Many years ago, we drove across the central plains of Canada, following the railway in an almost straight line from the rim of Shoal Lake to the Rocky Mountains. For almost two thousand kilometres, through Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta, much of the landscape is as flat as a pancake, apart from the occasional grain silo standing like a beacon beside the railway line.
In country Australia, similar silos are being used to promote rural towns by inviting local and international artists to paint them. Giant murals of native birds, our unique Australian mammals, farm animals and local heroes, these vast and vivid displays are attracting tourists to many out-of-the way, off-the-beaten track, middle-of-nowhere, beyond-the-black-stump kind of towns.
While the One & Only was walking the Heysen Trail, we came across a beauty in Wirrabara. Painted by Sam Bates – aka SMUG – this contemporary, Australian-born street artist, now based in Scotland, came home to create some amazingly realistic murals with cans of spray paint. This one, in the mid-north, just west of Peterborough, features Tumby Bay farmer, Dion LeBrun, a pair of Red-capped robins and eucalypts – what else? – in the background.
There are currently more than sixty painted silos across New South Wales, Victoria, Western Australia, South Australia and Queensland, and they are growing in popularity.
The One & Only took our youngest on a road trip a couple of years ago to find silos in north-western Victoria, which started at Patchewollock and included those at Sheep Hills. Here Victorian artist and ‘street culture kid’ Matt Adnate has told the story of Indigenous Australians on six enormous silos in loud, strong colours that stand out like sore thumbs from the dusty paddocks surrounding them. The faces of two Elders, one man, one woman, and symbols of the ancestral past, look in towards their youth and their future, Curtly and Savannah. After a stint in Spain, Adnate went on to paint huge murals in inner city Melbourne suburbs. His reputation grew and he has often been invited to countries where he became fascinated by other First Nation cultures.
Last week, we were meandering along a back road towards Melbourne and found a short trail in north-eastern Victoria: Tungamah, St James, Devenish and Goorambat. Artists, both local and international, are getting creative on these vast canvases. No artist myself, I’m guessing that it can’t be easy to get the perspective right on a curved surface, not to mention painting on such a huge scale. Cherry pickers can help, but it is still an enormous undertaking.
The first one we came to was at Tungamah, on the banks of Boosey Creek. Apparently, these silo paintings, commissioned in 2018, were the first to be completed in north-eastern Victoria. And having set such a fine an example, three more towns along the same railway line heading south soon followed suit. These first three at Tungamah, depicting native birds, were painted by Western Australia street artist Sobrane Simcock, our first female silo artist. On the two taller concrete silos, there are dancing Brolgas, almost 30m high. The shorter silo has been decorated with a collection of our favourite birds: a Kookaburra, a Galah, a kingfisher, a Sulphur-crested Cockatoo, blue wrens and a white Ibis hiding in the long grass.
In St James, Tim Bowtell has painted murals to the memory of GJ Coles of the supermarket chain, who was born here in 1885. He has also painted images of the huge cart horses who pulled the wagons carrying bags of wheat to the railway sidings from the 1880s. Bowtell, a street artist from the area, has painted murals on silos and water-tanks, shipping containers and old RSL buildings.
At Devenish, the silos have been painted to memorialise the men and women from the area who enlisted during and since World War One. On the two concrete silos there is a modern female army medic beside a WWI nurse, both standing knee-deep in poppies. These were officially unveiled on Anzac Day in 2018, a tribute to the 100-year centenary of the end of the First World War. On the shorter silo, unveiled a year later on Anzac Day 2019, there is a tribute to the Australian Light Horse: a WWI cavalry soldier stands beside his horse.
The mural artist is Cam Scale, who specializes in these large scale figures, which he paints using aerosol, oil and acrylic.
Our final stop was Goorambat. Here, in 2018, Jimmy Dvate began by painting a barking Owl on the tall concrete silo in 2018. His model, Milli, lives at the Healesville Sanctuary in Badger Creek, Victoria. Now an endangered species, locals hope Milli’s huge presence on the silo will help to save these beautiful birds from extinction. The two shorter silos were painted in honour of the local farming community. Three local Clydesdales and multiple award winners – Clem, Sam and Banjo – trot three abreast on one silo. On the other is a scene of an old farmhouse in a paddock, framed by a towering gum tree in the foreground.
Dvate has created many larger-than-life murals of flora and fauna on grain silos, water tanks and large walls, very often working with conservation groups to specifically target endangered species. Formally trained in graphic design and visual arts at Monash University, Dvate has become renowned for his Melbourne street art and graffiti.
Wouldn’t such art have enlivened our drive across Canada? Twenty five years later, and a team of artists from Montreal began turning huge silos in eastern Ontario into similar works of art. Called ‘Popsilos’ the craze began to celebrate the 150th Anniversary of Canada’s Confederation. Maybe it’s time to return and see if anyone has picked up the idea farther west…
‘For we are the new nomads, the twentieth century, who wander the earth with trailing roots, our possessions portable, our dwellings temporary.’ ~ Charmian Clift
And lo! We are finally on the road again, aboard our trusty VW Camper, Barney.
Since I last wrote of Barney, he has been holed up with a mechanic by the sea, facing numerous organ transplants. Unhappy with his first engine, then his second, we ordered a third, brand new one from Germany, transported, we think, by dinghy, given the time we have waited for its arrival. Numerous other parts have also been replaced, too many to go into detail. He has been made over to such an extent, however, that we wondered if perhaps he wasn’t happy as a boy. So, we have also given he/him a sex change. She/her is now Virginia. Aka Ginny, the Gin Bin. Or perhaps the Tranny Van??We are even considering dusting her in pink paint or covering her in frangipani stickers to complete the transformation.
Anyway, happier she undoubtedly is, in her new form, and she/her has taken us merrily along the roads – gravely potholed though they are – all the way to Beechworth and beyond, via Strathalbyn and Buninyong, Tooberac and Euroa.
It has been jolly cold however, so we have relied on friends and relations to provide sleeping quarters, rather than roughing it in the Great Outdoors. Red wine helps of course, and we did bring an assorted box of liquid refreshment to share along the way.
One we love, but rarely indulge in, is Hugh Hamilton’s ‘The Oddball, made from saperavi grapes. Although a relatively new variety in Australia, saperavi is, nonetheless, an ancient grape that has been popular in the regions around the Caucasus Mountains for 6,000 years or more. Indigenous to Georgia, which lies between the Black and the Caspian Seas, it has also become well known in neighbouring countries such as Russia, Armenia and Azerbaijan, the Ukraine and Uzbekistan. Its name may change depending on the local language, but it will always present as an inky blue/black grape that produces really deep red wines that are great for cellaring. What makes saperavi unusual is that the flesh of the grape is also dark red or purple, unlike most red wine grapes, which have a clear or white pulp. Then, it is the skins, left in the wine juice during fermentation, that provide the colour. With saperavi, the grape juice is red, too, and therefore, when combined with the skins, the juice becomes even darker in colour.
Hardy at high altitude and in extreme cold, saperavi creates a full-bodied wine with an earthy aroma and a taste redolent of cabernet sauvignon. A mouthful roles over the tongue with suggestions of spice and autumn fruits – cherry, blackberry and black plum – but also with savoury notes of liquorice and coffee, leather and tobacco. High in tannin, it can be a good idea to decant it before serving.
Beyond the Caucasus Mountains, only a few wineries are cultivating saperavi. There are a handful in New York and Pennsylvania, and a few more in Australia, but it is still largely unfamiliar to most western wine drinkers. Once made in clay pots or amphorae, the Georgians – who call it a quevri, would line the jug with beeswax, and fill it with unfiltered wine. Buried in the ground, with only its neck exposed, the mouth of the amphorae would then be covered with a lid made of wood or stone, and sealed with clay, and the wine left to ferment naturally. Of course, modern wine makers – particularly those in Australia and America – prefer to use glass bottles and filter the wine before sealing the bottle with a cork. This makes the outcome rather more predictable than the more traditional method.
In McLaren Vale, this traditionally Georgian grape seems to be thriving, although so far from home. Hugh Hamilton was introduced to it by an old Georgian friend. And he followed a hunch that this unique and ancient grape might just blend rather well with the gutsy McLaren Vale Shiraz. The creation of ‘Black Ops’ (70% shiraz to 30% saperavi) was a somewhat clandestine operation, but the result has had a big impact, and has long been a favourite with Hamilton’s Black Sheep Club members. And while a few are seen to flinch at the unusual, unfamiliar flavour of the pure saperavi (The Oddball), others are delighted to discover something a bit different. That difference has been highlighted by the unique saperavi labels. Of typically Georgian design, Hugh’s famous black sheep sits proudly in the centre.
And meanwhile we wander on through country Victoria. There are plenty of wineries around here too, but I’ll get on to them another day. Now, its time to pour a sundowner and crank up the heater before the frost sets in.
*I have borrowed the image of ‘The Oddball’ from Hugh Hamilton’s website. Hope that’s OK, Mary?
Last weekend, we spent a damp but utterly undreary weekend wandering through North Adelaide, dodging the odd shower, exploring blue plaques on the front gates of 19th century and early 20th century homes, dipping into quirky coffee shops, strolling along tiny back streets, peeking into a basketful of churches, some converted into art galleries.
Then we came across an art gallery at the western end of Melbourne Street – not in a church – that houses The David Roche Collection. David J Roche AM (1930–2013), collected art for almost sixty years and includes paintings, furniture, sculptures, ceramics, and clocks from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In 1999 he established the David Roche Foundation to house and preserve his collection for future generations, at Fermoy House.
This year, the gallery is also hosting a magnificent Arthur Boyd exhibition: The Life of Saint Francis. The poster caught my eye as we walked down Melbourne Street, bringing up memories of Boyd’s tapestry of trees in Parliament House in Canberra. Commissioned in 1983 for the new Parliament House, it was completed in 1988. Boyd painted a bush scene in the Shoalhaven River area in southern New South Wales, from which the weavers designed a vast tapestry. Nine metres high and almost twenty metres wide, it is awe inspiring. I remember gazing rapturously upon the stand of enormous eucalypts that took fourteen weavers two years to create.
More recently, I became reacquainted with Arthur Boyd through a sketch that belongs to our Lyceum Club, which depicts St Francis blowing one of his companions, Brother Masseo, into the air. And, as it turns out, this sketch is part of his Saint Francis series. Boyd’s tapestry of the scene shows the two naked men, stripped of worldly accoutrements, floating heavenwards.
For my non-Australian readers, Arthur Boyd was an Australian artist from an overly achieving family of artists. His grandfather, parents, brother, wife, and children have all painted. Boyd himself, was a painter, potter and printmaker. The Art Gallery of New South Wales describes him thus:
He painted lyrical and emotive allegories on universal themes of love, loss and shame, often located in the Australian bush… Boyd had a strong social conscience, and his paintings engage deeply with humanitarian issues.
Despite spending a dozen years in London, Boyd often painted Australian landscapes. But he also drew heavily on mythology and religion, and this is apparent in this unusual exhibition in North Adelaide. Borrowed from the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra, the exhibition consists of a selection of rarely seen tapestries, lithographs, pastels, and sketches depicting the life of Saint Francis of Assis. In 1975, Boyd left more than 2000 works of art to the NGA and the people of Australia. That same year, the NGA acquired the St Francis tapestries at cost price.
This particular series arose from a trip to Assisi and Gubbio in Italy in 1964. Arthur Boyd created a plethora of drawings in crayon and ink, to capture his initial ideas about St Francis and the stories that particularly piqued his imagination. The drawings became paintings in pastel, and the paintings were used to design twenty tapestries at the Tapeçarias de Portalegre atelier in Portugal. Under Boyd’s direction, weavers then created the St Francis suite over four years.
Each tapestry is 2.5 x 3 metres – and I am looking at my own 2×3 m rugs as I write this and comparing the large wall space needed to hang even one of these stunning creations. According to the gallery notes, there are 2500 stitches per square metre – which is beyond my capacity to imagine – and the collection ‘explores the universal human conditions of love and pain, sacrifice, and compassion through the artist’s highly original interpretation of the legend of the medieval Italian saint.’
The St Francis lithographic suite (25 editions of 21 lithographs) is deceptively simple, the contrast between black and white reflecting the constant battle between good and evil in the life of St Francis. But the vast tapestries – copied from Boyd’s pastel illustrations for Tom Boase’s book about St Francis – use strong, rich colours. Gold, red, orange and splashes of bright blue ‘illustrate… the fire of faith burning bright, a theme that explicitly infuses the legends of St Francis.’
The tapestries are huge, and I was enthralled by the range of the colours used when I peer closely. There is a huge temptation to run ones fingers over the vibrant threads, but I obediently follow instructions and, if somewhat regretfully, kept my hands firmly behind my back.
These glorious tapestries have rarely seen the light of day. In 2009, they escaped briefly from the vaults of National Gallery of Australia, where they had been stored for over thirty years, to be exhibited at the Newman College chapel at Melbourne University. Presumably they went back into the vaults after their short burst of freedom. Until now. Only eight would fit in the wee Newman College chapel. At Fitzroy House, it is possible to immerse oneself in twelve of them, as well as a selection of the drawings, pastels and lithographs from Boyd’s series on St Francis.
The tapestries tell the story of the wealthy childhood of St Francis and his subsequent rejection of his family and a lavish lifestyle, in order to live in poverty as an itinerant preacher. In the past, he has been painted dressed in the simple robes of the Franciscan friar. Boyd mostly draws him naked, often continuing to struggle against temptations of the mind, body and spirit.
Of the dozen on display, I had three or four favourites, and as is my wont, preferred those using the strongest colours. In the tapestry entitled St Francis being beaten by his father, Boyd uses vibrant colours to reflect the heightened emotion in the scene, as St Francis’ father attempts to force his wayward son into submission. Infuriated by his son’s desire to join the church, the father imprisons Francis and beats him. In this tapestry, the father is clothed in deep red, leaning over his son in rage, a long stick in his hand, his hair streaming behind him (Boyd uses hair a lot to portray emotion), while Francis cowers at his feet. The stick divides the figures of father and son and points up to the family gold glittering in the arched window above them, illustrating the father’s love of material possessions above the love of his son and the church. It is the moment when all familial bonds were severed between father and son.
The tapestries are incredibly moving, and the colours used – red, gold, white, black and blue – have special religious significance: black for sin, darkness and death; white for purity, kindness and repentance; red for judgement or Christ’s blood; blue to represent mercy and the spirit of baptism; green for the cycle of life and resurrection, and gold or amber for the glory of God and eternal life. And suddenly, the meaning behind the images go even deeper…
“Eating is the only thing that consoles me.” ~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Importance of Being Earnest.’
Here in South Australia, winter has brought with it a deluge of rain and some unexpectedly chilly weather. As we shiver and quake through these damp days, the mind turns eagerly to comfort food: pies and puddings, thick soups and gravies. Once known as ‘nursery food’, the Victorians considered it good for the soul – well, for the souls of their children anyway – to be fed on plain, monotonous, starch-ridden food, where meat and vegetables were boiled to oblivion, and yet another rice pudding was enough to send Mary Jane into hysterics (see A.A. Milne’s poem ‘Rice Pudding’).
Admittedly, poorly cooked nursery food was unpalatable to the extreme, but the thought of hearty, well-cooked meals, be they ever so starchy, is a comfort to the stomach in mid-winter. And the best place I know to find such food is in the cosy confines of a good, old fashioned pub; that English staple that has happily transferred its affections to our own far distant shores.
Last weekend, we spent a couple of nostalgic days roaming through North Adelaide, where English style pubs are plentiful. If not quite on every corner, they compete fiercely for being almost as numerous as those religious sanctuaries that earned us the sobriquet City of Churches. We counted a dozen scattered around this particular postcode, many baptised with suitably Anglicized names: The British, The Kentish, the Queen’s Head, the Royal Oak, the Oxford, the Lion.
Although we no longer indulge in the pub crawls of our student days, we nonetheless found our way to a different pub both nights for dinner and were thoroughly impressed with the traditional menus we found there, filled with schnitzels and steaks, shepherds’ pies and sticky date puddings. Perfect for a wet, wintry night. And, happily, the quality was much better than our poor little Victorian antecedents might once have been forced to eat.
On Friday, we strolled around the corner to an old favourite: The Kentish Arms at the lower end of Stanley Street, where it has stood for a hundred and seventy five years. Built in 1848, it opened only a dozen years after the first ships landed at Port Adelaide.
As children, our grandmother would take us to the beer garden, known as The Birdcage, where we were encouraged to cook our own meat on the outdoor barbecue. These days, the courtyard has been covered and renamed. The Wine Shed is open and airy, but well heated on this rather nippy evening. The walls are lined with shelves of empty wine bottles, and the only thing I would complain about – a common complaint I have about many casual eateries in South Australia – is whether it is absolutely necessary to have giant screens televising the current sports matches in the dining room. In the front bar, sure, where punters like to gather round the bar to watch the footy, but is it really necessary in a family oriented, sociable space like the Wine Shed, where they simply serve to distract us from jovial conversation?
Apart from that mild complaint, however, I have nothing negative to say about our evening at the Kentish. Our waiters were smiling and friendly, and never far away. The food came promptly, and there was plenty of it. The veggies were not overcooked, and the steaks came just as we had ordered them. My father loved his ‘Herb Crusted Lamb Rack.’ Mum was more than happy with her ‘Plum Glazed Crispy Pork Belly.’ Our slight variations to the menu were cheerfully adopted – ‘May I please have these vegetables with the steak instead?’ ‘Of course!’ – and all at a reasonable price. And while there is definitely a splash or two of glamour on the menu (Vietnamese chicken or vegetarian nachos), one of the staples is Bangers and Mash. The pub was busy and noisy, obviously popular with locals, and oh, the joy of only having a short walk back to our hotel, after emptying a couple of bottles of smooth South Australian red wine.
The following evening, wandering back from the city, we passed The British Hotel on Finniss Street. This sandstone pub is even older than The Kentish, having first opened its doors in 1838. Again, the giant screens in the dining area, but again, a terrific menu, lovely staff, and prompt service. We strolled in without a booking on a busy Saturday night but were lucky enough to find a table for two just waiting for us. Seated in another enclosed beer garden, we found the space homely, warm and welcoming.
As always, Tripadvisor reviews give it a mixed reception, but considering how busy they were – with huge tables full of guests obviously celebrating major birthdays – we couldn’t fault them. The One & Only was delighted with his extra crispy chips to accompany his favourite beef schnitzel, and my pork and fennel meatballs with linguine were hot and delicious.
One of the particularly joyful things about these old pubs is the heartwarming, bone-warming and atmospheric delight of an open fire. And the British Hotel’s signature dish is true comfort food: beef and mushroom pie with pea mash, tomato chutney and red wine jus.
Both these historic watering holes are what I would consider classic English pubs, with an added dab of polish and a pinch of international cuisine that makes them both cosy and comforting for couples, families, and friends to gather. And on top of all the delights of a quality menu, both have good wine lists, boutique beers. The nineties introduced the term ‘gastropub’ which may have become a tad overused and possibly outdated, but as we sadly watch so many pubs close down or lose their edge to smarter, more modern restaurants, I was thrilled to rediscover a couple of those cosy, happy, hospitable pubs that focus not only great beer, but top notch food to satisfy my cravings for comfort food. Cheers!
Now we are back in South Australia and in the depths of a damp winter, it is hard to believe that only a few weeks ago we were wandering through Rome, immersed in spring. Early in the tourist season, the crowds were already building around the more famous sites, but we happily meandered through deserted back streets lined with blossom, soaking up the atmosphere, and coming across a few surprising secrets.
One such secret was the National Museum of Musical Instruments. This fabulous museum is not widely advertised, but it does rate a mention in the Lonely Planet Guide to Rome. When we realized it was only a ten minute walk from our B&B, we thought it might be worth a visit. After a coffee in the park, overlooking the old city walls, we went in search of this hidden gem. And hidden it certainly was: tucked behind the Basilica di Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, in what was once the Palazzina Samoggia. The Museum was established in 1974 and filled with the substantial remnants of a private collection belonging to Evangelista Gennaro Gorga, an Italian lyric tenor born in 1865. He gave up a successful career at the age of thirty four, presumably to focus on his collecting habit. Intent on creating an encyclopaedical collection of musical instruments from archaic to the present day, Gorga would collect more than 150,000 antiques, that included not only musical instruments but toys, pottery, and ancient weapons. Although he came from a wealthy Italian family, he would spend an entire fortune on this vast collection. Eventually, up to his ears in debt, he was forced to sell many pieces during the Depression, and eventually, he gifted the rest – mostly musical instruments – to the government, to allay his debts. These pieces were eventually collected from various storage facilities across Rome and now make up a large portion of the current Museum collection. There are also some wonderful paintings that feature musicians through the ages.
So, what did I learn about the history of musical instruments? Or more to the point, what do I now remember? (If you already know all there is to know on the subject, feel free to skip the rest of the story. For those of you prepared to read on, I will try not to waffle for too long.
The museum holds a fascinating collection of more than 800 rare and ancient instruments from Italy and Europe, from the sacred Egyptian sistrum, used in dances and religious ceremonies (it sounds like one of those wooden rattles used at football matches) to the 19th century zither. The zither probably originated in Persia, and has appeared in many cultures in various forms, particularly in the Far East. The earliest known surviving instrument of the zither family dates from 433 B.C. It is a Chinese guqin, found in the tomb of Marquis Yi of Zeng.
Signposting around the museum explains that bowed string instruments evolved from the hunting bows of central Asia, their popularity spreading westwards, finally arriving in Italy and Spain in the 10th century. By the end of the 15th century, the invention of the arched bridge to support the strings, and a casing made from separate pieces of wood helped to produce a much more sophisticated sound, and eventually led to the invention of the violin. During the 18th and 19th centuries, the violin would evolve further, as orchestras playing in large concert halls required a bigger sound.
Percussion instruments were first used in Persia and Turkey. As the instruments of the Muslim Menace, they were banned in Europe for centuries. Then, when finally deemed acceptable, these instruments (drums, cymbals, tambourines) were used by military bands. By the end of the eighteenth century, they had also begun to appear in western orchestral music.
Instruments can be divided into three categories based on how they produce sounds: string, wind, and percussion. The piano is a string instrument (think of all those vibrating wires under the lid) and it’s ancestry can be traced back to the clavichord, harpsichord, spinet, virginal and dulcimer. Aren’t they lovely, musical words? The museum has a beautiful assortment of early pianos in many different shapes and sizes, as their creators experimented with shape and sound and volume.
The dulcimer dates back to circa 500BCE, and was used in the Middle East, Southwest Asia, and China. It reached Europe in the 11th century. A simple resonating box with strings stretched on top of it, there is a small hammer to hit the strings, just like the piano. Then, around 1500, the harpsichord was created in Italy. and would travel north to France, Germany, and Great Britain. Its system of strings and soundboard, and the overall structure of the instrument resemble those that can be found in a modern piano.
The piano is also part of the keyboard family. Keyboards originated in Ancient Greece, where the organ was invented, sending bursts of air through hollow pipes to make sound. Fourteenth century craftsmen improved upon the organ to develop the clavichord.
The first piano was invented by an Italian, Bartolomeo Cristofori (1655-1731) in Florence, for the Medici Family, who were great patrons of the arts and music. Cristofori, unhappy with the lack of control over the volume level of the harpsichord, swapped the plucking mechanism with a hammer to create the piano as we know it today. Originally, it was known as the “clavicembalo col piano e forte“. Literally, this means a harpsichord that can play soft and loud noises. A complicated name even for Italians to say, it was soon shortened ‘piano.’ The museum owns one such piano. Built by Cristofori in 1722, it is one of only three to survive, and apparently the best preserved of the three.
We also came across the oldest German harpsichord in the world, and the famous ‘Harp Barberini.’ What was especially nice at the museum, was that audio-visual displays allowed you to listen to the sound these instruments would make when played. Many of these instruments have been beautifully decorated and painted, and would look equally splendid in an art gallery. Next time, we will try and time our visit for one of the musical reviews or concerts that take place at the museum.
I am a little behind with this review on a momentous day for the UK, as sad news from home had us dashing back to Australia before the last string of flags had been removed from park railings across London. Nonetheless, it was a day worth recording…
My head is still trying to catch up with my body as I wander through English woods awash with bluebells. Can it really be three and a half years since I was last here? We landed at Heathrow in March, in sleet and snow, only to fly south the next morning. Two months on, and Spring has sprung. Pink blossom, golden daffodils and polychromatic tulips fill flowerbeds, tubs and verges. The skies are blue, and by midday I am basking in warm sunshine. Yet, before I know it, we will be shooting back to chilly days and chillier nights in the wintry southern hemisphere. It all seems surreal. But I have more on my mind than the weather and bluebells. It is part of a grand plan to be in England for the Coronation…
Unfortunately, on the day that Charles III is to be crowned, the sun has chosen to take the day off, and the sky is weeping upon London and all the crowds lining the streets to watch the parade. Oh well, never mind. After all, every one of the last five coronations was blessed by showers. Rain. It’s what England does best.
Bunting has been strung up through the streets of London, flags are flying, and Royal memorabilia is flooding the shops. Surprisingly, much of that memorabilia depicts the late Queen, as manufacturers try to clear their over-stocked shelves. Apparently, Australia is talking more about Republics than Royalty, but today I’m not listening. While inherited power may be a thing of the past and tradition has become a dirty word, there are good things to be said about it that are being swept aside in the stream of negativity about all the terrible, unforgiveable things done by our predecessors, for which we must be endlessly contrite and apologetic. Tradition does not have to be all about negative connotations, overbearing empires or historical blunders, to be dismissed as shameful or embarrassing. Tradition can also be about gathering people together and creating unity. Ironically, current ‘woke’ beliefs often seem to be more divisive than unifying. ‘This is the right way, therefore the rest of you are wrong!’ A modern slant on a sense of self-righteousness that is as old as the hills.
Tradition can provide us with a sense of continuity, which in this era of fast and constant change, may bring some of us a sense of comfort, and a connection with our past. It can also provide us with a sense of belonging. And although most of us might agree that inherited positions of power should not be indulged, let’s briefly contemplate some of the positive things about this particular Royal Family’s inheritance. It’s celebrated faces sell a zillion magazines and memorabilia galore, and its beautiful palaces and ancient castles attract many millions of tourists each year, for which the British economy and the Treasury vaults must surely be a little thankful. Not to mention all the work that this philanthropic family does for the welfare of others. OK, there have been mistakes, some of them beyond embarrassing. But perhaps people in glass houses shouldn’t through stones, for after all, is there any family in the world that can claim to be perfect? And the mistakes undoubtedly sell more magazines…
Meanwhile, while I may not be pressed against the barriers along The Mall, my hair dripping damply into my eyes in the unquenchable mizzle, I have found my own sense of belonging. Sitting before a fire, surrounded by friends old and new, we toast the new King with lashings of champagne and Coronation Spirit, avidly watching the parade on a large TV screen and wearing almost-real diamond tiaras from Clare’s Accessories.
The crowning of King Charles (not ‘coronating’ America!) is the first Coronation this century. Part of an ancient tradition, the glorious spectacle that accompanies this historic event is something the British have earned a reputation for doing extremely well. Kings and queens have been crowned in Westminster Abbey since 1066 – almost a thousand years. And each piece of Royal regalia we see today has had a role in Coronations past and present for generations. That includes the 17th Century Jewelled Sword of Offering which is being carried by the first woman ever to do so: Penny Mordaunt, Leader of the House of Commons.
As the Diamond Jubilee State Coach – which was built in Australia for the late Queen – makes its way down the Mall towards Admiralty Arch, the Coronation Quiz lies disregarded on the kitchen table. At breakfast time we could answer a mere handful of the 100 questions. By dinner time, after listening carefully to the TV commentary, we will be experts about all manner of Royal trivia. (Although I still can’t find an answer to why those beautiful Windsor Greys have bright blue braids.)
Now, we watch as invited guests enter Westminster Abbey, attempting to name every member of the Royal Family, major and minor, the odd foreign dignitary, our favourite celebrities. Who wouldn’t love to be among them, in a front row pew? Yet, they have been pouring into the Abbey since breakfast time, and will have to wait for hours until the King and Queen arrive and the service begins. And thanks to the expertise and superior position of TV camera crews, we actually have a better view of the proceedings than most of those enviable and well-dressed guests, who are trapped on hard seats that are likely to be a million miles from the nearest loo or a glass of champagne. And, unlike those standing in Hyde Park, watching it all on giant screens, we are warm and dry.
In my youth, I was happy to venture into London with a milk crate, and stand shoulder to shoulder with thousands of strangers lining the streets for the wedding of Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson. These days, I am not so fond of crowds, and definitely prefer a few home comforts to standing in the rain. I might wish later that I had braved the crowds and taken my place in the Mall, as I did in 1986. Certainly, the atmosphere at such close proximity to the parade is electric with excitement. But after all, from our front seats by the fire, it is much easier to reach the champagne. And the loo. So, here’s to Chaz and Cami. And ‘God Save the King!’
*The man on the right was providing commentary in sign language for the deaf.
As we drive through the Sardinian countryside, we are greeted by a glorious array of wildflowers: coastal daisies and succulent, hot pink karkalla (ignominiously known as ‘pigface’) are draped in profusion over rocks and stone walls; buttercups and poppies dance among the tall meadow grasses; wild lavender and gorse litter the verges; pompoms of bright yellow wattle, oleander, fig trees, prickly pear and unusually lush eucalypti merge into thick hedgerows along the roadside, occasionally nudging one another aside to allow a glimpse of the crystal clear ocean, the colour of lapis lazuli or peacock feathers. Huge granite rock formations, dome shaped nuraghi, round coastal defence towers, a hillside village painted in pistachio, saffron, terracotta and pink… there is something colourful to catch the eye around every twist in the road.
Yet the Sardinians (or Sardines as our friend David has nicknamed them) seem disinterested in views. It is rare to find a strategically placed coffee shop or restaurant. Outside every café, tables litter the pavements, but these more often face out onto a carpark, a wall or a main road rather than a beach, lagoon or pretty garden.
Castelsardo
Castelsardo, for example, is a beautiful mediaeval town on the north coast, high above the sea and fortified by thick walls and seventeen towers, its higgledy-piggledy houses secreted behind high sandstone walls that loom over the modern town below. From the castle walls, the views are breath-taking, looking out over the bay or across the sea towards Corsica.
As we wander the cobbled lanes, a plethora of cafés and restaurants tempt us to perch at their pocket-sized tables, balanced precariously on the cobbles, on stone staircases, or in the doorways of hobbit-sized bars. Yet most of these watering holes are halfway up a narrow, shaded alley, or squeezed into a miniscule plaza in a tight nook between a twenty foot wall and a church. Only a handful take advantage of the sea views. However, as we stand on a paved terrace looking out to sea, a chilly, boisterous breeze whips up and threatens to dislodge us. Suddenly, it is easy to see why locals prefer to duck down a side street, to avoid being blown away like Mary Poppins by an exuberant squall from the Dolomites… the Alps… the Artic?
Isola Tavolara
Our dinner in Porto San Paulo proves a rare exception to the rule. On the east coast, just south of Olbia, Ristorante Il Porto Lano is perfectly positioned out of the wind and above the sand, looking directly across to Isola Tavolara. This huge granite island rises out of the sea like a Spinosaurus, a giant sea turtle, or a marine version of Ayers Rock, depending on the angle.
Il Porto Lano has been around for over 20 years, and it has rated more than one mention in the Michelin Guide. We soon learn why. It is owned by local restaurateur Roberto Chelo Schletti and his Swiss wife, Claudia, who welcomes us warmly and ushers us out to the terrace for a glass of wine. The sommelier is more than happy to spend time explaining the pivotal wine varieties of the region: white Vermentino and red Cannonau di Sardegna. We start with “Sienda”, a Vermentino di Gallura from Mura, a winery literally just down the road. Gallura is the region; this north-eastern end of Sardinia, where grapes have been cultivated since the fourteenth century. “Sienda” means treasure. And it is.
The vineyards in Sardinia, lying between the sea and the hills, remind us of our own McLaren Vale. It is hardly surprising, then, that South Australian wineries such as Mitolo’s, Fox Creek and Challk Hill, have picked up the option to grow Vermentino there. However, our sommelier is not best pleased to learn we are stealing away with traditional Gallura grapes that, he is proud to inform us, make some of the best Vermentinos in the world. In fact, we have been tasting a lot of them since we arrived in Sardinia, and I am convinced. Vermentino has proved to be the perfect compromise between my favourite – Chardonnay – and the One and Only’s penchant for dry, crisp Rieslings.
The sea laps gently at the sand as we sip our wine and nibble on enormous green olives, and a variety of breads dipped in a heavenly olive oil. Slowly, the sun sets over the hills, turning the magnificent grey Tavolara rock a stunning shade of salmon pink. It is our final treat after a relaxing week on the east coast.
But, without further delay or ado, let’s move inside and order some food.
Of course, we are here on an island, and right beside the sea, so fish takes pride of place on the menu. But Sardinia is also renowned for its lamb – there are more sheep than people on this Mediterranean isle, apparently. Sardinia also has some unique pastas that we have been exploring over the past ten days. Fregola, for example, which means breadcrumbs, but is actually a typical Sardinian pasta made of semolina and rolled into small balls, perfect with seafood. Then there is Malloreddus alla Campidanese, Gnocchetti and my favourite, Culurgiones. This last is a cross between ravioli and gnocchi – a pasta shaped like an ear of wheat and stuffed with potato, cheese and mint, then topped with fresh tomato sauce. Of course, every region has its own variation, so we have had to try a lot of it. Other popular ingredients in Sardinia include saffron, artichokes, bottarga (a fish roe) and octopus, but not necessarily in the same dish.
However, the One and Only chooses an appetizer that manages to include most of them: an octopus salad with artichokes and bottarga. Very fishy and delicious! My choice is tuna tartar with green chicory and strawberry coulis. It is a colourful selection, perhaps due more to availability than an ideal taste combination, as the strawberry coulis somewhat defeats the fresh but mild flavour of the tuna, and the coulis might, perhaps, have received a better response from a bowl of ice-cream. But the highlight of this round is definitely the prawns in crosta de pane carasau– a crispy flatbread crepe wrapped around a giant prawn and deep fried, forming an Italian variation on the spring roll. It is perfection.
We all succumb to the primi piatti. Our only problem is having to choose from multiple variations of delectable pasta dishes. I bow out of another round of seafood by choosing maccarrones de punzu with a lamb Bolognese. Simple and tasty, I am fascinated by the shape of these unusual macaroni that look like small witchetty grubs. The One & Only selects spaghetti with red prawns, asparagus and crispy taralli crumbs. Taralli, we discover, are kind-of-crackers, similar in texture to a breadstick, but twisted into a loose ring, sort of like half a pretzel, or a careless donut. Then crunched. Taste and texture combine to make an irresistible mouthful. Our friend chooses a local speciality: a bowl of simple but delicious cod fish ravioli, served with mussels and a pea velouté.
For the main course, Claudia suggests we share the crusted sea bass. Subsequently, a huge fish arrives in a thick coffin of sea salt. Our waiter ceremoniously cracks open the casing and debones the sea bass, before serving it up with roast potatoes and grilled zucchini. We have also ordered a side serving of steamed artichokes with celery purée and lentils. Well, who can say no to carciofi in season? Each mouthful sings, the salt somehow highlighting the flavour of the fish like a choirboy’s descant. I cannot speak for joy.
The lads somehow find room for dessert, but I am done… although, as it turns out, there is just enough space to steal a mouthful or two of the One & Only’s Orange sorbet laced with Campari. And perhaps a teaspoon of the Amaretto bavarese with raspberry sauce and crumble? This resembles an almond flavoured panna cotta and is so light and smooth, well, who could resist? Luckily my companions are kind and generous, and prepared to share. Then there is just enough energy between us to stagger to the car and drive home through the moonlight…
My head for history always gets vertigo when going back in time more than three or four hundred years. So, imagine how dizzy I am feeling today, standing before the ruins of a Nuragic village in the middle of Sardinia, dating back to the Bronze Age.
Please excuse my ignorance, but I had never even heard of the Nuragic Era till about five minutes ago. Probably because it hasn’t existed for about 4000 years, and then, only on the island of Sardinia. Or to be more precise: it lasted from somewhere in the vicinity of 2000 years before Christ, right up to the Roman colonization of Sardinia in 238 BC. Or possibly five hundred years later. So, very loosely speaking in fact, as no one is quite sure. And nothing was put in writing at the time, so now, it’s all down to guesswork.
‘Nuragic’ derives from the name of the era’s most characteristic monument, the Nuraghe, a megalithic tower, and seemingly the cornerstone of the Nuragic culture. To this day, more than 7,000 nuraghes are scattered across the Sardinian landscape about 3 square km apart. Archaeological excavations only began in the 1930s, and there is an ongoing debate among archaeologists about the purpose of these structures: are they religious edifices, military fortresses, tombs, furnaces, or simply protected villages? Recent opinion suggests they were built as defensible dwellings that included barns, wells and grain silos, but there is still much to be determined.
Santu Antine, just outside Touralba, is one of the better known Nuragic sites and one of the most important on the island. Indeed, several coach loads of tourists and school kids arrived before us, and poured into the small café-cum-ticket office that has been set up on the side of a narrow country road. Opposite the carpark, a dirt track lined with stone walls of volcanic rock leads us into the middle of a field and the remains of this ancient village.
It’s an amazing construction, not unlike Dr Who’s Tardis, in its capacity to contain a lot in a seemingly small space. In the shape of an equilateral triangle, the Nuraghe Santu Antine has three corner towers, and a taller central tower which originally rose over 25 metres high. Curving corridors have been created between huge rock walls and run between each tower. We climb steep spiral stone staircases to the upper levels, and wander along the upper terraces to look over the countryside. A central chamber in the main tower curves into a domed ceiling, like a beehive. Another smaller chamber with a similar domed ceiling, sits on top. Suddenly, Christopher Wren’s double dome at St Paul’s Cathedral seems rather less ground-breaking.
The island of Sardinia was once rich in copper and lead mines, the products of which were traded across the Mediterranean. Nuragic people became skilled metal workers, creating a wide variety of bronze figurines, jewellery and weapons such as swords, daggers and axes. There have also been more recent findings of Nuragic sandstone statues up to 2.5 metres high.
Lying in Mediterranean waters to the west of Italy, Sardinia is steeped in layer upon layer of history; or rather strings of spaghetti, in which I have become thoroughly entangled. There are tales from every age: from Neolithic arrow tips of obsidian (black volcanic stone) to Nuragic towers, tombs and small dwellings used more recently as shepherds huts; from Phoenician mariners and Carthaginian warriors to Byzantines and Arabs, who all took turns at invading this small, mountainous island. The Romans sent farmers who planted crops so efficiently, they made Sardinia the grain silo for the entire Roman Empire. In the last few centuries, the Spanish, the Savoys and the Austrians have batted Sardinia back and forth like a shuttlecock, eager to get their hands on the island’s wealth of natural resources. Malaria, massacre and migration have all taken a heavy toll on the indigenous population over the centuries. It wasn’t until 1947 that Sardinia gained a modicum of independence such as they had not enjoyed since the Phoenicians built their first inland fortress in 650 BC. Today, tourism has replaced the mining industry, largely thanks to the Aga Khan’s development of the Costa Smeralda (now the most expensive real estate in Europe) which has helped the island step into the 21st century. Recently, thanks to the huge annual invasion of tourists, Covid has caused as much disruption here as anywhere that attracts international travellers. And in 2021, bush fires destroyed some 50,000 acres of farms and livestock, vineyards and olive groves. One step forward, three steps back…
Enough history? How about some geography? Sardinia is renowned for its glorious beaches and scalloped bays, and wild, rocky coastline. Tourism brochures, websites and my own gospel – the Lonely Planet Guide to Sardinia – wax lyrical about Tahitian style sand, sapphire blue waters and amazing marine life. Inland, it’s a different story. Steep, scrub covered, granite mountains with jagged silhouettes stretch along the skyline. The drive from Cagliari (on the south coast) to Olbia on the east includes a plethora of tunnels that charge across the rugged landscape. Further inland, roads twist and turn through the mountains and forests, and I am glad not to be on a bicycle, while the One & Only longs for his hiking boots.
I have been wanting to visit Sardinia for years. Surprisingly, it has a similar feel to our own Fleurieu Peninsula with slightly higher hills. Vineyards, olive trees, sheep and scrub cover the landscape at lower levels. The climate is almost identical. And, with a current population of just over 1,500,000, it has only a few thousand less people than South Australia, although the geographical size difference is huge: almost one million km² versus 24,100 km². So far, we have avoided Costa Smeralda, its wealthy tourists and its astronomical prices. The seaside towns further south are perfectly lovely, and low key, which we prefer, although I am sure they will get swamped with visitors in the summer. The colour of the water is breath-taking wherever you go, and our little cottage overlooks fields full of wildflowers that stretch across to the San Teodoro lagoon. The gorse spreads the scent of Piña Coladas on the warm breeze. A variety of raptors wheel overhead. And who knew Sardinia was a popular playground for pink flamingos?
Spotting wildlife has become a bit of a thing, every time we leave the cottage. Flamingo babies, tall and lanky but still white – their plumage will take a few years to turn pink – are plentiful in the estuaries and coastal lagoons. Wild goats with enormous horns dwell merrily on Isola Caprera, where Garibaldi lived for 24 years. The Tyrrhenian wall lizard is everywhere, clothed in bright green, almost psychedelic in the sunshine, and darts away like the Roadrunner as soon as it sees me. We even saw a tortoise yesterday, about as big as my hand, mumbling along in leisurely fashion through the scrub. Unaccountably, we haven’t spotted a single kangaroo, but I am on the look out for wild horses and wild boar.
I have bravely taken a quick dip in the sea and almost died of hypothermia – perhaps it is a bit early in the season for swimming. The cold winds sweeping along the beach haven’t helped. But there’s always a coffee or a glass of vermentino to reignite the life force once we emerge from the waves.
And so, it is time for a siesta and the anticipation of uncorking another bottle of Vermentino on the veranda in the late afternoon, and a plate of prosciutto and pecorino. Happy days…
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!
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…
