is a tasty dish, but it is outgunned by the Aroma Pagoda, a 2024 blend of Fiano, Frontignac, Gewürztraminer and Vermentino from the Dark Arts series, for which Mary has designed some fascinating labels. This wine goes well with spicy food – Asian or Mexican (hence the salsa). The HH tasting notes describe Aroma Pagoda thus: A Pagoda is a multi-tiered tower, often with a high degree of ornamentation. Our Aroma Pagoda is much the same – layers of exotic aromatics, structured yet elegant, a temple to flavour.

Regarding the four wines blended here, I did some homework and came up with some interesting facts. Fiano originated in southern Italy. Traditionally grown in volcanic soil, it is particularly popular in Sicily. While we don’t have the volcanic soils, we do have the right climate, as McLaren Vale winemakers realized some time ago, when they began introducing Italian varietals to replace the more Germanic styles we had imported in the early years of settlement.

Frontignac is one of the oldest wine varieties, popular with the Romans apparently. Frontignan is the European name for this floral grape variety which produces intensely perfumed wines, similar to Traminer. Gewurztraminer is a cool climate aromatic grape that can add a fascinating touch of spice to a white wine blend. Originating in Alsace, it was popular in South Australia in the 1980s, but generally does better in cooler climates, such as New Zealand’s south island. However, there are still a few vines thriving in South Australia. And Vermentino is a varietal we first discovered in Sardinia a couple of years ago. We absolutely loved it – although the Sardinians were a mite put out when we explained that Australians had sourced this traditional mediterranean grape and brought it to McLaren Vale, where wine makers were producing an Aussie version. Cultural appropriation? Probably – but worth it.

At the same time as the layered Aroma Pagoda appears, waiters wae also pouring my favourite Cinderella Chardonnay. This is the moment I know it had been worth the trip to the Big Smoke. Using grapes from the Mount Lofty Ranges, this elegant Chardonnay is only lightly touched by French oak and bears little resemblance to those buttery Chardonnays of the 1980s. And I am delighted to be offered a top up as we anticipated the arrival of the next course.

To showcase the winery’s iconic ‘Pure Black’ – a fabulous blend of Shiraz and Saperavi – it has been paired with a wafer thin slice of wagyu bresaola topped with a smattering of quandong chutney, a tasty morsel of Italy and Australia presented on a crispy parmesan cracker. This amazing wine is rarely seen at wine tastings – which is hardly surprising given its $220 price tag! Destined to be the star attraction on the HH wine list, Pure Black is crafted with incredible care. From 400 barrels of the winery’s best Shiraz, only six of the finest barrels are chosen. Few of us had tasted it before, and all were volubly enthusiastic. And to ensure the joy lasts even longer, Pure Black is now available in a Magnum and a Jeraboam… for a really big party!

Our main course is accompanied by a relative newcomer to the Flock: a 2024 Grenache, nicknamed ‘The Disrupter’. The winemaker’s note explains how the vines are cuttings from the original Hamilton Ewell Vineyard — in what is now the heart of suburban Marion. Migrating south to McLaren Vale, these cuttings have thrived, and have produced a ‘beguilingly opulent’ wine. It is an interesting drop, but sadly it gets lost in the battle of flavours between the celebrated Saperavi ‘Oddball the Great’ and the delectable kangaroo fillet served with a spiced fig chutney.

As the name of this wine suggests, Saperavi is an odd and very unusual grape variety. Dating back 8,000 years, Saperavi is one of the oldest cultivated wine grapes in the world. A native of Georgia, it dwells happily between the Caucaus Mountains and the Black Sea, thriving in the colder climate and higher elevations – and yet it has made itself quite at home on the plains of McLaren Vale, between the sea and the less-than-mountainous hills of the Mount Lofty Ranges. Its name comes from the Georgian word for ‘dye’ which describes these inky black grapes perfectly. Referring again to the winemaker’s notes, I read that ‘the wines are often so intense that we have come to describe this variety as Shiraz raised entirely on a diet of lightning.’

To complete the meal, we are entrusted with a platter of cheeses and dried fruit to share around the table. The tasty Australian cheddar and the delicious Australian blue were accompanied by a mystery wine; a rich, delicious dessert wine that has found another use for the exotic Saperavi. ‘Blackout’ is a 2022 fortified Saperavi that has been matured in Kentucky Bourbon barrels in a Vintage Port Style. The winemaker’s notes on the HH website are positively poetic and I couldn’t hope to describe it any better myself:

Blueberries, figs, burnt caramel. Spices vie with muscatels, butterscotch, and freshly roasted coffee beans. Intense, dense, full; it’s as close as imaginable to drinking a chocolate mudcake.

And on that note, it is time to call a taxi, having celebrated in style the end of a very busy semester…

*Thanks to Mary Hamilton for allowing me to reproduce these photos from the Hugh Hamilton website. As you may have guessed, I was far too busy eating and drinking and making new friends to remember to pick up my phone and take a single photograph.

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Roadkill

Posted on 20 June 2025 by sheg4184

Such small, sweet, chocolate brown corpses,
crumpled and bloody by the side of the road.
So maligned by the residents
who snarl about invasive species and say
‘they do enormous damage to native wildlife…’

On this remote archipelago of ground dwelling birds,
where the immigrant carnivore is king:
rats and cats, ferrets, stoats… and possums who
devour the eggs and fledglings of native birds,
spread disease, and damage crops.

So what about the damage we do?
Converting all that wilderness to farmland
for the sheep and cows we will devour?
Demolishing forests and natural habitat
to grow grapevines for more wine?

Easier to blame those desiccated carcasses
along the verge.
At least some will be recycled:
soft possum fur knitted with merino to make woollens
for another an invading species.

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The Oddity of Old Words

Posted on 3 June 2025 by sheg4184

I am meant to be working on a conference paper entitled ‘Conversing with the Past’. But I got distracted by one of those odd Facebook postings: a definition of an unusual and old-fashioned word. “Balter.”

It is, apparently, pronounced BOLL-tuh. Have you heard of it before? I hadn’t either. Apparently, it comes from a Middle English word that originated in Northern Germany. It is also related to the Danish baltre, or boltre which means to roll, tumble, gambol, romp. Balter is defined by Merriam-Webster as an archaic verb meaning to dance or tread clumsily, while the Facebook definition says:  to dance gracelessly, without particular skill or grace, but perhaps with some enjoyment. Well, that was me in the 1980s. The type of unco-ordinated but enthusiastic dancing destined to embarrass the pants off our teenagers thirty years later…

As a small girl, like every other little girl who has ever clapped eyes on a tutu, I always fancied myself as a ballerina. A year of ballet lessons put paid to that dream, as even I had to acknowledge I hadn’t the discipline or co-ordination to make it to Sadlers Wells. Country dancing in Primary School was fun, but not so popular after the age of ten when ‘coolness’ became more important than joy.  And while I loved Scottish dancing, the long ribbons were a pain to wind up my calves and tie firmly – and lethal when they inevitably came undone in the middle of a reel.

Like all of us entering adolescence in the late 70s, and early 80s, pop music was our staple diet. Lots of synthesizers, electric guitars and a steady drum beat. At eleven, my friends and I would crank up the record player in the living room and dance about to ABBA, Boney M and ‘I Will Survive’ for hours – in clogs, too, the prescribed shoe of the time, bizarrely considerd cool in my circle of friends.

By the time we were old enough to hit the discos, we’d developed our own individual styles of ‘balter’, unencumbered by any knowledge of those slick, professional moves we now see on every music video since Michael Jackson released his Thriller album.  Despite our lack of sophistication, these were happy times full of happy music that lifted the heart and the feet.

While co-ordination may have been an issue with some of us, no one could have doubted our gleeful enthusiasm. Perhaps I did look like a whirligig on spin cycle, but I had the time of my life – and plenty of exercise – leaping around the dance floor to all those catchy dance tunes. Disco music, it turns out, can provide a bigger dose of dopamine and a more natural high than any drug on the market. I miss that!

My teen years arrived, to the tunes of waltzes and polkas, as we undertook ballroom dancing classes in the school hall. Our partners were either pre-pubescent and shorter than most of us, or man-sized and yet to be introduced to deodorant. And of course we were all dressed in drab, unflattering school uniforms, so I don’t think any of us felt like Cinderella swanning off to the Ball.

Then, we discovered the Discothèque, the home of pop music, flashing lights and the glorious, glittering disco ball, madcap dancing and extravagant outfits. For the younger dance enthusiasts, those too young to get through the door of the adult nightclubs, there was the junior version: the Blue Light Disco. These police-supervised dances, free of drugs and alcohol, originated in Australia in the 1980s and were popular for young teens well into the 90s and early 2000s, before mobile phones became the new social platform.

And what about our inspiration? Those wonderful dance movies of the 1980s and 90s? Grease, Saturday Night Fever, Dirty Dancing, Fame, and Footloose, all iconic, all inspirational. We knew all the words to all the songs, even those on the B-side. I admit, some of the plots may have been a little thin, but the music got into our blood. Then Flashdance arrived, which provided my first experience of hearing my own name on the big screen. We had nothing else in common, Alex Owens and I, apart from a penchant for legwarmers, but then we weren’t the only ones keen on those fabulous fashion accessories back then, heaven help us. Yet I was certain they gave me the Midas touch as I leapt and dived down the hallway, as agile as any show-off goalie, determined to imitate the extravagant moves of Jennifer Beales. Surprisingly, no agents came knocking at our front door, to add me to their list of potential talent…

But I’m procrastinating again. Time to stop dipping into my childhood, conversing with the past and get back to that conference paper. Oh by the way, before I go, balter can also mean ‘tousled or matted hair’, which is doubtless what we all sported after a sweaty evening on the dance floor!

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Heading South

Posted on 16 April 2025 by sheg4184

The South Island of New Zealand contains some of the most spectacular scenery this amazing country has to offer – and certainly the most variety. The snow-capped Southern Alps run the full length of the island, dividing it in two and creating a photographer’s fantasy world of mountains, lakes and rivers, glaciers and fiords. Apart from the bat, New Zealand is home to only introduced mammals such as the stoats and weasels, possums, wallabies and deer, none of which are particularly welcome. However, we did spot a few native birds (although their numbers are being decimated by the aforementioned feral predators) most notably, the spectacular karearea or falcon.

Back to geography. On the east coast, the climate is relatively dry and temperate, and generally cooler than the North Island. The interior, abutting the Southern Alps, is dry & rugged. In fact, it’s the driest region in New Zealand, despite large networks of braided rivers. These shallow, broad waterways are made up of multiple channels that diverge and reunite across a gravelly riverbed, and are inclined to shape-shift during flooding. They are also popular with fly fishermen in search of sea trout and salmon. Remember the ABC travel and fly-fishing series ‘A River Somewhere’ with Rob Sitch & Tom Gleisner?  In the late 1990s, they introduced us to a wonderful selection of rivers all over the world, including the d’Urville and the Tongariro in New Zealand.

Over thousands of years, some of these braided rivers – such as the Rakaia, Rangitata and Waitaki – have created the fertile Canterbury Plains, as they drag debris from the Southern Alps. Farming has converted the Canterbury Plains into a pretty patchwork of fields and woodland. Just south of the tidy and elegant city of Christchurch, now almost recovered from the effects of four major earthquakes and more than 11,200 aftershocks from September 2010 to the end of 2011.

On the left hand side of the island, the thin strip of rugged and rocky coastline between the Tasman Sea and the Alps, has the highest amount of rainfall in New Zealand. Incessant rain and low-lying cloud may have created hectares of wondrous waterfalls and rainforests, but sadly, they also blocked our view of the two glaciers, Franz Josef and Fox, in much the same way they had immersed the Milford Sound in thick fog when the One & Only drove up in search of wondrous scenery he had been anticipating with great excitement. Weather can be very disappointing.

In this neck of the woods, three huge national parks – Fiordland, Mount Aspiring and The Aoraki/Mount Cook – contain the highest peaks in New Zealand, that rise to 3,000 mtetres high, and have become the country’s most popular centres for hikers, mountaineers, rock climbers, and photographers. And, as a focal point for tourists to stay, Queenstown sits comfortably amid these glorious mountains. It is a beautiful city and the adventure capital of New Zealand, with its opportunities for bungy jumping, sky diving and paragliding, remote cross-country skiing, white water rafting, jet boating and long distance mountain-bike tracks. (Although I must admit that the biggest adventure I had was falling down the stairs in our Queenstown accommodation, which luckily caused no greater damage than an impressive purple bruise from knee to ankle.) For the less intrepid, there are boat trips along the gorgeous Lake Wakatipu, scenic flights up to Milford Sound and beautiful drives up into the mountains or down the Kawarau Gorge into Central Otago’s wine country.

As usual, despite a flurry of guide books, we have largely stayed off the beaten track and ignored many of the travel writers’ hot tips. It has, nonetheless, been a wonderful trip. We met up with cousins in Christchurch and reconnected with a much missed friend who has been living a stone’s throw from Dunedin, since we all lived in the Philippines.  The One & Only was keen to look for lighthouses, so after a couple of days of R&R in Outram, we headed south for the Catlins.

The Catlins is a roughly triangular area of some 730 square miles in the south eastern corner of the south island. Sparsely populated, its rugged coastline is populated by caves and blowholes, fur seals and shipwrecks, long sandy beaches, and clifftop shrubbery blown almost horizontal by the wind. Two lighthouses guard the coast at Nugget Point and Waipapa, so you may guess where we headed first.

The first Europeans to arrive in the Catlins were the whalers and sealers in the early 19th   century. By the middle of the century, this densely timbered region had also become popular with loggers. The land they cleared to feed the timber mills could then be used for sheep and dairy farming.

We struck a beautiful day for driving through the region, with only the occasional brief shower to dampen our enthusiasm. Calm and sunny, the day belied its more dramatic days of wind and wild weather that blows off the sub-Antarctic ocean. We took a stroll along an almost empty beach at Kaka Point, then trudged a few hundred metres along the narrow cliff path to Nugget Point, past a colony of fur seals way below us, to nod to the lighthouse perched high above the sea-battered rocks below.  Waipapa, in contrast, sits on a low-lying promontory, Nearby, a sole fur seal had pulled itself up the sand dunes to lie among the long grasses, where the One & Only nearly tripped over him.

From the Catlins we drove on through farmland riddled with sheep, which seemed to be filling the paddocks in plague proportions compared with our dusty, dry paddocks at home, where flocks are a fraction of the number size, forced to survive on a scant diet of grass and salt bush that usually needs to be supplemented in winter. Here, the pasture is so lush, all year round, that it is hardly surprising that New Zealand lamb is exported in bulk to British supermarkets.

While our sheep must deal with the oppressive, dry heat of South Australia, the cattle and sheep down here in southern Otago face extremes of heat and cold, not to mention the fierce winds blowing in from Antarctica. Having stripped the countryside of its native forests, it has been necessary to build shelter belts – rows of tall, densely planted trees to form windbreaks, to protect animals and orchards from sun, snow and the prevailing winds. Poplars and pines are often used for their height, while these trees may be interspersed with a low-growing species, to thicken the shelter. These strange (to us) long, tall walls of foliage are apparently best if they are at least twice as long as they are high.

We spent the night in Invercargill, then made our way to Lake Manapõuri, where I had a date with my pen and a book shop.

The town of Manapõuri is, to use the local parlance, a wee thing, clinging to the edge of a glorious, glacial lake, and looking over the water to some very dramatic mountains – when there is neither fog nor rain to impede the view. It proved to be a most peaceful and serene corner of the world, with a population of only about 250 inhabitants. Here I was able to spend a couple of quiet, unhurried days writing, while the One & Only attempted to explore Milford Sound.

I also found time to drop into ‘Two Wee Bookshops’ on the corner of Hillside Road and Home Street. And ‘wee’ is the perfect word to describe both the bookshops and their diminutive owner, Ruth Shaw. Ruth published her memoirs ‘The Bookseller at the End of the World,’ in 2022, in which she intersperses memories of her adventurous and often heart-rending life with tales from her tiny second-hand bookshops. We had been reading this fascinating book as we drove south from Auckland (I read aloud, while the One & Only navigates the winding roads), and I was thrilled to realize that the bookshop is still in existence, and has actually expanded from two wee bookshops to three, with the addition of a small garden shed – the Snug – set up for the men, as well as a table of assorted titles under a canvas canopy. In fact, despite the nomenclature, I watched as customers wandered happily from one space to the next, regardless of age or gender!

The first ‘shop’ looks like a gypsy caravan, and is painted as brightly as Kizzy’s own, if you are old enough to remember Rumer Godden’s beautiful book ‘The Diddakoi’. Ruth has filled this one with books from New Zealand authors, both fact and fiction. Across the lawn, the children’s bookshop, complete with a child-sized door – I set off the bell when I forgot to duck at the entrance – was filled with an assortment of books for children and young teens, as well as a soft toy library, to which Ruth devotes several sweet tales in her book.

I arrived on the doorstep on a damp and mizzly morning, eager to meet this quirky author, bookshop owner and sailor, yet feeling a certain apprehension. She knew me not at all, but I had read aloud intimate details of her life. I felt oddly like a voyeur. At least, until we had exchanged a few minutes conversation and found so many common interests that I farewelled her as an old friend and soulmate, and she reciprocated with a huge and affectionate hug. I also took away a book by a New Zealand light house keeper for the One & Only and a promise that Ruth will be in touch when she comes to Australia. And she signed my book – or rather, wrote me a short essay on the title page!

A final note, before I leave you to plan our next trip to New Zealand: don’t forget that like Australia, NZ is in the southern hemisphere, so if you are visiting from the north, don’t forget to reverse the seasons. Summer coincides with Christmas and July is the coldest month of the year. Oh, and did I mention the glow worms…?

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Pinot Noir: Otago’s New Gold Rush

Posted on 6 April 2025 by sheg4184

For two weeks we have been rambling through New Zealand’s south island, zigzagging from Christchurch to Queenstown, back to Dunedin and down through the Catlins to Invercargill, west to Lake Manapouri and Milford Sound, north to Cromwell and over to the west coast glaciers via Wanaka and the Haast Pass. With glee and boundless enthusiasm, we have discovered a abundance of orchards and vineyards, wonderful friends and picturesue towns, fur seals and flightless birds, and some truly ‘majestical’ scenery. At each place we stopped, we decided this was where we would live… and this… and this.

One unexpectedly successful stop was Cromwell, situated at the confluence of the two rivers, which has made it a hub, or rather a crossroads for the region. I realized this before reading it in the guide book after by-passing the town several times, en route to Queenstown from Christchurch, from Queenstown to Dunedin via Alexandra and Roxburgh, and from Arrowtown to Wanaka and the West Coast.

Cromwell was originally established during the gold rush of the 1860s. Later, as the gold ran dry, the area became known for its orchards and market gardens – which are still numerous – and later again as part of the Central Otago wine region. Today, the area is overflowing with luscious fruits and boutique wineries that thrive in the warm, dry climate. Across Bannockburn and the Cromwell Basin and along Lowburn Valley on the western banks of Lake Dunstan – which has proved a particularly successful locale for growing Pinot Noir grapes – we admire acres and acres of orchards and vineyards.

And Cromwell’s river banks are also the home of the only surviving population of Chafer Beetles in the world, which has led to the naming of a local wine: Beetlejuice Pinot Noir! But more of that later.

For a hundred and twenty years, Cromwell grew incrementally, but since the construction of the Clyde Dam in the 1980s – NZs second largest hydro-electric dam built downstream of the confluence of the rivers Clutha/Mata-Au and the Kawarau – and the subsequent creation of Lake Dunstan to the north, Cromwell has grown exponentially. This vast engineering project meant relocating the town centre and many of the town’s original buildings, so they would not be flooded by the new lake that would submerge 200 hectares of town and farmland. The Historical Precinct has preserved some of those historic buildings as museums, artisan businesses, cafes and restaurants.

Meanwhile, we have pitched camp at a lovely B&B on an established cherry orchard ten minutes south of Cromwell. Our welcome note invites us to wander at will and enjoy some of the produce grown in the greenhouses behind our studio room. Joyfully, we help ourselves to some tasty tomatoes, and fresh lettuce and herbs as needed. The One & Only is blissful – have I ever mentioned how much he adores tomatoes? Sometimes more than me! Also, our breakfast eggs have been laid by the chooks we can see from the back door, where Coco, a small, black and very polite young dog, quickly becomes a constant visitor.

We decided to use this lovely spot as a base for three nights while we explore the area and visit a winery or two, and there are plenty to choose from. En route to Arrowtown, a picturesque old mining town on the Arrow River, just north of Queenstown, we spot a familiar name. Chard Farm wines somehow found their way to Manila many moons ago, and I am inclined to revisit them in situ. We book a tasting for the following day, and in the meantime, I will track down one or two others…

Driving up the Kawarau Gorge we remark on the oddity of finding a Scottish Highland landscape in New Zealand, mixed with escarpment vineyards that remind us of the vineyards on the steep slopes of the Moselle, along the border of Luxembourg and Germany. The narrow track to Chard Farm, we later discover, was the original track between Cromwell and Queenstown, with a precipitous drop to the river below. From one look out point, we can see the original commercial Bungy jump off the Karawau bridge, where the kids are still bravely launching themselves towards the glacial blue waters 43 metres below. The grapes are almost ready to pick, but in the meantime, thy have been veiled in netting to prevent the birds from stealing the crop. The Chard family originally used this land as market gardens for feeding the miners panning for gold in the gorge below. It was converted to vineyards by vintner Rob Hay in 1987, and has grown into a substantial family-owned winery with six vineyards in the Cromwell basin and Gibbston region, specializing in Pinot Noir.

We reach the enormous wooden cellar door – the building resembles a Tuscan farmhouse – and introduce ourselves to Dominic, a softly-spoken wine lover who provides some beautiful and poetic descriptions, that make me wish I had recorded his spiel. We are not surprised to learn he is also a musician.

This region is ideal for Pinot Noir, we are told. This tiny and rather finicky dark red grape has a long list of prerequisites, like women searching for the perfect partner. If all its requirements are met, however, Pinot Noir will generously produce complex and elegant wines. Originally from Burgundy, the Pinot Noir grape has found another happy home in Otago, which apparently provides all the necessary conditions to satisfy this fastidious fruit, such as well-drained soils, long days of sunshine and cold, crisp nights.

Growing up on the full-bodied, ballsy reds and heavily wooded Chardonnays of South Australia in the 1980s, I have yet to develop an appreciation for the more subtle, flirtatious arts of Pinot Noir. In Otago, however, I have been re-educating my palate to good effect.

We begin with a Pinot Noir rosé, as Dominic describes the ‘layers’ of this ‘breakfast wine’. (Well, it is barely 11am.)  This Maria Rosé 2023 is a dry, Provençal style rosé, left only briefly on the skins to give it a mere blush of colour. The flavour? Fresh berries with hints of lemon sorbet. 

As he pours us a 2023 Swiftburn Sauvignon Blanc, Dominic talks of tropical aromas such as lychees and passionfruit, and similar clean, crisp flavours with a burst of gooseberry. To my delight, there is definitely a lighter touch of herbage (which I think of as lawn cuttings), than an Australian Sauvignon Blanc offers.

Finla Mor Pinot Noir 2022 is hand-picked pinot at its best, and I am not the only one to notice, it seems! Complex, provocative aromas and flavours include plums and black cherries, with a certain peaty smokiness due to having spent some time in new oak. Dominic calls it grumpy: it’s an earthy wine with attitude, and a savoury twist of black pepper. He describes it as an autumnal wine, one to be drunk in a large leather armchair. We try other Pinot Noirs, but this remains my favourite.

When we reach the end of the official tasting, I plead to try the Chardonnay before we go. Chard Farm produces two Chardonnays: the 2023 Closeburn, fermented in a steel tank, and its companion, Judge & Jury. This has been named for two rocky peaks across the river, and has been lightly aged in Acacia wood barrels. No prizes for guessing my favourite!

Driving back down to Cromwell, we spot a new housing estate going up on the edge of town. To one side stands a huge and ancient spruce, known to locals as the Wooing Tree. It was almost cut down to make way for a new vineyard in the 1980s, but the owners gave it a stay of execution, and instead gave its name to that vineyard. Recently, most of the original vines have been transplanted down to the western edge of Lake Dunstan, but happily, the developers have allowed this piece of the town’s history to remain intact, and the Wooing Tree Winery has built a new cellar door and restaurant on the edge of town, beside a couple of remaining rows of Pinot Noir vines, and a view of the celebrated tree.

Here, we stop for a wine tasting and a lunch of sharing platters. The One & Only takes the red route, which meant a diet of pure Pinot, including the aforementioned Beetlejuice. I, on the other hand, get a mixed bag: a dry ‘Blondie’ blanc et noir bubbles to start (blanc et noir is a French term for a sparkling wine made from red pinot and white Chardonnay grapes); a lightly wooded 2019 Chardonnay; a surprisingly smooth 2024 Pinot Gris, a tasty Gewürztraminer and a late harvest of the same. I haven’t tasted a Gewürz wine in decades, and those South Australian versions I favoured in my youth now seem overly sweet and spicy. The Wooing Tree Gewürtz has only the mildest dash of sweetness. Even the late harvest dessert wine has laid on the sugar with a gentle hand, and, in my more savoury maturity, I find both eminently drinkable, and the perfect end to our Wooing Tree experience.

And all this to accompany a delicious lunch of salmon rillettes and toast, flavourful lamb koftas with olives and Greek salad, and a large bowl of kumara chips.

As we head homewards, we give a wave to the giant fibreglass fruit sculpture on the edge of town – a nod to Cromwell’s original orchards of apple, nectarine, pear and apricot. It may be missing the latest horticultural additions, such as a bunch of grapes, but then there are plenty of the real ones along the verge opposite, in front of Wooing Tree’s new cellar door.

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