Cooking in Morocco

Posted on 13 April 2023 by sheg4184

Have you ever tried cooking Moroccan food? Perhaps you have that beautiful cookbook by Claudia Roden, Arabesque: Sumptuous Food from Morocco that I am just about to add to my cookbook collection? In the meantime, I do have an interesting alternative that covers all the Mediterranean countries, and from which I have made the odd tagine. But I knew little about the specific history and habits of Moroccan cuisine until I came across the Moroccan Culinary Arts Museum in Marrakech, next door to the Bahia Palace. Once the palace of a Grand Vizier, this museum not only gives a terrific lesson in the whys and wherefores of Moroccan cuisine but also offers cooking classes in its very professional, purpose built training kitchen. I took them up on that kind offer – but more of that later.

In brief, Moroccan cooking has been influenced by many different cultures over the centuries: Berber, Jewish, Sub Saharan, and Arab cuisines, with a soupçon of French and a pizca of Spanish. Although situated in the northwest corner of Africa, Morocco has more in common with Middle Eastern cuisine than with the rest of Africa, thanks to the Arabic and Muslim influences here.

As an Islamic country, the Moroccans have a no-alcohol, no-pork policy, particularly during Ramadan. But they drink gallons of mint tea in tiny glasses with both fresh and dried mint leaves and plenty of sugar. And while they don’t eat pork, they eat all sorts of other meat, fish and fowl. As well as the more familiar beef, lamb and chicken, we have passed stalls selling goat, pigeon and camel. (Did you know that some believe melted fat from a camel’s hump apparently works like Viagra if rubbed on the penis?) I have eaten goat, but have yet to taste camel. And last night, the pigeon pastilla (like a filo pastry pasty) served at our hotel was absolutely delicious. It is a sweet and savoury pastry full of spices and sprinkled with cinnamon and icing sugar. It was an unusual and surprising combination, but wonderfully tasty, although I first had to smother the One & Only’s cry of ‘flying rodents!’

Bread is an essential part of every meal and comes in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. (Oddly, we have eaten the best baguettes we have ever tasted, from a street stall in Fez. With an extra crunchy crust and the softest centre, it barely needed the local fresh cheese – Jben – to make a satisfying snack.) Khobz is the ubiquitous bread roll made from durum wheat semolina and served with anything and everything. A tafarnout is a traditional clay oven which gives its name to a pock-marked, slow-cooked flat Berber bread, best served with goats cheese and honey, but also great with a tagine. The beghrir looks like a large, thin crumpet and, like a crumpet, is best served hot soaked in butter and honey. Apparently, it’s a Ramadan specialty, so they have been piled high in the markets this week. Then there is medfouna, or Berber pizza, a flat round bread stuffed with onions and meat, and cooked in a special traditional clay and rocks oven. But my favourite is the msemen, a crepe folded several times and cooked on a cast iron plate, like an Indian paratha. I have joyfully eaten one for breakfast every day, slathered in honey or marmalade. And the savoury version, stuffed with spices, onion and parsley, has been a cheap and delicious snack for lunch.

Dinner typically begins with soup or chorba. Harira is one of the most popular: a heavy, winter soup based on chickpeas and lentils, and dosed with a thousand spices. Well, maybe not a thousand, but a lot. It is real comfort food, and popular during Ramadan for breaking the day’s fast at sunset. Fingers crossed, I will uncover the recipe while we are here.

Salads are unlike those we are used to, without a sign of a lettuce leaf, a raw tomato or a slice of avocado. Instead, there is a penchant for pickled vegetables such as carrots and cauliflower, and a couple of cooked vegetable ‘salads’ perfect for spreading on bread. Tektouka is like an Italian pepperonata, composed of red and green peppers and tomatoes, seasoned with paprika and cumin. Zaâlouk is a blend of eggplant and tomato, and often a touch of red pepper. Both of these make terrific accompaniments to meat dishes.

Following the information trail through the culinary museum, we came to the Spice Room, where a plethora of spices were displayed in sacks, along with a number of herbs used medicinally or in tea, such as pennyroyal, pomegranate flowers and verbena. Apparently, at least a dozen spices are combined to create the Moroccan ras el hanout. This exotic spice blend is popular across north Africa. It’s ingredients will vary, according to the region, the spice seller’s selection, or the family recipe. One traditional Moroccan version claims to contain some twenty seven different spices. Ras el hanout is used in many savoury dishes, rubbed on meat or fish, or stirred into couscous, pasta or rice.

Moroccans also love using dried fruit in their cooking, such as prunes, apricots, figs and sultanas, while dates are a favourite snack. And of course, preserved lemon is a big favourite. The recipe for preserved lemon has been around since the 13th century. It effectively sharpens the spices and offsets the richness of Moroccan tagines. I discovered preserved lemons more than a decade ago, and even started making my own, to the point when the One & Only eventually cried ‘Enough!’ and they had to be tucked away at the back of the pantry for a while. But I suspect they are about to make a comeback. And I have learned a few new ways to use them during cooking classes this week.

My first cooking class in Morocco was a formal affair at the Culinary Museum. We gathered in the shiny new teaching kitchen, where there is room for about twenty students. We were only five that day, and each of us had our own counter space with sink, gas burners and small pots of spices. Our teacher demonstrated what to do from her own kitchen at the front of the room. With no recipes provided, we were expected to remember each ingredient and every step. I took surreptitious notes on my phone. As someone had forgotten to tell me that the class would be conducted in French, I also had to get a little help from the mute sous-chef, or demand an often extraordinary translation from my neighbour with a smattering of English. So, I was quite proud of being able to follow most of the instructions and end up with something edible. Step by step, we each created our own lunch: a green pepper, garlic and preserved lemon ‘salad’ that tasted like a sharp Indian chutney; a chicken and vegetable couscous dish, and a plate of orange slices sprinkled in cinnamon. Fruit regularly appears at the end of a meal but desserts, as we know them, are few and far between.

The second class was a more casual event, conducted in the ‘Clock Kitchen’ at Café Clock, down an easily overlooked and very narrow lane at the top end of the Fez medina. And this time, thank goodness, the class was conducted in English! Here, we worked together as a team, sharing out the tasks between us – peeling, chopping, marinading, stirring, chatting – around a large, marble topped table. Souad, our madcap instructor, asked us to select three courses from the café’s menu. After much discussion, we chose harira soup, vegetable couscous with marinated lamb, and m’hanncha, an almond pastry. Then we followed Souad into the market to buy the ingredients, engaging in many a lively discussion with her favourite stall holders.

As soon as we got back to the kitchen, the eggplants were placed directly over a gas flame and left there, turning them occasionally, until the skins were charred, and the insides had become soft. Meanwhile, we whipped up a marinade for the lamb and peeled the vegetables to go with the couscous. Souad had chosen a seasonal array of vegetables: the usual carrot, turnip and zucchini; then fava beans and snap peas. Some made it into the dish, many got mislaid en route! Then we made up bowls of herbs and spices for the harira soup and the couscous.

Unlike the soak-in-boiling-water variety of couscous I use at home, this couscous was tossed in olive oil and salt, then steamed for twenty minutes. In Marrakech, we kept it steaming while we prepared the rest of the meal, occasionally emptying it into a dish to toss and aerate it, adding additional water and oil, before spooning it back into the steamer.

The m’hanncha (serpent cake) was made from almond paste flavoured with orange water and cinnamon and rolled in fresh filo pastry. I was given the marzipan to knead, blending in the orange blossom water and cinnamon. Then we all rolled out a lump of marzipan into a snake, before rolling it up like a carpet in a sheet of filo pastry. It was then twisted into a scroll and baked in the oven for about 40 minutes until golden. Unlike baklava, another nut and filo pastry treat, the m’hanncha was not terribly sweet or particularly moist. I would add a scoop of ice cream or a spoon of clotted cream, but dairy has a limited presence in Moroccan cuisine.

Two very different mornings spent in the kitchen, followed by two delicious and enormous lunches. Both required a post-prandial siesta. Did it stop us eating dinner? Actually no, but that was only partially due to gluttony and mostly due to the fact that our chef at Dar El Galia was so brilliant, we were on a mission to work through her fabulous menu before we left. And I think we succeeded… almost!

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Watch Out for Donkeys!

Posted on 6 April 2023 by sheg4184

Fez. A scrabble score of forty five on a triple word score. A city in Morocco. Or a red cap with a black tassel worn in Turkey, named for the crimson dye that is made in the city of Fez. Or Fès.

Fez. Known as the spiritual capital of Morocco, where you get three cities in one: the ancient medina on the river, founded in the 8th century; the royal administrative district of Fes Jdid, where you will find the Royal Palace (Dar al-Makhzen) and the Mellah (Jewish quarter); and the urban Nouvelle Ville, built during the French colonial era in the early 20th century, with its wide boulevards lined with Plane trees. This northern Moroccan city has a very different feel from Marrakech, where the medina seems to have been set up solely with tourists in mind. Here is a living, breathing city continuing its daily routine regardless of the tourists, and not because of them.

We arrive by train in La Ville Nouvelle, but we are staying – as do most visitors – in the medina. Our home for the week, Dar El Ghalia, is an 18th century riad, a traditional Moroccan house or palace with its enclosed courtyard, built within the old city walls for wealthy merchants and traders. Nowadays, many such homes have been converted into guest houses. Ours also has a terrific, but understated restaurant.
Facing inwards to a central courtyard that is generally open to the sky, the thick, windowless outer walls provide privacy, and keep out both the weather and street noise. High ceilings dispel the heat and fountains cool the air. Dar El Ghalia is decorated with the ubiquitous coloured tiles (zellij), stucco (carved fretwork of Arabic script providing quotes from the Koran) and painted wooden doors and shutters. In the centre of the courtyard is a large, star-shaped pond, decorated with blue and white tiles, with a fountain in the middle. Unlike many we have seen, this riad has a covered roof, so the courtyard has become a vast living space, the tiled floor scattered with Berber rugs, sofas, tiled dining tables, inlaid chests, and potted plants.

The bedrooms are located on the second floor overlooking the courtyard, with twenty foot ceilings and stained glass windows facing inwards. On the top floor, a large rooftop terrace provides panoramic views over the medina, and a cool breeze at sunset. It’s just a shame about the lack of Chardonnay!

The architectural origin of the riad is Ancient Greece, the garden design, Iran or the Middle East. Such a blend of two or more cultures is common in Morocco. And on the Iberian Peninsula too, where, for almost 800 years (from the 8th – 15th century ) Moorish sultans ruled, and their craftsmen introduced many of their building and interior design skills to Spain.

(FYI: the term ‘Moor’ – remember Othello? – was originally used to describe Berbers from the Ancient Roman province of Mauretania in North Africa. Later, it was applied more generally to Muslims living in Europe, particularly on the Iberian Peninsula).

The riad is the perfect design for a dry, hot country, and I can’t help feeling we should have adopted this design in many parts of Australia. Can I persuade the One and Only to replace our sloping roof with a flat roof garden? Or furnish the courtyard with coloured tiles and fountains?

In the meantime, we set out early with our tour guide Muhammad, to see what we can see. (N.B.: it’s actually 10am, but this is still early in Morocco. Most shops haven’t opened yet, and the myriad traders are barely there.) Yesterday, a similar exploration on our own got us severely entangled with numerous coach tours, forced to duck into quieter back streets to avoid the crowds, and inevitably lost among the maze of twisting lanes. There is a mad logic to these sinuous streets, hemmed in by the high walls of shop houses and riads, which insulate against the cold and shade from the sun, the curves dispelling any fierce winds. Also, there are no cars allowed – a brilliant notion after the mayhem of Marrakech – only people and donkeys. We soon spot the ‘kamikaze mules’ carrying gas cylinders on their backs, their hoofs encased in leather shoes so they don’t slip on the cobbles. ‘Beware the open flame, little donkey!’ And, if you have seen those snazzy stroller-wagons for carrying your kids and all their gear onto the beach, you can imagine the small trolleys used by traders bringing their goods into the market. Or perhaps they are chefs carrying their purchases back to their restaurant kitchen. Either way, we soon get pretty quick on our feet, listening out for the cry of ‘ahtaras!’ (“watch out!”), dodging and weaving through the jam-packed streets. Also, thanks to the ongoing renovations, we are also forced to dance out of the way of small three-wheeler trucks full of rubble or building materials.

Today, with Muhammad in charge, we go more willingly into the fray. Down into the rabbit warren of narrow alleys lined with market stalls, the owners are slowly setting up their wares: fruit and vegetables (it is the season for tomatoes and artichokes); baskets of orange blossom and a wide variety of olives from the orchards on the hillside outside the city walls; meat, fish, bread and Moroccan pastries. After gazing at a glass case full of sweet brioutes, fekkas and ghoribas, I am startled to turn around and find myself staring into the glazed eyes of three calves heads on a table, tongues lolling. On our return, these have been replaced by four black-haired goats heads. Beneath one fish stall, lies the head of a shark, while street cats are munching on the heads of small fish, thrown aside by the traders. One stall holder is butchering a side of meat that we are told is camel. Further on, we find ourselves in a marketplace full of caged pigeons (a local delicacy, and one we will try tonight) while chickens and turkeys are tied together in pairs, on the ground. You may buy them, dead or alive, for today’s Ramadan breakfast at sunset.

With some relief, we pass into lanes where shoemakers and knife grinders, dress makers, jewellers and metal workers are opening their doors and beginning their day. A whole lane is made over to those dying yarn, skeins hanging from high racks in rainbow colours. On a doorstep, a man arranges an assortment of herbs: rosemary, peppermint, spearmint and sage.

We pass many beautiful front doors, some intricately decorated, some plain and undistinguished, often heavily studded. We admire the detailed designs, the carved stone archways, the decorative brass door handles. Some doors are surprisingly short, while in others a smaller door is set into a larger one. For children or Hobbits perhaps? In fact, they are designed thus, so that visitors must enter with heads bowed, in an attitude of respect towards their hosts. Our guide explains that the larger door can be opened to allow a donkey and its rider to pass through – presumably with both heads bent!
We pass the two largest mosques in Fez (there are apparently 350 mosques in the medina alone), supposedly built by Fatima al-Fihriya and her sister, Meryem, in the 9th century. Al-Qarawiyyin and Al-Andalus are two of the oldest mosques in North Africa. These two women originally came from Tunisia. On inheriting a fortune from their merchant father, the sisters decided to invest their inheritance in building mosques to promote Islamic teaching. (Major mosques in the early Islamic era were typically used for both religion and teaching.)

Al Qarawiyyin, within the walls of the old medina, is the larger of the two, and will host some 2,500 people tomorrow, for the final day of Ramadan. Thought to be one of the oldest universities in the world, it was also one of the leading spiritual and educational centres of the Islamic Golden Age. (The 8th – 13th centuries.)

The Al-Andalus Mosque takes its name from the Andalusian refugees who fled Cordoba at the beginning of the 8th century and settled on the eastern bank of the river, Oued Fez. Five hundred years later, the mosque became a part of the Al-Qarawiyyin University. The clay roof tiles of the mosques all over Fez are glazed green, symbolizing paradise and peace. Blue, too, is a favourite colour, walls and doors painted in turquoise to represent the sky, water and heaven.

Although, as Christians, we cannot enter the mosques, we are permitted to visit the building beside Al Qarawiyyin. The Al-Attarine Madrasa gets its name from the Souk al-Attarine, the surrounding spice and perfume market. This lavish madras or boarding house was built for poorer students who came from all over Morocco to study.

We climb steep stone steps to see the students’ sleeping quarters. Expecting to find large dormitories, instead, we discover a maze of thirty small rooms. Some are blessed with tiny windows at ground level, others are more like cupboards, but each room boasts its own letter box and pretty tiled floor.

Our guide whips us into a carpet shop, where we get hijacked by a lovely carpet salesman who is determined we will not leave empty-handed. We do, but I am sorely disappointed to leave behind two rather divine carpets. Our host, nonetheless, gives us a tour to the rooftop and a tray of Moroccan tea, along with a wonderful education in Berber rugs.

Fez is also famous for its leatherworks. And the tanneries here, in the centre of the medina, have been in operation for centuries. We clamber up and down staircases to a balcony overlooking an acre of round, stone vats, each filled with different coloured natural dyes. Mostly shades of brown, there are also green (made from mint), blue (indigo), yellow (saffron) and red (poppies). Although the tannery was recently renovated, I feel as if I have stepped back in time, as I watch men climb fully clothed into the vats to tread on the skins (goat, cow, lamb and camel) or drag them from the vats and wring them out by hand, before tossing them over walls to dry. Hard to believe that the satin-soft leather we can feel in the shop behind us has emerged from such rough treatment – or that it starts out smelling so bad that we are given a handful of mint to clutch to our noses as we watch. The tannery is apparently run as a cooperative, and many of the workmen’s relatives run the leather shops overlooking the tannery.

Fez was designated a UNESCO world heritage site back in the 1980s, and over the last decade, the push to revamp the crumbling medina has been going strong, as well as apparent attempts to clean up the river, which had become a dump for rubbish, not to mention the used dyes from the tannery.

Wandering on, the crowds thicken – local shoppers, tourists, school kids – and we pause to peer through the archway into the tomb of Idriss II. As non-Muslims, we cannot enter, but we manage a glimpse of the tomb from the doorway. We pass through the Place As Seffarine, where metal workers are polishing up copper pots, or beating out a much-practised tune on the bottom of a large cauldron. Our guide casually points out wooden windows ‘from the 12th century’, and opposite, the door to one of the country’s oldest public libraries, founded in the 14th century. The books and manuscripts within are so valuable that the heavy copper door has four locks, and four librarians are responsible for one key each.

And so we wind back up the hill to our safe haven in Dar El Ghalia, and a glass of Moroccan tea. Time out, before we have to consider what delicacies we would like for dinner…

Photos mostly from the One & Only, with thanks!

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Marrakech Madness

Posted on 2 April 2023 by sheg4184

We arrived in Morocco almost a week ago. Imagining a place of exotic difference, we have found, in fact, many similarities to other places we have lived or visited. Of course the culture of coloured tiles and arched windows has followed us across the Straits of Gibraltar from Portugal, and we remember – from living in Malaysia – the Imam call to prayers over loud speakers five or six times a day. (Well, we remembered when that first pre-dawn call woke us suddenly and abrasively the first morning here.) There is a pleasant sense of familiarity at being back in a Muslim country, although it is some years since we even passed through Dubai.

Landing in Marrakech, we were gathered up by a local driver and taken to our cosy hotel, with its shady courtyard gardens (riyadhs) and spacious roof terraces. (Why don’t we have roof terraces in Australia? It’s the perfect place to catch an evening breeze after a hot day.) ‘Hotel Gallia’ is a calming haven from the storm of tourists and traders beyond the end of the alley, only minutes from Jemaa el-Fnaa, the main town square.

There, in that vast public space, we dodge taxis and motorbikes, donkey carts and tired, bony horses pulling carriages laden with visitors keen for an authentic experience in this vibrant city. A myriad stalls sell fruit juices or nuts, t-shirts and sneakers, breakfast, lunch, dinner and pot plants. Ladies on low stools offer henna hand tattoos or corn-row plaits. Wandering musicians add to the clamour, as traders bombard you with offers of tours, sunglasses, places to eat, Berber belts, charmed snakes, or dancing monkeys. The One & Only, head and shoulders above the mob, can turn a blind eye from his greater height, and walk on, apparently oblivious. Not so easy for me, at eye level with every determined salesman. Yet I find them happy enough to engage if I smile, and most won’t pester if greeted with a firm ‘no thank you.’ Or rather ‘non, merci,’ as French is still the official language, until next year.

As the day heats up, the open plaza is soon scorchingly hot. So, we head for the shaded alleys of the Medina. In the coolth of the early morning, these alleys are blissfully empty of anything but the odd cat. But it’s not long before these narrow, twisting lanes are swarming with motorbikes and bicycles, traders and tourists and three-wheeled trucks, and even the odd donkey. Then, you need to be on high alert and on your toes, dodging and swerving, aware of danger from both in front and behind. I decide I need a rear-vision mirror attached to my hat. And I feel like the character in the Dr Seuss book about getting to Solla Sollew. Only “by aiming my eyeballs in different directions” can I ever hope to avoid trouble coming at me from every angle.

Needing a respite from the intense levels of noise, visual mayhem and dense humanity, we retreat to our Riyadh for a little peace and quiet. At a tiled table beneath a palm tree and an umbrella of bougainvillea, we watch the puppies scamper and frolic, while lithe young cats tease Steve the tortoise, baptised thus by the One & Only. Steve stubbornly refuses to engage and retreats into his shell, although I did once have to rescue him, struggling to right himself after one determined kitten had toppled him onto his side. Dangling helplessly, he was waving an arm at me as I passed, to let me know he’d appreciate it if I could set him right side up, and then tore off, with surprising speed, to a pile of limp lettuce leaves he had been neglecting. From the safety of a shady corner behind a flowerpot, he then watched with interest as the cats dashed up the tree or played at sword fighting with paws and claws, atop an urn.

Venturing out again, we head for the Bahia Palace, through the maze of streets and lanes and alleyways. Built in the mid nineteenth century by a Grand Vizier to the Sultan, Muhammad ibn Abd al-Rahman. It was later extended by his son Ba Ahmed, also a Grand Vizier, to Sultan Abdelaziz. Ba Ahmed bought up most of the surrounding neighbourhood to include gardens, huge courtyards and smaller riyadhs and lots more rooms within the exterior walls. This ever-expanding palace housed Ba Ahmed’s servants and slaves, his private hammam (wash house) and of course his harem. The name al-Bahia means “brilliance,” and was supposedly the name of the Vizier’s favourite wife. Since his death, Ba Ahmed’s Palace has housed royalty, foreign guests, even the French Resident Minister – a slightly lesser personage than an Ambassador or Governor – when Morocco became a French Protectorate.

As seems to be common in many of the Mediterranean countries, this palace is hidden behind high walls and huge wooden gates. Entering beneath a large archway, we find a palace full of patterns and colours. Not an inch seems to have been left bare. Even in the servants quarters, the floors are tiled in simple geometric patterns like those popular on early twentieth century verandas in Australia. There is a plethora of carved stucco, zellij (elaborately patterned tiles) on walls and floors, Carrera marble, painted cedarwood ceilings and shutters, muqarnas (ornamental vaulting) stained glass, arabesques (latticed stonework), painted friezes and rooms with thirty foot ceilings. All these  decorations were acquired from all over Morocco and beyond. While Islam does not allow for figurative images, there is plenty of room for a multitude of geometric patterns in a thousand different designs. It can be quite overwhelming. I find myself needing to sit quietly in a corner to observe such busy-ness at a distance. Oddly, there is virtually no furniture, but I find a step or garden bench will do.

Beyond the Grand Courtyard (50m x 30m), I discover the Grand Riyadh and one such bench, rare as hens teeth, hiding in the shadows, where I can hear the birds tweeting louder than the chattering tourists and enjoy the scent of orange blossom, or magnolias, or perhaps simply perfumes and aftershaves mingling in the warm air. Pathways between garden beds of palms, loquats, oranges, fountains and ferns are filled with tour groups. As tourists, we really are a plague upon the face of the earth, taking up air and space but contributing little but the odd entrance fee. I am constantly in the way of some eager photographer, not looking or absorbing, but simply clicking, or posing for selfies to prove they were here, checking their photos as soon as they are taken, oblivious of anyone trying to pass through.  Everyone is a supermodel these days! I, too, can be many of these things, even as I watch and judge. Although I will leave the modelling to the younger, more attractive clientele.

Is it worth it, this touristic tsunami? Perhaps not for other visitors or rich residents, who get caught in the crush, but for the poor who can find a way to survive by selling shoddy, mass produced merchandise, meals and snacks, local tours, or photo opportunities with a hooded snake, I suppose it is all in a day’s work. I do find it largely depressing if I’m honest. The cross-cultural influences are diminishing the authenticity of the local experience. The traders are pushy, eager for business amongst a throng of other traders desperately selling identical products. Yesterday, two taxi drivers got in a brawl as to who would drive us home. We tried to walk away but were almost manhandled into the back of someone’s taxi. Outside the main tourist centres, prices more reasonable, people less invasive, but who could deny them a living? Especially those of us who will return to wealthier countries.

Steve

Meanwhile, I sit watching Stephen the Tortoise careering round the courtyard, apparently doing laps, presumably training for that race with the hare. And surely it must be time for lunch? I will go in search of a traditional Berber tagine perhaps, with beef and eggplant, or chicken and preserved lemon. Or maybe couscous and vegetables, with kebabs served on long, lethal looking skewers. Time to go. My mouth is watering. But I better find Steve before I go, who has dashed away on a tour of inspection…

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Of Tarts & Tiles, Tuk-Tuks & Trams

Posted on 28 March 2023 by sheg4184

Three wonderful weeks in Portugal, and a common theme or two has begun to emerge. We have spent our time very merrily in Porto and Lisbon. Both towns are densely populated with people and churches, and incredibly steep. There are more level parts, but generally, a walk through either city involves an awful lot of hill climbing and steep descents. Thus, with my limited fitness for mountaineering, we quickly came to recognize the benefits of public transport. One of my favourite occupations was picking out the almost endless variety of patterned tiles or azulejos that have been used to decorate paths and plazas, walls and floors, on churches, monasteries, palaces, houses – inside and out – and even railway stations all over both cities. And of course, there were coffees and Portuguese tarts available whenever a particularly strenuous uphill climb required a breather…

The famous tiles of the Iberian Peninsula have been influenced by artistic styles from several different countries, and ‘indigenized’ by the Portuguese and Spanish artists. ‘Azulejos’ first appeared in Portugal in the 15th Century, courtesy of the Moors from North Africa. The word azulejos is Arabic in origin and comes from az-zulayj and I’ll leave it to you to imagine how that should be pronounced. It roughly translates as “polished stone” and I have fantasized about using them to decorate the kitchen, the patio, and the bathroom at home, but fear they would not travel well in my suitcase. Much to the One & Only’s relief. Nonetheless, we have had a wonderful time noting the different colours and patterns as we wander through the cobbled streets of Porto and Lisbon. We even found a museum in Lisbon to give us some background to their history.

The National Tile Museum (Museu Nacional do Azulejo) was established in 1965, in the former convent of Madre Deus. It was a long walk from our apartment, but worth every step. The museum collection features decorative ceramic tiles from 1450 to the present-day. Prominent across the Iberian peninsula since the Moorish invasion in the 13th century, such tiles soon became an integral part of Portuguese and Spanish culture. During the 16th century, the Portuguese developed their own motifs to add to the Arabic ones, often taking their ideas from nature. In the 17th century, a Spanish artist introduced the blue-and-white tiles from the Netherlands. Large tiles painted with historical or biblical scenes in blue and white were adopted by Portuguese artists. The Portuguese nobility particularly liked hunting scenes and satirical scenes from mythology.

In the Monastery of São Vicente de Fora, during the early 18th century, King João V commissioned tile paintings from ‘Grand Master‘ Manuel dos Santos, who covered the walls and staircases all over the monastery with blue and white tiled pictures of biblical and historical scenes. One exhibition even contains a unique collection of Jean de la Fontaine’s fables depicted in Portuguese tiles. The room that most appealed, however, was not decorated with tiles, but with polychromatic inlaid marble. The sacristy, a glorified changing room for the priests, is still used today and is totally enveloped in wondrous marble designs, with inlaid jacaranda wood chests to hold the vestments, and a beautiful painted ceiling.

“More is more” appears to have been the order of the day, particularly remarkable in the incredibly ornate Monastery of St. Jerónimo in Belém, one of the first monuments in Europe to be listed as a World Heritage Site. Built in the 1500s with profits from the spice trade, it was home to the monks of the Order of Saint Jerome, and is described as a ‘masterpiece of Manueline architecture… [that] glorifies the Age of Discovery, Portugal’s power at sea, and its contact with distant lands.’

Legend has it that the original Portuguese tarts, or pastéis de nata (literally cream pastries) were created by those same Jerónimo monks in Belém just west of Lisbon. Apparently, the monks would use vast quantities of egg white to starch their religious habits and vestments. They would then use the leftover egg yolks to make cakes and pastries. The monks original pastel de nata recipe is supposedly around three hundred years old.

When the monastery was shut down after the Liberal Revolution of 1820, the recipe for pastel de nata was sold to Pastéis de Belém, a local, family-owned bakery that has continued baking them to the original recipe ever since. A recipe which is known to only a select few, a trade secret.

These days, variations of Portugal’s iconic custard tarts, once a local speciality, can be found all over the world. I have eaten Portuguese tarts in Geelong, in Luxembourg, in Prague, by the Torrens in Adelaide, in Macau. Recently, I have munched on several (not all at once) in Porto, served with a jar of cinnamon to sprinkle on top, which is apparently a traditional flourish I had not encountered elsewhere. I’m not sure whether the one in front of me is authentic, but I am sitting outside the Monastery as I write, so it stands a better chance than most. Whatever it’s origins, this flaky nest of golden pastry filled with blistered, caramelized custard is a morsel of sweetness and light, crispness and creaminess that goes beautifully with a strong black coffee.

******

For the past three weeks in Portugal, we have mostly got about on foot. But when the going gets tough, which it frequently does in both Porto and Lisbon, there are alternative options. Porto has a cable car on the south side of the river that drops gently down from Santa Marinha to Vila Nova de Gaia, and a funicular on the north side, opposite the lower end of Dom Luis I Bridge. But both these options still require a significant climb at one end. So, for me, the better option was a tuk-tuk or a tram, when my legs were feeling feeble. The tuk-tuk drivers generally prefer to take you on an (expensive) private tour of the city, so they are not always the best way to get from A to B. On the other hand, they appear on every corner, particularly in Lisbon.

Tuk-tuks are usually associated with the densely packed and congested cities of Asia, Bangkok in particular. The name certainly came from the Thais, who named these three-wheeler, motorized taxis ‘tuk-tuk’ for the onomatopoeic sound of its two-stroke lawnmower engine. However, there are claims that these three wheeler taxis emerged first in Japan, or perhaps Italy, just before, or just after WWII. Since then, whoever invented them first, they have spread like a plague all over the globe. Now they in any busy city where there are tourists.

I have used tuk-tuks in India, Nepal, the Philippines and Thailand, but am yet to board the Portuguese variety, but we have admired them cruising round Lisbon, often decorated with plastic flowers and greenery. While they are inclined to sneak up behind pedestrians with their whispering new electric engines, we have so far avoided being bowled over, thank goodness.

We have, however, used the appealing and elderly trams, in both cities. In particular, we have loved boarding the 28E which sails past the end of our street in Lisbon every few minutes. Like Harry Potter’s night bus, it lurches up the almost horizontal hills, and barrels down the other side like a runaway train, screeching to a halt for passengers to board and disembark, and somehow skimming past the cars that park dangerously close to the tramlines, despite the risk to life and limb and wing mirrors. The Lisbon tramlines have been in operation since 1873. Originally, the wooden carriages were pulled by horses along the lower, flatter levels of the city. In 1901, the trams were electrified, which meant they could manage the hills too. Buses and metros may have usurped the tram network in the 21st century, but the six remaining tramlines in Lisbon are still a popular tourist attraction. Much of the rolling stock has been modernized, but the heritage yellow trams can still be found on some routes.

And so we say farewell to Portugal, and board a plane heading south for Marrakesh. And finally, some really warm weather…

*Thanks to Google images for the pic of the Portuguese tarts, as I was too busy munching to take photos! The rest were taken either by me or the One & Only!

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Tasting Port in Porto

Posted on 23 March 2023 by sheg4184
Port Lodges in Vila Nova de Gaia

On the banks of the Douro River, a stone’s throw from the sea, snuggles a city of terracotta roof tiles atop narrow houses, their facades decorated in coloured tiles. Clustered tightly together, they stagger unsteadily up winding cobbled lanes that wriggle, almost vertically, to the top of the surrounding hills, where huge churches perch in splendid sobriety, their interiors, in stark contrast, ornately decorated and garishly gilded. Several miles upstream, a plethora of ancient vineyards – now a UNESCO world heritage site – mark the source of Portugal’s Port wine industry.

The Douro River flows east to west for almost nine hundred kilometres, from the Spanish province of Soria, down through northern Portugal to the Atlantic Ocean, which smashes and swirls over the sea wall at Foz. The Douro Valley is one of the oldest demarcated wine region in the world, protected by an official appellation with which it was blessed in 1756. Here, grapes grow on walled terraces along the steep sides of the valley, still harvested by hand. Here, the Portuguese have been making wines for two thousand years. And here, the English have been producing ports for almost four hundred years, a fortified wine named for the nearby city of Porto (Oporto), where it must be aged in warehouses, or ‘lodges’ before being exported to Britain and beyond.

Over a hundred grape varieties have been identified in the Douro Valley for Port production, but only five now dominate the industry: Tinta Barroca, Tinto Cão, Tinta Roriz (or Tempranillo), Touriga Francesa, and Touriga Nacional. While a few winemakers have experimented with single variety Ports, it is, generally speaking, a blended, fortified wine. 

Although Port is now made in other countries around the world, including Australia, the name ‘Port’ legally belongs only to those fortified wines produced here in Portugal, specifically in the Douro Valley. Ruby, Tawny, Vintage and, more recently, White Port fill the local wine shops and bars, but in fact Port has gained far less traction with the Portuguese than one might expect. Most of it will be exported abroad. I have learned an awful lot about the process of Port making this week, but the details could distract us for days. Let’s just say, that the final result is very much appreciated by hundreds and hundreds of tourists to Porto. And me.

Until trucks took over the transport business, rabelos – curiously curved wooden boats shaped like the paper boats we used to make as kids – carried the wine barrels down the Douro from the wine estates – quintas – into Porto. On the south bank, at Vila Nova de Gaia, the barrels were unloaded and stored in lodges, to be blended and aged, away from the intense heat of the Douro Valley to the north. Now, the river – far safer to navigate since it was tamed by five huge dams constructed through the 1970s and 80s –  is used largely for pleasure boats. Last weekend we, too, joined the flotilla sailing upriver from the marina and beneath the six bridges that span the Douro, including the iconic Dom Luís I Bridge.

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This beautiful, double-decker, arched iron bridge crosses the river between Porto and Vila Nova de Gaia. Over 170 metres wide and 145 metres high, the views, particularly from the upper level, are magnificent – as long as you don’t mind heights. Although it is often credited to Gustav Eiffel, his original plan for a single span bridge was apparently rejected. It was actually designed by one of Eiffel’s colleagues, German engineer François Gustave Théophile Seyrig, with whom he had co-founded Eiffel and Company. This company had run an earlier project in Porto to build the similar Maria Pia railway bridge, a mile upstream. In the 1880s, now working for a Belgian engineering firm, Seyrig won the competition to build the Dom Luís I Bridge, beating his former colleague to the punch.

But I digress. Back to the business of Port wine.

Last weekend, after our river trip, we were given a private tour of the British Factory House, an impressive 18th-century Neo-Palladian building on the north side of the river. This grand old granite house is a symbol of the relationship between the Portuguese and the British Port wine merchants, or factors. Hence Factory House. It was effectively a private gentleman’s club (now mixed membership) where foreign merchants could talk business and strengthen the Port Wine trade. To this day, it remains a gathering place for the families that still make Port in the Douro.

Our tour guides, Jamie Graham and his American brother-in-law, Ben, come from one of those families. The Grahams, English to the core, have been making Ports in Portugal for two hundred years. Although Jamie’s grandfather sold Graham’s Port business to Symington’s in 1970, his father John started a new family business in 1981 with his two brothers, naming the company after his wife, Caroline Churchill. Today, Churchill’s Estates make some very special vintage port from the Quinto do Rio in the Torro valley, as well as 10 and 20-year old Tawnies, and some delicious white port, which, by coincidence, we had already been drinking enthusiastically during our boat trip up the Douro earlier in the day.

Every Wednesday, members meet for lunch in the long, elegant dining room. Vintage ports are selected from the Factory’s own wine cellar, where some 15,000 bottles are stored. Apparently, a good vintage can be stored for at least fifty years, but winemakers aim for a hundred years, as a gift to the future Port drinkers of the world. In the entrance hall, wooden plaques list the names of all the Treasurers (Presidents of the club) since 1811. Many of those early British names are still associated with the great Port Houses, such as Cockburn, Forrester, Graham, Sandeman, Symington and Taylor.

Chatting with our tour guides about all things Portish, clutching a glass of Churchill’s golden, oaked Dry White Port, we wander down through the cellars and up the granite staircase to the entertaining rooms above. A large ballroom boasts at least half a dozen crystal chandeliers and a minstrel’s gallery. Fabulous old maps are on display in the official Map Room. Other walls are decorated with signed photographs of a plethora of royal couples who have been to visit, including, in 1982, the newly wed Charles and Diana. The library, several rooms filled with floor to ceiling bookshelves, is generously stocked with old, leather bound books that I long to explore. And on the top floor, to limit the damage of fire, is a vast Victorian kitchen, the highly polished, black cast-iron ranges once cooking to perfection those roast beasts to be fed to hungry members. Eventually emerging into the tasting room, we examine a copy of The Times, dated 100 years ago to the day, on display beside a table laden with glasses, Port bottles and handsome ships decanters.

Relatively small production allows the Graham’s to continue using traditional methods of production, even crushing the grapes manually – or should that be ‘footily?’ – which avoids bitterness from the pips. Using natural fermentation and minimal amounts of brandy provides wonderful structure and balance. So the Ports that are so generously poured into our glasses are a delight.

First, we get to try a Churchill’s 2007 Crusted Port. I have never heard of crusted post before, and if you haven’t either, it’s a high quality Ruby Port, younger and lighter than Vintage Port. Blended and aged in oak casks for three or four years, it is not filtered when bottled, leaving a sediment or ‘crust’ to form in the bottle, and should be decanted when poured.

Next up was a complex, richly flavoured 2003 Quinta da Gricha Vintage port made from Graham’s own grapes. It has a lush, fruity character, which promises to be even better in fifteen to twenty years. There are gasps of admiration around the table.

Until we get to the classic 1985 Vintage Port, a drink of spectacular depth and smoothness, from the early years of Churchill’s Estates. Deep purple with aromas of plum, prune and chocolate, it tastes of sweet dark jam – black cherry or plums? – and dried fruit, such as prunes and figs. Not to be rushed but sipped slowly and thoughtfully.

And finally, Ben pours us each a glass from the forty year old Vintage Port, a doyenne of luscious maturity. Its deep, glossy amber colour glows in the glass, and the nutty toffee flavours, beautifully blended, flow sweetly across the tongue. Rich and delicious, it makes a great dessert wine, and a perfect finish for our decadent afternoon.

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Designer Dining

Posted on 14 March 2023 by sheg4184

On the flight to London, I watched a movie starring Anya Taylor-Joy, Nicholas Hoult, and Ralph Fiennes reprising his role as Voldemort but in chef’s attire. Touted as a sinister dark comedy, The Menu explores the philosophies of top-tier chefs and challenges the pretensions of pompous diners. Chef Sowek (Fiennes) has a stygian and fuliginous plan to punish his superficial, self-absorbed, disdainful and decadent clients for years of gluttonous elitism, and for destroying his passion for cooking.

So, it felt somewhat ironic that we spent Saturday night at The Yeatman, in Porto, indulging in the most amazing haute cuisine; a degustation menu created by Chef Ricardo Costa as ‘a journey through Portuguese gastronomy and wine’.

Showcasing local produce and traditional flavours, and Costa’s superlative cooking skills of course, the menu was inevitably reliant on fish and seafood, each mouthful a fusion of intense flavour, glorious aromas and fascinating, often unexpected textures, ‘designed to create an immersive sensory experience, to awaken sensations, evoke nostalgia… and to provide lasting memories.’

It did.

The Yeatman, overlooking the Douro and the historic Port lodges of Vila Nova de Gaia, not only has a prime position on the Porto landscape, but also secretes an award-winning wine cellar beneath the hill. In the kitchen, those regional ingredients are whipped together with fervent imaginations, top notch cooking techniques and the magic of molecular gastronomy to redesign or reinterpret traditional Portuguese recipes. Such creative cooking earned the restaurant two Michelin stars in 2017.

As we settled into a private dining room, at a large, oval table set for six, we explored the menu eagerly. It wasn’t giving much away.

‘An Evolution of Aromas’ started with langoustine, chicken skin and nori and ended, eighteen courses later, with coffee and mignardises. Yes, I had to look up that word, too. It means ‘bite-sized desserts.’ Of course. It is a tasting menu after all.

The only problem with such an immense tasting menu is retaining the high level of concentration required to focus on each mouthful, while also maintaining one’s place in the dinner table conversation. I sadly lapsed on the latter, as I delved eagerly into each beautifully presented morsel. Everything becomes a character in the operatic theatre of such a dinner. Not just the ingredients themselves, but the cutlery, the crockery, the matching wines, the waiters, even the lighting. It is hard to keep any sense of self amongst such a star-studded cast. And it is hard to recall the taste of each ephemeral flavour as the next one steps into the spotlight to take its place.

So, I’m not going to describe every dish that passed before my eager eyes. Firstly, because I would soon run out of convincing adjectives. And secondly, despite having the menu by my side, covered in copious notes, I am struggling to recall everything that passed my lips, and could not do them justice if I could. I will say, quite simply, it was a truly awesome gastronomic experience.

I do recall the aroma of the smoked cauliflower being surprisingly strong, and the velvety texture of the custard-creamy sea urchin, whose subtle taste I have learned to appreciate but will never long for. And I remember the bizarre combination of tuna (in tiny cubes), pomegranate gel and foie gras in a most unexpected colour and form (rose pink ball bearings, or crumbs) that literally melted in the mouth, giving off an intensity of flavour that created an ecstatic response from my taste buds. Even the hot Douro bread, with its satisfyingly crunchy crust giving way to a satin-soft and spongy inner sanctum was a joy to chew upon, dipped in a pungent olive oil. (As a quick aside, apparently the pros taste olive oil like wine, swirling it in a glass to help release the aromas, then slurp it noisily into their mouths to emulsify the oil and spread it over their tastebuds, to bring every flavour to the surface. We didn’t do this, but I feel we got equal satisfaction by dipping into it heartily with that divine bread.) And there was that national tapa pastéis de bacalhau –somewhat heavy, dry, fried codfish balls – that had been reformatted into a light, soft, moist meringue, that slid down my throat almost as soon as it touched my tongue.

And, of course I noted every fork and each tactile, unusually shaped and often warmed bowl or plate that arrived at the table, even before my eyes and nose started dissecting the much heralded arrangement upon it. I do wish I had remembered to take a photo of everything – but multi-tasking has never been my strong suit, and anyway, I was too busy tasting!

Our waiter, Sara, did a marvellous job of introducing each dish, although her heavy Portuguese accent meant I often had to waylay her for a personalized repeat performance. Oh! to be able to speak Portuguese. To date, I have only mastered ‘Obrigada’, which is useful, but pretty feeble for a lengthy conversation. Nonetheless, Sara and I had lots of long chats on the way through the menu, to clarify as many details as possible. It became a master class in Portuguese flavours and Asian fusion, and I loved every moment. But I do regret the ephemeral nature of any meal, that leaves me struggling to recreate more than a tiny impression of each dish.

Chef Sowek (aka Lord Voldemort) in the movie was very put out when a client who had come often to his restaurant could not recall a single dish he had eaten there over the years. To be fair, it is actually hard to do, even when one thinks one is utterly focussed. It is the nature of the beast. But I think I will remember, forever, the surprised delight of those soft pink foie gras crumbs. And there were so many of these extraordinary experiences during the meal – those moments when what my eyes looked upon did not equate to the texture and taste on my tongue. It was pure magic.

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A Final Glimpse of Tasmania, Past, Present and Bucolic

Posted on 3 March 2023 by sheg4184
Runnymede House, New Town, Hobart

‘Scrimshaw.’ My favourite new word for the week.

What is scrimshaw? A character from Harry Potter perhaps? No, not quite. That was Rufus Scrimgeour, I believe. Scrimshaw is, in fact, the art of engraving images on objects made from whale bone, baleen, or the tusks of walrus – once considered waste products of the nineteenth-century whaling trade. Objects such as walking canes, knife handles, pill boxes, or simply ornaments. The scrimshander (one who makes scrimshaw) would use pumice to smooth the surface and a small knife or a sailmaker’s needle to etch in a design. Ink or lamp black was then rubbed into the image to make it stand out. Such artistic endeavour was apparently a popular pastime for bored mariners working on whaling ships. Their artistic endeavours could then be kept as souvenirs, or given as gifts, or even traded.

I discovered this lovely word at a National Trust property in Hobart. Once the home of a Tasmanian whaler, Captain Charles Bayley, who carved several pieces of scrimshaw himself – now on display at the property – Runnymede is a gracious sandstone house in New Town. On the day we visit, our guide, Christine, is full of detailed information about the house, its history and the families that have lived here.

It was originally built in 1836 for Robert Pitcairn, a Scottish lawyer and free settler, renowned for campaigning against convict transportation to Tasmania. Two miles beyond the somewhat seedy, smoky settlement at Hobart Town, Pitcairn hoped to create a safe country retreat for his family, where his young daughter could recover from typhoid. He called his new home ‘Cairn Lodge.’

In 1850, Pitcairn sold the house to Francis Russell Nixon, the first Church of England Bishop of Tasmania, who arrived in the colony in 1843 with fifty pieces of luggage – including an organ – his large family, and a governess. Bishop Nixon renamed the house Bishopstowe and added a substantial music room. In 1863, after travelling widely throughout his extensive diocese, creating a cathedral, establishing three schools and a family of eleven children, the Bishop travelled back to England in poor health, never to return.
Bishopstowe was then sold on to our artistic whaling captain in 1864, who renamed it Runnymede, after his whaling vessel. Dying childless, he left the house to his brother and business partner, James. Runnymede was to be the Bayley family home for almost a century, until the last remaining daughter of the family passed it to the National Trust in 1963.

The house stands on five acres of land that originally descended down to the Derwent River, in a cove deep enough for Captain Bayley to park his whaling ship. The cove has since been reclaimed and built upon, but the five acre garden remains, and has obviously been well maintained by its various owners. Today, it is full of large and aged fruit trees, hedgerows, heritage roses and a plethora of red and white geraniums, to match the Runnymede‘s ensign.

Inside, each room depicts a different era of the house’s history. In the dining room, a curious, mahogany dining table, circular but extendable, has centre stage. And the elegant wallpaper is an accurate reproduction of the original, designed with the help of notes from the Bishop’s lady, Anna Maria Nixon. Hidden on the inside of a cupboard door, pencil marks delineate the heights of all the children who have lived in the house.

A small room near the back of the house – probably a housekeeper’s sitting room – has been decorated with a variety of craftwork that the ladies of the house may have indulged in. Sewing was a marker of genteel femininity and accomplishment for the middle class lady who did not ‘need’ to sew, but could direct her artistic urges into pretty and decorative, often sentimental art with which to decorate the home. On display is a beautifully handstitched crazy patchwork quilt, framed pictures done in cross stitch, and the tools for lacemaking. Known as ‘fancy work’, such household crafts played an important role in the lives of many middle class women, as an acceptable means of self-expression and a worthwhile social activity.

Of course, my favourite room is the kitchen. Once separate from the main house, in case of fire, but now connected, its grey flagstone floors are cool and uneven. The dairy, unlike its counterparts in the grander homes of the Mother Country, has no marble surface on which to make butter and cheese, but otherwise has all the tools of the trade. Although, to my surprise, it backs onto the fireplace that houses the cast iron range. Surely not the coolest spot in the world for making butter?

There is a great collection of art work at Runnymede, much of it down by past inhabitants, and some beautiful Huon pine furniture. Oregon pine floors. Commodes galore. An elegant library. There is a wealth of historic detail in the furnishings and furbelows of this elegant homestead.

* * *
From the sublime to the ridiculous, we left New Town and headed north along the Derwent River, to visit MONA, the Museum of Old & New Art. We first heard about MONA just after it opened, as the home for ‘Cloaca,’ that bizarre construction otherwise known as the poo machine. It was designed by Belgian artist Wim Devoye, whose neo-conceptual, often somewhat shocking artwork, we had come across in Luxembourg, where the Mudam ( The Contemporary Art Museum of Luxembourg) had its own Cloaca on display.

Now a major Tasmanian tourist attraction, MONA is the creation of millionaire art collector and professional gambler, David Walsh. Opened in 2011, I had been looking forward to visiting this iconic gallery for years. But I have to say, this cultural pygmy was seriously underwhelmed.

The brochure struggles to define this extraordinary space, but the one that struck home with me: ‘not sure about the art but the architecture is amazing.’ I agree on both counts. An app is available to guide you through the galleries, and provide the titles of the artwork, without ever trying to define or describe what each piece is actually about – and generally, they were beyond my wildest imagination, subversive and dark, full of sex, death and despair. The Gallery itself is also dark. Sunk into the rock of the Berriedale Peninsula, a network of industrial walkways and circular staircases link the various galleries. Darkness and dim lighting is the overarching impression, which, for me and several others, quickly became claustrophobic. A spiral staircase drifts down to the lowest level, and from there, you work your way up, through a maze of dimly lit rooms and broad corridors.

Feeling hemmed in, I left the One & Only behind quite promptly, and found my way to the surface at record speed, out on the plaza overlooking the Derwent and the hills beyond. More stairs led up to a selection of dining outlets serve food, coffee, Tasmanian wines and craft beers, overlooking an outdoor stage surrounded by an eclectic collection of seating, from giant beanbags to tree trunk stools.

Is it simply an expensive and elaborate marketing stunt? I guess that depends on your taste and perspective. Our own South Australian marketing stunt, the blue cube at d’Arry’s in McLaren Vale, certainly pales by comparison. And the views alone make it worth a visit. Whether the $35 entrance fee to the Art Gallery is justified, I will leave you to decide.

* * *
Once upon a time, back in the 1970s, I went to Wales with my parents and siblings, aboard our campervan Bella Bus, to stay with some distant cousins on the south coast. Lawrenny is a tiny community, upstream from Milford Haven, within the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park. It was established centuries ago, and maintained by fishing, boat building and as a staging point for shipping limestone from quarries further inland. One of its lesser known sons of dubious reputation, made his way to Tasmania in the early 19th century. In 1803, Lieutenant Edward Lord joined Lieutenant-Colonel David Collins to sail to Port Phillip. A year later, he was part of the first contingent to sail to Van Diemen’s Land to establish a settlement on the Derwent. Some years later, Lord, soon to be cattle baron, acquired several thousand acres in the Central Highlands, and named the estate after his family’s estate in Wales. Over the next hundred and twenty odd years, Lawrenny changed hands several times. Eventually, at the end of WW II, it was sold to the government and subdivided into 200 acre dairy farms as part of the soldier settlement scheme.

These days, the house and some 400 surrounding acres, are owned by two former Queenslanders, Ross & Mary Mace, who came in search of a sea change back in 1991, and discovered the remains of this beautiful property on the upper reaches of the Derwent. Over the years, they have restored the homestead, an elegant two storey Victorian wedding cake of a house, and bred Black Angus beef cattle. And they now produce a collection of spirits made from the crystal clear waters of the Derwent River: whisky, vodka and gin. Having initially caught my eye with its link to childhood memories of Pembrokeshire, what further temptation did I need? A visit was slotted into the agenda for our final lap of Tasmania. We packed up our bags and boxes in Hobart and eagerly headed north.

There are about seventy gin distilleries in Tasmania these days, apparently, and I’m sure many are excellent. However, the setting for this particular distillery is something special. We found the farm on the outskirts of Ouse, and followed the signs down the long avenue, past the glorious two-storey homestead with its wrought iron balcony railings, and drew up beside the cellar door, housed within a beautifully restored, century old barn made from roughly hewn Tasmanian Oak. Wandering in, we admired the shiny copper stills, and rows of old oak barrels in the adjoining barn. I ambled across to the tasting bar as the One & Only explored the buildings. As our hostess introduced me to an array of pretty bottles, their labels bearing an image of the Victorian homestead, we chatted about the property’s history and it’s rebirth as a distillery. Lawrenny Estate Distilling is apparently one of only a handful that produce ‘paddock to bottle’ single malt whiskies, growing the barley they use to produce it. Once harvested, the barley is mashed, fermented and distilled in the copper stills that sit ponderously around us.

Sadly, I have never learned to enjoy whisky. The One & Only loves it, but he had a long drive ahead of him that afternoon, so I got to dip into the Lawrenny gins on my own. The language of gin is similar to that of wine, but with different flavour profiles. The botanicals used are generally taken from Lawrenny’s own orchard and gardens, and the descriptions I was given were full of flowers and fruit, herbs and spices: positively poetic.

After I had tiptoed my way through an array of gins, a vodka and an unusual cold brew coffee liqueur, I eventually succumbed to buying a bottle of their Settler’s Gin, and much to my surprise, their St Clair Vodka. To quote their website:

The [navy strength] 1818 Settlers Gin is a tribute to those that withstood adversity — those with strength, persistence, and full of character. Bold juniper comes through both on the nose and the palate, as herbal notes from the property’s own rosemary intertwine with the freshness of caraway. All bolstered by the warming spice of pimento berry and cassia bark. The 1818 Settlers has a mild smokiness, not usually associated with gin, from a careful blend of the intense botanical brown cardamom that graces the finish, without dominating the dried fruit notes below.

See what I mean about poetry? And how about this for a view?

The Vodka sounded – and tasted – equally lyrical.

The crystal waters of Lake Saint Clair are some of the world’s most pure. Swept by wild Antarctic winds, these pristine waters meld gently into the River Derwent, and down through Lawrenny Estate. Saint Clair Vodka incorporates these pristine waters, truly encompassing the purity of the region and delivering a crisp and clean palate. With a very careful selection of botanicals, such as rose buds found in the gardens, herbaceous thyme and classic lemon zest, we ensure that the signature style of Lawrenny is found in each glass.

Honestly, who could resist? After a brief spending spree, we pulled out our picnic lunch and sat in the shade of a bouquet of deciduous British trees – a perfect little arboretum – on the lawn in front of the barns. Behind us, the broad, shallow Derwent ran blithely by, heading towards – or probably away from – the smoky grey hills in the distance. The sun shone, the birds chirped. Feeling mellow, serene and a little sleepy, we reluctantly clambered into the car and headed back to the road. It had been a blissful interlude.

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The Joy of Cheese

Posted on 18 February 2023 by sheg4184

“Dessert without cheese is like a beauty with only one eye” ~ Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

When we first visited Tasmania, back in the late eighties, it was known as a destination for serious hikers, those keen to explore the wilderness and test their mettle by trekking over mountains and through marshes, in extremely variable weather. These days, this far-flung island state has become a destination for the Foodies of the world. So, it is probably about time I stopped dwelling on Tasmania’s past and looked to its present and future…

First, have you ever heard of Bruny Island? Neither had I, to be honest, until I discovered that a family friend had moved there to make cheese, where he was using the traditional techniques that he had learned in Europe. About ten years ago, nosing through an elegant little cheese shop, tucked away in the basement of the old GPO in Martin Place, Sydney, I came across The Bastard, a cheese of ‘slightly dubious parentage’ that had been made from a mixture of cows’ and sheep’s milk. And lo, it had been made by that same family friend. Since then, Nick Haddow has expanded his cheese business to include beer, wine and a herd of dairy cows to provide milk for the cheese making.

Have I ever ‘fessed up’ about how much I love eating cheese; that I am, in fact, a cheese fetishist (Fetish: an object of irrational reverence or obsessive devotion; a fixation); that a fridge without cheese in it might as well be empty? Well, that’s me. Now that’s off my chest, you will perhaps understand why Bruny Island was number one on my list of places to visit in Tasmania this summer. As it turns out that Nick also has a bit of an obsession about cheese – only he doesn’t only love eating it, he makes it, too.

Truganini Lookout on The Neck

Bruny island is located off the southeast coast of Tasmania, the ferry just half an hour from Hobart. It has a miniscule population of about 600 people, although it is almost seventy kilometres from top to toe. Bruny Island actually comes in two parts – North and South Bruny – separated by a long, narrow spit of sand dune and beach – the Neck. Here, thousands of mutton birds or shearwaters breed in burrows among the dunes, before flying 64,000 kilometres back across the Pacific ocean to the Bering Sea. Once a seasonal delicacy, these birds are now jealously guarded from over-hunting, but in the past few years, Bruny Island has become famous for the excellence of other more available local produce: fresh oysters, artisan cheese, chocolate, honey, beer and whiskey.

At nine o’clock one wet Wednesday morning, the car ferry chugged across D’Entrecasteaux Channel, the rain lashing on the windscreen, the coastline a blur. Luckily, by the time we reached the Bruny Island Cheese Company, the clouds had begun to recede. We booked a cheese tasting, and waited eagerly, armed with a warming coffee and homemade biscuits, as we explored the shop, full of locally made condiments and cookbooks. I couldn’t resist a jar of tomato kasundi relish, rich, aromatic and spicy, and of Indian origin. Designed ‘to complement your food rather than dominate it,’ it is absolutely divine, and I know I will be using it on everything.

A couple of days later, we caught up with Nick for lunch on Salamanca Place, in Hobart. Unfortunately, our time together was all too short, and exchanging decades of family news left us little time to talk cheese. Luckily, Jess had filled us in on the background to the Bruny Island Cheese Company and its various products. As Nick has become something of a media personality since we last met up, you, too, can find out all about his amazing, and exhaustingly busy life both online and on TV. In brief, he has been part of Slow Food Australia, sold cheese in Melbourne, judged cheese competitions, written about cheese, and joined his epicurean mate, Matthew Evans on the SBS series Gourmet Farmer, not to mention winning an armful of awards. And that’s on a quiet day!

Nick and his wife, Leonie, turned up in Tasmania with a Kombi and a surfboard way back in 2001. Eventually, they found themselves a few acres on Bruny and settled in to make cheese the old fashioned way. Nick is a boutique cheesemaker, handcrafting his cheeses in relatively small numbers, His range of artisan cheeses is also small and select, each style distinctly different. The ‘limited edition’ mentality reigns here on Bruny Island.  Mass production? Begone. And twenty years down the track, its not just about cheese. Over the years, Nick has turned his hand to farming, brewing, baking and cheesemaking, using traditional techniques all the way.

Poster above the cheese counter

As we make ourselves comfortable on the rustic veranda at the Bruny Island Cheese Co., Jess brings us four cheeses to taste, served up with a warm baguette, fresh from the wood oven. While there is no sign of my old favourite, The Bastard, it is nonetheless a great selection, paired with either a hand crafted beer or a glass of wine, whatever we prefer.

The cheese list is also seasonal, Jess explains. Everything is about careful attention to detail, or ‘quality over quantity,’ as the saying goes. And the milk, once sourced from local farmers for thoroughly Tasmanian cheeses, is now delivered by Nick’s own herd of twenty heritage cows in Glen Huon, where even the grass is heritage. According to the website, the farm is ‘a showcase of ethical, sustainable, small-scale, organic dairy farming that is all about maximising animal welfare and milk quality.’ Nick’s ‘ladies’ come from three unusual breeds that have gone out of favour with those who are mass-producing cheese: the Brown Swiss, the Australian shorthorn and the Normande. All three provide particularly rich, creamy milk. In limited amounts. Apparently they even take holidays!

The Ladies

Most notably, Nick plagued the Australian government to provide him with a special licence to create cheese made from unpasteurized or ‘raw’ milk, which he achieved in 2009. Pasteurization boils the milk to 72 degrees to kill off any bacteria. Unpasteurized milk is heated only to 35 degrees. In Australia, this process is heavily regulated and raw milk has been widely condemned as unsafe. Pasteurisation of milk does prevent diseases – those notoriously nasty ones like tuberculosis, diphtheria, and scarlet fever – but it also destroys some of the good bacteria we need in our bodies, and has a tendency to reduce the flavour profile of the cheese. Nick has written a book, Milk Made, in which he discusses the pros and cons of pasteurization. As I failed year 10 chemistry, much of the scientific detail went over my head, but the message was clear. Raw milk from healthy animals eating healthy grass is perfectly safe. And it will make your cheese much tastier.

So, we try one of his unpasteurized cheeses, and it is delicious. Back in 2009, Raw Milk C2 was the first raw milk cheese in Australia. Imitating a type that has been made in the mountains of France and northern Italy for generations, this curd cheese ages well, we are told, developing a sweet aroma and a mildly nutty flavour.

‘Tom’ is a hard cheese with an edible rind, related to the Tomme cheeses from the mountainous Savoie region of France. It is very easy to nibble on. Traditionally made with sheep’s milk, Nick uses cows’ milk instead. Anyone got a pear?

The ‘1792’ is one of the company’s signature cheeses. Commemorating the year that the French landed in Tasmania, this cheese is washed in brine twice a day, for two weeks, then aged on Huon Pine. Pungent and wonderfully creamy, if you like your cheese to smell like malodorous feet, as I do, you will love this one.

And finally, O.D.O, which stands for one day old. This simple curd cheese is drained overnight, lightly salted and then marinated in olive oil that has been flavoured with garlic, chilli, black pepper and chives. I could happily eat it with a spoon, but apparently it is also ‘perfect on an antipasto plate, stirred through hot pasta or crumbled over grilled vegetables.’ I seem to remember tasting something similar on a goat farm in the Philippines, topped with grilled peppers… yum.

Cheese, cheese and more cheese!

As we are heading home tomorrow, driving north beneath the summer sun, we decide it might be wiser not to fill the car with smelly cheese. Instead, we will wait till we got home, then sign up to Nick’s cheese club for a regular delivery. A box of joy filled with cheeses and other delights, such as condiments, baked goods from the wood fired oven, and perhaps a craft beer or two. Who knew such a thing was possible? My fridge will never be bare again….

Brand Tasmania began in 2018 with a mission ‘to inspire and encourage Tasmanians, and those who want to be Tasmanian, to quietly pursue the extraordinary.’ As Chairman of the Board, Nick Haddow practices exactly what he preaches, in the company of his inspiring team of cheesemakers, bakers, brewers and farmers. As the late, great Anthony Bourdain once said, “You have to be a romantic to invest yourself, your money, and your time in cheese.” So, let’s raise a glass to the romantic cheesemakers of the world. They certainly have this cheese lover’s everlasting devotion.

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‘A Pack of Thieves’

Posted on 13 February 2023 by sheg4184

Port Arthur. Today, it is an hour and a half’s drive from the pretty, waterside city of Hobart. Two hundred years ago, it was a day’s sailing from the decidedly seedy and often violent waterfront of Hobart Town, which had already developed a bad reputation for bawdy behaviour and violence, as visiting sailors and ex-convicts gravitated to the pubs, brothels, and gambling houses for cards and cock fighting.

These days, Port Arthur is an attractive, peaceful outdoor museum. Fifty acres of lawn and pretty gardens, brick and weatherboard houses, the remains of a hospital, a garrison, a lunatic asylum, a church. Fire has damaged many of the original buildings, but their presence can still be felt, in the arched doorways and decorative stone carvings of the church, in the bars on the empty windows of the penitentiary, in the watch tower below the ruins of the garrison. For back then, Port Arthur was a prison for hardened criminals and repeat offenders.

The penal settlement at Port Arthur was established in 1830 by the Lieutenant Governor of Van Diemen’s Land, later to be known as Tasmania. For almost half a century, thousands passed through its gates – and not only convicts, but the soldiers sent to guard them, priests to pray for them and a handful of civilians: doctors, accountants, teachers and their families.

St David’s Church

On a sunny day, the plethora of ghostly inhabitants at Port Arthur are shadowy, invisible to the naked eye. Only the scattered information plaques remind us that here dwelt real people, individuals with their own stories to tell, not merely historical profiles or a nameless hoard of mad and dangerous criminals. Many of these men were unemployed veterans of the Napoleonic Wars, or unwitting victims of Britain’s industrial revolution. Forced to relocate from tenant farms to smog-ridden and stinking city slums, many found only unemployment and starvation. Stealing became a means of survival in a harsh environment, as any reader of Charles Dickens will be aware. Around half of those who ended up in Van Diemen’s Land already had a trade or skill useful to the new colony, and were given the opportunity to work off their sentences in meaningful employment, and not necessarily behind bars. Others were forced onto chain gangs; slave labour sent out to build the foundations of our ‘new’ world, in the form of roads and bridges, and even their own prison buildings.

Historians have worked to retrieve some of these individual stories. ‘Pack of Thieves?’ tells the tales of fifty convicts sent out to Port Arthur in the 1830s, in an attempt to differentiate a small, random selection of men and boys from the morass of disease-ridden, sullen and vicious prisoners, herded into dank sailing ships and deported to the ends of the earth for the terms of their natural lives. Some got a second chance, others ended their days covered in welts inflicted by the cat-o-nine-tails, or mentally deranged by their experiences of isolation and exile.

By 1840, Port Arthur was home to around 2000 people: convicts, soldiers and civilians. For almost half a century this multifarious community of misplaced Britons dwelt at the end of the earth. The prison was finally closed in 1877, but it has been a site of historic interest since 1916 and was listed as a World Heritage Site in 2010.  

The Commandant’s House

Today, it is a fascinating place to spend a day or two, learning about Australia’s convict past, exploring the houses of the resident civilians, and imagining the isolation of a penal colony more than thirteen thousand nautical miles from home. Ensconced in my comfortable life, picnicking by the quay, a stone’s throw from a cafeteria and a gift shop, it is almost impossible to put myself in the shoes of Benjamin Stanton who, only fifteen, and undoubtedly cold, stole a coat. Or John Jones, convicted to transportation for life for stealing a shirt, previously imprisoned for vagrancy. Foul language and several escape attempts led to months in chains and fifty lashes. It seems that the myth of exile for stealing a loaf of bread is in fact only a hair’s breadth from the truth. Many of these convict tales speak of petty theft, and an underlying urgency to survive.

Perhaps easier for me to envision, is the isolation thrust upon the women in the colony who accompanied their husbands to this far flung island. Innocent of any crime, they had nonetheless been torn from their comfortable lives and families in Britain, and flung upon a largely male community, with its garrison full of soldiers and its prison full of convicted felons. Any staff they employed were likely also to be criminals; women brought from the ‘female factory’ in Hobart. One governess was reported to be drunk and disorderly, and was promptly dismissed. But who could blame her, stuck in no man’s land, neither gentry nor convict? She must have been as lonely as hell, her social isolation almost as complete as those men removed to the ‘Separate Prison’. This new model of psychological torture for recalcitrant prisoners forced them to live in tiny cells, silent and nameless, reduced to a mere number on a door, their isolation completed by a mask when they emerged for a daily, solitary, hour of fresh air. Here, they were supposed to contemplate their crimes for 23 hours a day, although they were also provided with tasks such as sail-making or shoemaking. Meanwhile, the rest of the inmates were housed in the penitentiary, a converted flour mill that accommodated about five hundred men in cells or dormitories.

Across the cricket pitch from the garrison and the penitentiary is a small village, within walking distance to the Church. Attending services on Sundays was compulsory, presumably for the civilians as well as their convict neighbours. Some of these houses have been furnished in the style of the era, and it is a fascinating trip through time to find yourself in the accountant’s kitchen listening to ‘Dad & Dave’ on the radio.

After our picnic lunch, a catamaran takes us out into the bay to see the Isle of the Dead, a rocky outcrop that became the burial place for more than 1000 Port Arthur residents. Yet, even in death there is a hierarchy. While free men, women and children lie on the higher side of this island graveyard, often with elaborate headstones, the convict dead were planted at the bottom of the slope, in unmarked graves.

Opposite the cemetery, is The Point Puer Boys’ Prison, the first separate boys’ prison in the British Empire, renowned for its stern discipline and harsh punishment. Three thousand boys were imprisoned here between 1834 and 1849, some as young as nine years old. For it seems that under English common law, the minimum age of criminal responsibility was only seven years old. Most of these children were put to work cutting the stone to build the church and houses across the bay at the main penal settlement.

Steve Harris has written a book about the transportation of these boys; the juvenile male prisoners shipped to Australia ‘on an industrial scale’ and brutally treated. The Lost Boys of Mr Dickens is a confronting read, even when only flicking through it, but it really brings the horrors of this now peaceful and beautiful setting to life.

*Thanks again to the One & Only for his superior photography.

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Wildlife Among the Gumtrees

Posted on 3 February 2023 by sheg4184

‘Give me a home among the gumtrees, with lots of plum trees, a sheep or two, a kangaroo, a  clothesline out the back, verandah out the front, and an old rocking chair’  – John Williamson

Craggy Peaks. An old golf course at the foot of Ben Lomond that has been reconditioned as a holiday camp, containing fifteen self-contained cabins nestled among the trees, overlooking Mistletoe Creek. No plums, sheep or rocking chairs, unfortunately, but gallons of gumtrees and a plethora of native Australian animals.

We have taken a somewhat circuitous route to get here, around the rim of the Ben Lomond National Park, and along miles of dirt tracks, but you can always choose the rather smoother route on bitumen roads through farmland, wooded hills and the old mining town of Rossarden that ensure an easy and attractive ninety minute drive from Launceston.

The trees are full of birds – kookaburras, a family of tawny frogmouth, and many others that remain out of sight, but make lots of noise – and the surrounding woods are alive with wallabies, wombats and quolls. And, strangely, deer, that were introduced into the area, wander freely through the nearby town of Rossarden, where they are much loved and protected. The gushing, rushing creek hurtles down the hill and across the middle of the property. The wind soughs through the trees like the Whispering Woods of Enid Blyton’s imagination. Frogs chortle around the rim of the dam, invisible among the bulrushes. The craggy outline of Ben Lomond looms above us, cast in shadows as we pour our first G&T and relax on the deck. And we are soothed to sleep by the sound of rain on the tin roof.

We have been advised to bring everything we needed in the way of food and drink, as the nearest supermarket is in Campbelltown, 60kms away. But once we were settled, there seemed little need to wander so far. Strenuous hikes up Stacks Bluff or gentle strolls through the bush, sunny days and cool nights, fresh air, space and the scent of eucalyptus… what more could a girl want? It is blissfully relaxing and a welcome escape from tv and the internet, phones and newspapers, with the added joy of spotting the local wildlife.

One night, we leave some ham on the deck and watch with fascination as two quolls pop in for a bite to eat. The quolls are smaller than I had imagined. Knowing them to be carnivorous, I have expected something the size of a fox, but these are only the size of small cats.

The quoll – once known as the tiger cat despite the fact that it is spotted, not striped and not much like a cat at all, apart from its bushy tail – is nocturnal, and will build itself a nest underground, in a crevice in the rock, or under a fallen log. Some can also climb trees. Its soft, thick fur comes in a range of colours from strawberry blond to dark chocolate brown, spotted with neat white dots. Bush Heritage Australia explains that quolls have up to eight pups per litter, which spend the first weeks of their lives in a pouch. They have a limited life span in the wild – even without our help – of two to four years.

Once prolific across the continent of Australia, new Australians have unfortunately had a huge impact on quoll populations. Cars, trapping and loss of habitat, not to mention species we have carelessly introduced, have wiped out quoll populations everywhere. Apparently cane toads have decimated the Northern quoll population, and the Eastern quoll is now extinct on mainland Australia, thanks to feral cats and foxes. It is surviving in Tasmania by the skin of its sharp, pointy teeth. It uses those same teeth to keep down the population of rabbits, mice and rats, and also likes to munch on spiders, cockroaches and grasshoppers. As this helps to maintain a natural balance in the ecosystem, there is good reason to ensure that we don’t eliminate them entirely. Many wildlife charities are working hard to preserve the ones we have left and boost their numbers.

Then there is the possum, also a marsupial, also nocturnal. In the wild, he can be appealingly cheeky – unless protecting young – but possums are generally unpopular in towns, and considered a pest for their tendency to get into one’s roof space and demolish your fruit trees. Actually, I find them appealing, even in suburbia. They have big, dark eyes and soft, woolly fur, and an ability to hold onto things with an almost human grip. The common brushtail possums eat flowers, fruits and seeds, and occasionally grubs, birds eggs and even fledglings. They spend most of their time in trees – if they are not clattering about on your roof!  Supposedly somewhat solitary, they nonetheless communicate in a very noisy fashion,  using hisses and grunts, alarming screeches, chattering, and deep, guttural coughs. In. the wild, minus a busy road, they can live up to thirteen years

A couple leap onto our deck one night, with heavy thumps, just as we are falling asleep. Startled to see us peering through the window, they quickly retreat, but the following night, a braver – and larger – male arrives, who vacuums up all the ham we have left out with the alacrity of a drug addict snorting cocaine. Before long, he has worked his way along the deck to the sliding door, and is peering through the glass, obviously keen for more. The One & Only carves up an apple, offering him a piece at a time, which he grabs firmly with both hands. Apparently, this was insufficient to quell a rumbling stomach, and our uninvited guest clambers onto the railing, to peer in through the door that we have left open just a crack. We know if we invite him in, he’ll soon be sitting at the table, demanding dessert. So we don’t.

Down by the creek, wallabies drop by at twilight, knowing the staff are happy to provide sundowner nibbles. Deborah, who has worked here for a couple of years, tells us there are five friendly wombats who occasionally waddle through the camp to say hello, but sadly, we don’t get to meet them this time. Pademelons and potoroos are also abundant, but I have yet to learn the difference. So, for now, they are all wallabies!

While it rains every night in this temperate forest, the days are glorious: clear and sunny and warm, and the clouds are cotton puffs of lightness. Yet, in winter, the pond freezes over, the grass glistens with frost, and there is snow on Ben Lomond, which brings cross-country skiers and toboggans to the national park. I am keen to come back in winter – armed with Ugg boots and thermal underwear, and tyre chains of course. Oh, to see a wallaby in the snow!

*With thanks to the One & Only for his lovely photos.

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