Gertsamtkunstwerk

Lunch at Chez Bruce

I wrote about Chez Bruce a few weeks ago and soon after I blogged that, we returned. It seemed a sensible way to beat the dark wet gloomy depressing days of early June. A three course weekday lunch is priced at £27.50, so it's no great surprise it gets fully booked up . We've booked at fairly short notice twice, and have had to make do with times not of our choosing. Which is fine - if I wanted to choose the precise time I'd be more organised. 

One of the things I appreciate about Chez Bruce is they have no airs and graces. I have been in downmarket eateries who take a customer's lack of knowledge as a personal insult. A sign of a good restaurant is when they patiently explain what the strange-to-me ingredients are.

I started with Brandade-stuffed piquillo pepper with a sauté of squid, tomato, chilli and aïoli. Brandade is an emulsion of salt cod and olive oil. Piquillo is a particular form of sweet pepper originating from Northern Spain. Chez Bruce say:

We are not into tricks in the kitchen and there are doubtless some who view our food as slightly old fashioned in this regard. We take this as a compliment!

Whilst I have a fondness for places with tricks - if done well - I also have enormous respect for the Chez Bruce approach. I see it as conservative, in a good way, letting the ingredients shine. Not overly fancy; surprisingly hearty, cooked perfectly. I particularly liked how the fish ingredients accompanied the vegetables*.

Although I love vegetarian food, it's a rare event when I opt for the vegetarian main course in a proper restaurant. This time I chose Pea tortelloni with asparagus, wild garlic and mousserons. A celebration of summer, notwithstanding the gloomy weather. 2012 is the year that I came to regard fresh peas as a sensual ingredient, not just a convenience food.The tortellini was delicate and thin, to melt on the tongue. Asparagus I love for just a few weeks a year. And I learned that mousserons are mushrooms, often known as Fairy Ring mushrooms. For far too long I ate only supermarket button mushrooms. Okay as far as they go, but nothing compares to the various nutty tastes of the numerous different varieties. We shared a bottle of very good white with the meal - I forget what now. And they have such an extensive wine list I can't even refresh my memory!

With my pudding I additionally had a glass of dessert wine. It was probably very foolish to indulge to this extent at lunchtime - but all I had to do was to get the bus home and snooze on the sofa. Strawberries in shortbread with creme patisserie (if I remember correctly) and elderflower jelly. Not the first time I have had jelly and shortbread this summer. They go well together and are surprisingly sophisticated. The fresh elderflower is a great foil for the sharpness of the strawberries.

I like the little touches. Parmesan chips; bread rolls I could happily repast on; chocolate truffles with the coffee. Can't fault the food, can't fault the service - sufficiently formal but not stiff; sufficiently friendly but not over-familiar. I really must go back again soon!

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* technically or botanically peppers and tomatoes are fruit. For cuilnary purposes they are vegetables!

From London Bridge to Bermondsey

This blogpost a continuation of the previous one Blackfriars to Bermondsey Thames stroll.

It's very simple to walk along the Thames in London, on either side. The route rarely leaves the riverside, and when it does, it is generally well-signed, and is exceptionally easy to do with no guidance. However, guidance does exist, eg a detailed a route descriptor by Walk London:

A gem of a walk — The Thames Path Walk needs no introduction as the main artery that runs through the beating heart of London. While the National Trail stretches westwards to the source of the River Thames in the Cotswolds, the London section covers a magical 40 miles (64 km) of easy, level walking on both sides of the river from Hampton Court Palace, through the heart of London to the East India Dock on the north bank and the River Darent on the south bank.

They've cut the walk into several chunks, quite useful for the first-timer, especially one who wants to see many sights. We started at the bottom of Page 2 of South Bank - Albert Bridge to Tower Bridge (Pdf) and we should probably have progressed further into: South Bank - Tower Bridge to Thames Barrier.

Just before London Bridge is Glaziers Hall, home to, unsurprisingly, the Worshipful Company of Glaziers, and other less predictable Worshipful Companies. According to Wikipedia, there are 108 such Livery Companies in the City of London. Of course, being south of the river, these are not in 'The City'. Wikipedia acknowledges that Glaziers Hall is outside the City. The oldest livery company is the Worshipful Company of Mercers dating back to before 1394. The Glaziers and Painters of Glass date to 1638; its predecessor to 1328. Its original hall burned down in the Great Fire in 1666; they have been in their current hall since 1977.The Scientific Instrument Makers achieved Livery status in 1964; the Launderers in 1977. It awards scholarships to laundry students. The most recent (1999) is the Worshipful Company of Security Professionals. People obviously care about these things, forming new companies and writing copiously on Wikipedia. I've lost the will to live just blogging them; consigned to List of Things That Don't Matter As Much As Their Members Would Like Us to Think.

I took a picture of The Shard. I cannot emphasise how much I hate The Shard.

The Shard is the tallest completed building in Europe, and is also the second-tallest free-standing structure in the United Kingdom

It is too tall and in the wrong place. This isn't actually so obvious from close-to, but as seen from the top of Brixton Hill, arguably the most important viewpoint, it is out of proportion. Because it is significantly closer than the City's skyscrapers, it doesn't appear slightly taller, but loomingly disproportionately out of place. Also, its ten apartments are valued at approximately £50 million, another reason to hate it.

For a while, the path leaves the River, but there are instructions to take a path back to the Thames by the private London Bridge Hospital, not to be confused with the free world class Guy's Hospital.

The riverscape changes dramatically at this point. Throughout our walk from Blackfriars we had been conscious of walking through the narrow streets of Elizabethan Bankside, but now, the riverbank was wide open for tourists alongside the Pool of London, the home of commercial shipping. Now overtly Touristy, I find it nearly impossible to imagine how it must have been with the wharves and cargo ships.

I was determined to photograph the various sailing ships moored in the aftermath of the Diamond Jubilee. We stopped for a drink at the Horniman at Hays. It would be difficult to imagine a more touristy situation for a pub, but gratifyingly, they were well-stocked with a wide range of ales, and had plenty of staff on duty. The ones I encountered seemed interested in proper customer service not just indifferently pushing product to tourists. The sheltered, heated beer-terrace is situated alongside HMS Belfast, another excuse to take photos!

 

 
 

 

Up until this weekend, I had never heard of Potter's Field. But I read that it was a venue for a peaceful Republican protest during the Jubilee pageant, and subsequently I learned that it is and was the venue for a Big Screen for London 2012. It has an impressive timeline, although it only because of relevance or interest in the 17th century. It was reopened after refurbishment in 2007. It's not a destination, but when walking in that area it's nice to have the Open Space. By the way, notice the Agitos on the flag outside City Hall. There was also an Olympic flag flying, just visible at the edge beyond the Union Flag.

I don't think I had ever walked East of Tower Bridge before this year, and now, in consecutive weekends, I had managed it on both banks. The Lower Pool of the Pool of London runs down to cherry Gardens pier in Rotherhithe. We didn't get that far, but it is a short and fascinating walk through Shad Thames. 

I always think you can't beat a good bit of modernish sculpture on a Riverside walk, but it's hard to think what to make of this piece.

I love this stretch of waterway, known as St Saviour's Dock. It is, apparently, the mouth of the subterranean River Neckenger - 
the name of the river is believed to derive from the term "devil's neckcloth" (i.e. hangman's noose) because pirates were hanged there. It separates Shad Thames from Jacob's Island. It is authentically Dickensian, being where Bill Sykes had his den in Oliver Twist, and where Sykes fell to his death in the novel. And invariably pointed out by the narrators on the Thames cruises downstream to Greenwich.

But, mostly, it was about boats. Boats moored on the Thames.

We spotted that many people had stopped, to watch. Someone was wielding a very serious camera. And then, we saw it, the Bascules of Tower Bridge rising. Bascule had been actually trending on Twitter the previous day, in people's excitement at finding a new word we could actually use. I think I like the bike park almost as much as the rising bascules!

We left the river soon after, to walk to Jamaica Road to catch a bus back to Elephant, but I couldn't resist another photo of The Shard.

Finally, I had read about the tens of tonnes of rubbish removed overnight by Westminster city council alone following the Diamond Jubilee boat show, and this made me sad, as I tried to guess how much was removed in total by the approximately six local authorities that fronted the route. I understand it's nearly impossible to avoid creating *any* litter, as things get blown about, but I see no difficulty in taking home what you bring. I have subsequently seem numerous reports during the summer of parks and beaches despoiled by people dumping their rubbish, assuming it's someone else's problems, and someone else will take it away. I find it ironic that this masquerades as patriotism. And I'm not impressed.

And who the hell gave these vandal patriots the right to trample the flowers? Are they following the example of the Scrounging Thieving Royals they worship for their indolence and disrespect?  Because I happen to think that sort of person is scum, and, frankly, should just stay away from London if that's how they treat public property, and exercise their mindless patriotism in their inbred villages.

 

Blackfriars to Bermondsey Thames stroll, part 1

The Diamond Jubilee happened. In parenthesis I am an ardent Republican. However, given that UK currently has a monarch, who's been in post 60 years I had no great objection to there being some events to mark this. I had an enormous objection to the accompanying media sycophancy, lies and propaganda that suggested, despite contradictory evidence, that everybody in the entire country was utterly delighted at these events and the specialness of the entire Extended Royal Family.

On the Sunday was a pageant on the Thames. About a million people attended. The same number that attends the annual Notting Hill Carnival which has a fraction of the publicity budget.

It was one of those ideas which seemed inspired to begin with, but should have been workshopped some more to identify that it would be a non-event, admittedly not helped by the torrential rain and general darkness of the day. The BBC's TV coverage was appallingly bad, hosted by far too many vacuous presenters famous only for being presenters (I exclude Clare Balding from criticism). The TV viewer was told that the Thames has lots of history, and is lined by famous buildings. And then they couldn't be bothered to to mention the history. Hour upon hour of boats progressing down the Thames in often heavy rain, and mind-numbingly dull interviews with idiotic members of the public. I particularly remember one offensive posh man who declared that, queuing for half an hour to get into Battersea Park, they  displayed the Dunkirk Spirit. Well, apart from not having to wade into the water and wait shoulder-deep for rescue while under enemy fire from the air, with tens of thousands dying. I detest this ignorant type of self-styled patriot.

 The following day was a Bank Holiday and the weather forecast was not too bad ie rain was not imminent and not forecast to be heavy or prolonged. I wasn't feeling great (still on sick leave) but needed to get out. We decided a walk along the Thames would be just the ticket. Plenty of opportunities to sit and rest, and plenty of opportunities to end the walk, close to public transport.

The Thames-side path was busier than I thought it would be. Perhaps people were inspired by the previous day's televised pageant, or perhaps they felt determined to get out for the Bank Holiday, but didn't wish to be stranded in a wilderness in a downpour.

The pubs were astonishingly ill-prepared; we walked out of two realising we would wait a long time to be served. Their low levels of staffing suggested they weren't expecting many customers on a Bank Holiday Monday during half term. Or maybe they were, and figured that the tourists would wait and wait to be served. We walked away. And laughed at a seriously naff A-board outside a seriously naff pub. We had a similar problem at the Mudlark - short staffed, not even acknowledging customers - before being served at The Globe, a mediocrely decent pub mostly famous for the fact that Bridget Jones's flat was above it in the films. In the book she lived in Notting Hill. I was rather sneery; if she could afford to rent a flat in Notting Hill (in a low-skill job) she should have bought a house somewhere that would later be up-and-coming. But no doubt, she thought you had to have a man to buy a house.

 

For the Jubilee Pageant, the Powers-that-Be had kept the Thames Barrier shut in order to trap in the high tide - unusually, because the Thames Barrier was built to protect London from high tides. I tried several times to get a decent photo of high choppy water lapping the shore; this was the best I could do.

We passed under the Millennium Bridge, and I tried to capture a quirky shot, not wholly successfully. Huw Edwards had referred to it as the Wobbly Bridge in the previous day's TV coverage, seemingly oblivious that it had been closed, the wobble remedied, and the bridge re-opened ten years ago. 

It was busy by the Globe Theatre, an obvious magnet for tourists, although I'm not entirely sure why. I suspect a fair proportion were no more enlightened than my dearly beloved who declared it to be "That Dickens Place". I suspect a vanishingly tiny proportion will have been to a Shakespeare Play, of their own volition, more than once.

 

 

 

Next was Southwark Bridge. If you go on a commentated riverboat cruise, the commentator invariably informs you of how little used this bridge is. I have only been over it on an open top bus, and just one scheduled route uses it. I believe it's popular with cyclists. Perhaps it should be shut to all vehicles except the existing bus route and given over to cyclists. As you walk under the bridge, you see a frieze depicting the Thames Frost Fairs. The frieze is poorly lit, and not very interesting. Besides, it's quite difficult to stop and take a look without blocking other people walking along a relatively narrow pathway.

We next encountered a ruin that I didn't know existed, Winchester Palace. This was the residence of the Bishop of Winchester, dating back to the 13th century and largely destroyed by fire in 1814. It's a listed Scheduled Monument managed by English Heritage, but, other than being 'old' I fail to see any great historical value. I could have taken better photos but was rather deterred by some out-of-towner who objected to me leaning on the railing. I was in no mood to fight.

The next stop was The Golden Hinde, as it bills itself. It takes quite a lot of looking to see that it isn't actually Francis Drake's Golden Hind; it's a replica that's actually younger than me. I can see the educational benefit of building a replica and inviting Primary School children to tour and learn physically, but it isn't the Golden Hind, despite how it's billed on its website or on Google Maps. There are sufficient caveats to escape Trading Standards or accusations of 'passing off' but I'm sure it must lure in plenty enough tourists who think they're on the actual Golden Hinde. Won't catch me handing over good money.

We strolled round the all-but-deserted Borough Market and the churchyard of Southwark Cathedral. We were not going to go in, because from the outside, although billed as a Cathedral, it looked a very ordinary Parish Church.  The present building is mainly Gothic, from 1220 to 1420, although the nave is a nineteenth-century reconstruction in a thirteenth-century style. Interestingly, the London Borough of Southwark actually contains three Cathedrals, but isn't a city.

In the churchyard we found one of the worst examples - in my opinion - of modern (ish) sculpture - a statue of the Holy Family by one Kenneth Hughes, seemingly from the 1970s. A brief trip around the internet suggests that others are as underwhelmed as I am, so full marks to Cisco 664 on Flickr who almost managed to obscure the statue in their picture.

We had a look inside in the Cathedral. There was a notice up asking for no photography, which I initially complied with. I then noticed that several other people weren't complying, either. Doesn't make it right, but, nevertheless, I whipped the camera out and, checking to see the flash was firmly off, took some photos of some of the more interesting artwork in the church. Some further details are available at the Cathedral's own website

Outside the Cathedral, Jimmy spotted this little man through a window, so I took a photo. Unfortunately, I also got Jimmy's reflection, but, hey! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From there, we passed under London Bridge and strolled along the Southern Bank of the Pool of London, to some extent re-tracing our Northbank route of the previous week. But that is another blogpost! 

A quick trip down to Brixton

This was ages ago now, but I decided to bring my camera when we went shopping. It was just before the Diamond Jubilee. I am fervently anti-Monarchist, but I always like Morleys' window display, even if it's Christmas in November, or promoting Valentine's Day, the ultimate miserable capitalist corruption of imagined romance. And their Diamond Jubilee display was eye-catching!

A queue formed behind me of other people also wanting to photograph it.

We went into Market Row to stock up on fish and vegetables. At which point, being that it was Friday afternoon, and the start of a long Bank Holiday weekend, it seemed wrong not to go for Cocktails at Seven.

I ordered an Electric Avenue, named after the Eddy Grant song, which was about the famous Brixton shopping street. I was warned that this was pretty much the end of range, because they were bringing in the summer menu and they were to introduce the Guns of Brixton cocktail.

I was also tempted into trying a mushroom boccadillo. Simple but tasty and filling. It's a nice little bar. I understand that there are Art Installations upstairs, although we didn't venture that far. Some people sat out the front on deckchairs, playing board games. It's a good spot to people-watch. I tweeted:

Twenty-something dual-heritage hipster bloke walks past rolling a crystal ball in his hand

Lots of little black kids - but no whites - walking around in cardboard crowns. Seems a pretty cruel act of deception

And later

A cream coloured Morris Minor festooned in Union flag bunting. Suspect a more modern car wouldn't get away with it.

Sometimes I think...Live theatre or the fillums cannot compare with Brixton on a Bank Holiday Friday afternoon

Seven cocktail bar stays significantly this side of hipster wank - someone trying to copy it might end up too far up their own arses. But, nevertheless, I was not oblivious to the elderly, poor-looking, largely Afro-Caribbean people walking by with looks of bemusement on their faces. There is a lot of discussion about the so-called gentrification of Brixton, and much of the discussion ignores the wider economic context, and the housing crisis in London and the South East. But with similar and disparate discussions about everything from opera to Olympic sports, the fact that some people have no disposable income should not act as a guilt-trip and a choker on people who are trying to run a small business or who do earn a living and do want to spend their 'disposable' income. It's almost as if the anti-gentrification hardcore want Brixton to be somewhere that shops lie empty, part dormitory, part ghetto.

 

The remaining days in Bournemouth

Our first morning in Bournemouth dawned...cold and misty. We dithered and hesitated, but realised that the sun would soon burn away the mist. It was warm enough down on the beach, and, although not busy, there were several hardy souls not letting a bit of chill deter them.

I soon discovered that the sea mist added rather than detracted from my photos. We strolled along the beach for a while, initially with the intent of finding deckchairs to hire and to sit down and relax. I watched a fisherman tidy and secure his boat after an early morning - or overnight - trip.

Another man had been out kayaking

The mist lent a mysterious sheen to the beach

The beach huts stood out against the misty cliffs.

The 'train' that runs along the promenade for the less mobile passed by.

We walked a long way along the beach, looking for deckchairs. Every pile we came to was locked up, and with no sign of any deckchair attendant. Finally, in desperation, I approached the RNLI lifeguard and she showed me to the secret office inhabited by the deckchair attendant. Thank you RNLI, I know it's not your job, but I was very tired and achey by now. 

The beach office was hidden in the undercliff with a very discreet sign. The chap explained that most of the deckchair stacks would not be open until 'summer'. He'd forgotten to unlock the ones that were open. By now it was 11 am; yesterday he had forbidden us to sit in deckchairs after 4pm. I was not exactly chuffed. His job is, basically, to hire out deckchairs (and beach huts). I would never get away with at work if I 'forgot' to switch on my PC.

But, still, we had deckchairs, and I was so excited I took a photo with my phone to tweet to my followers. We spent two very pleasant hours lying in the hesitant sun, with light reading to pass the time, and gloriously perfectly relaxed.

But the sun went behind the clouds, so we decided that we would go for coffee. We had spotted a nice looking Italian place, Vesuvio. We were tempted to get more than a coffee. I was very pleased with my smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel, the best I've had away from the shores of the Dead Sea.

 We returned to our deckchairs for half an hour or so, but it was getting cold. I had the stupid idea of climbing up the cliff through the Tropical Gardens, which were pleasant

 

And we found ourselves in the small but pleasant Argyll Gardens, where we partook of pot-of-tea/ice-cream as appropriate and sat for a while watching the bowls.

Good to see such a level of activity, including some apparently very elderly people, some of whom got over the difficult 'bending' issue with a bowl and jack pick-up. Some were fiercely competitive and I dreaded to think what levels of politics were at play.

We decided to walk back to the hotel, which is where I realised I had made a schoolgirl error. I had visualised the clifftop as being continuous, but it is cleft by chines - steep-sided river valley where the river flows to the sea through, typically, soft eroding coastal cliffs of sandstone or clays. So, tired, hot, sweaty and footsore, I was faced with a difficult walk inland in order to find a path across to the hotel. Totally exhausted, We ended up descending back to the beach, and, defeated, I was delighted to take advantage of the West Cliff Lift, or funicular railway, as Wikipedia would have it. And back to the hotel for a very necessary pot of tea for a long soak in the jacuzzi and a short swim in the pool.

The next day we thought that we would have a leisurely breakfast and then chill on the beach for an hour or two, and finish off in the spa before catching our train back. The plan went entirely to plan, except for one aspect.

We were on an almost entirely deserted beach, save for three metal detecting men wading knee deep in the water, and the occasional dog walker. Absolutely nobody else sitting on the beach, and very few on the undercliff prom. And then, suddenly, as Jimmy was drifting off to sleep and I was absorbed in my readable if forgettable book, our peace was shattered. Mile upon mile of deserted beach, and some utter wanker of a thug chose to bring his 'bootcamp' to stand right next to us. Bootcamp Beach said the thug's t-shirt, bearing the same logo as on this website. 'Professional and friendly ex-military PT team'.

Startled by this oik yelling and screaming barely feet from where we were sitting. I stood up, and this oik leered at me, so I started taking photos. He went utterly ballistic, yelling & screaming at me, telling me I wasn't allowed to take photos in a public place. I calmly explained that he was disturbing us, that there was a whole beach he could use. He repeatedly told me it was illegal to take photos in a public place, I repeatedly asked him by what law, he sneered, asking 'Are you a Member of Parliament?' - because im his small head only MPs are privy to public law, apparently! His body language was aggressive and I felt certain it would not take much provocation to provoke him into violence. Clearly expects women to do exactly as he says. Most of the party were acutely embarrassed and wanting to get away, and indeed they went away, only to return, to more shouting, and one ridiculous idiot of a woman waggling her bum and calling out "We're back, we're back." I felt a great deal of pity for her, so lacking in self-esteem that she pays to be bossed around by someone who attempted to bully me. Exactly the sort of person who gives the army a bad name (if he was in the army at all). I know if I ever decide to do a 'Bootcamp', I will ask very specific questions about the background checks done on 'instructors'.

I know there have been many problems with these 'boot camps' taking over certain London parks; and I noticed that the beach at Whitstable specifically banned 'commercial activity'. Bournemouth has a lot to offer, possibly more than any other seaside resort, with the possible exception of Blackpool which doesn't have the high cliffs of Bournemouth. But I thought there was a lazy complacency, from the bars, pubs and cafés unwilling or uninterested in serving, to the poor day-to-day management of the beach by the council. It's got a good infrastructure, and I was very impressed by the Best Western Connaught hotel.

Blakes Restaurant Bournemouth

When I was picking a hotel in Bournemouth,  a swimming pool was a must, but what clinched it was the description of the restaurant. Not just their own marketing, not particularly the two AA rosettes which is not a system I understand, and not just Trip Advisor rating it number one restaurant in Bournemouth. But they all helped. And as I said, if it's not that great on the first night we'll just eat somewhere else on the second night. We went back for the second night.

It wasn't perfect, but it had some immense strengths. The serving staff were very polite and there were no mistakes, but I felt they were there for (successful) English language practice rather than because of a passion for food or customer service. Minor quibble, and didn't interfere with my enjoyment. Also, it is primarily a hotel restaurant, which seems to lend a different atmosphere than a standard restaurant or one that is only coincidentally attached to a hotel. I can't quite define it, but it seems marginally less relaxing.

On the first night I started with Crisp Brioche-Coated Goats Cheese with Apple Puree, Hazelnut & Watercress Salad. A really clever dish. I've had deep-fried goats cheese many times, but the use of brioche was inspired, adding a sweetness to what is normally savoury. And the salad was lovely, with the apple purée providing the traditional sweet offset to the cheese, itself offset by hazelnut. 

My main course was Pan Seared Sea Bass Fillet with Nero Linguini, Bouillabaisse,and Brown Shrimps. 

It's been a while since I had pasta as a casual accompaniment to a not-obviously-pasta dish: I think over-cooked gloopy tagliatelle in watery cheese sauce in Montmartre rather put me off. 

Thankfully, Bournemouth rescued me! A nice piece of fish nicely cooked. The nero linguini was just right. To my surprise I enjoyed the broad beans. I've always hated them because of the inner shell, but double-podded, they were very nice. But the highlight was the Bouillabaisse. I'm not going to wade in and pretend to know anything about Bouillabaisse, but I've always thought to be basically a big fish soup, so I was confused. This was a richly flavoured, heavily reduced sauce and was the absolute highlight of the meal, a taste whose memory will remain for a long time.

My pudding was lemon posset and shortbread (see above). The shortbread was nice enough but not up to my own standards. The posset was very lemony. Overall, a great success!

Because we were so pleased with the restaurant, and because there wasn't anywhere immediately locally that presented as an alternative, we decided we might as well return the next night. I imagine if we had been staying longer than two nights, we would have wanted some variety, not least because every restaurant has its own distinctive style.

This time, I could not resist the starter that Jimmy had on the first night: Pan Seared Scallop Bouillabaisse Soup with Rouille, Parmesan & Croutons. Partly, I was fascinated by the ritual of service: first, the scallops placed in the centre of the bowl, and then the bouillabaisse spooned carefully around it, and, finally a selection of the three accompaniments were spooned in with a touch of panache. It was the same bouillabaisse as the previous night, so flavoursome, I was desperate for more. And yet, despite being so strong, it did not overpower the scallops.

For my main course I had the "Great British Dish" (of the day) - Poached Smoked Haddock fillet, with poached egg, herb pancake, with a Tarragon and dry vermouth sauce.

I think it was the least successful of the five dishes that I had at the restaurant. It was surprisingly bland considering its component ingredients. If my main course the previous night had been an 8++ or even a 9, this was probably a 7-. Far better than I've had in many places, but disappointing. I ate it without hesitation. And I was quite stuffed when I'd finished, so chose not to have a pudding. In fact, I was quite tired, so we took our wine back to our room and lay in bed watching TV. Which is a great advantage of a hotel restaurant!

Overall, I was very pleased with Blakes restaurant. I've had good and bad experiences in hotels; this was definitely one of the best.  Not having tried any of the others, I'm in no position to judge whether it actually is Bournemouth's best restaurant, but I would certainly recommend it strongly.

Day one in Bournemouth

At the end of May, I was signed off sick from work,for exhaustion and pain arising from a flare-up in my fibromyalgia. It is entirely possible that this was brought on by a hideously long period of bad weather. My Other Half decreed that the best cure was a trip to the seaside, especially considering that we actually had a brief spell of hot and sunny weather.

We travelled to Bournemouth on a fast and prompt train, an uneventful journey. We arrived at our hotel, and, unfortunately, our room was not yet ready. The website was very clear - check-in at 3pm, and we arrived long before that. It's a gamble - often you can check in, and, in any case, you can always leave your bags. We should have stopped and thought, and taken the time to grab our swimwear, or at least our shorts and towels. Instead, we went for a walk along the beach.

Bournemouth is a popular and well-established seaside resort. We were staying a little to the West of the pier, atop a sheer cliff, with paths and steps down to the beach, a beach consisting of miles and miles of golden sands. We climbed down the steps, exchanging pleasantries with people we met on the way up, laughing at the benches -sensibly - placed at intervals along the climb. Most of the people we met were elderly, many infirm.

We hit the beach at Durley Chine. I suggested to Jimmy a pint in the seafront pub, a Harvester, but he declined. Instead, we bought tea from a nearby beachfront cafe. Bought it, tasted it, and after valiant efforts, chucked it.

I suppose I have to accept tea served in cardboard. I'm not sure why, really. I can see the risks of breakages on the beach and promenade, where people walk in bare foot, but I can't really see the problem in crockery when sitting at a table on a paved terrace. I can't forgive the horrible taste of the tea. I actually can't understand how it is possible to make tea so badly. Arrogant complacent attitude. I suspect that all the seafront cafes were franchised en bloc. They all sold the same brand of ice cream - a contrast with Lyme Regis just down the coast, where half a dozen different local brands were on sale from different outlets.

 

Jimmy stopped at a café further down the Prom, but they seemed uninterested in serving him, or even acknowledging his presence. So frustrating when you're a tourist desperate to buy and eager to boost the economy, however marginally. Finally we found a café by the pier, just next to the Gents loo, where I had a very good coffee, and he had two ice creams which he liked, and we were served by two pleasant young women who 'got' customer service. 

I gazed with envy at the many people who were paddling in the sea, and even more those who were brave enough to be actually swimming. I know it doesn't feel so cold once you're in, but, even so, it takes some teeth gritting. And, in May, however hot the day, it takes time to warm back up again afterwards!

We took a stroll about the Pier, which was oddly deserted. Attractions playing their tinned music, desperate for non-existent customers. But very colourful, and a great vantage point!

 

 

 

It always fascinates me in places like seaside resorts why so many people congregate at the central point. I'm sure most individuals, when questioned, would give a perfectly sensible reason, such as mobility or time, but the group dynamics intrigue me. The 'attractions' are only a passing interest to me; I'd rather take the time to walk to a quieter spot.

After a look round, we walked back to our hotel. A steep climb up, in the heat of the afternoon sun, this was not really what I planned for my recuperation during sick leave. Nevertheless, we had an impressive view as we walked.

We returned to our hotel and were able to check in and unpack. It was at this point we had a severe miscommunication error. I thought it would be nice to go either to the beach for a swim, or to the swimming pool in the hotel, but Jimmy declared we should go for a drink - there were two pubs nearby. We went into the first, but they had no real ale, they showed a distinct reluctance to acknowledge let alone serve us, and there was a dipstick playing his boombox in the beer garden. The second one we tried looked no better.

By this time, I was almost in tears. My feet were hurting, the sun was scorching and it seemed that we were surrounded by hills and no decent watering place. Finally, we spotted what seemed to be a café. It was in fact the bar of another hotel, but we could sit outside, and even the sight of this was like nectar from the gods. Quite possibly the best cup of tea I have tasted in my life.

With renewed energy, we descended back to the Undercliff promenade and thought we would sit on the beach for a while. But the boy-child in charge of deckchairs refused to let us hire a couple, because it was four o'clock. Five hours before sunset, and, as I later discovered, two hours before close of service. Frankly, deckchairs unavailable after 6pm is ridiculous. In resorts I have been to abroad, deckchairs are available until sunset, perhaps dependent on tide and weather.

Not especially wanting to sit for long on the sand, we walked to the Harvester, but they seemed uninterested in serving us, or even acknowledging us, so we walked out, and climbed back to our hotel and passed some time in the very nice pool, jacuzzi, sauna and steam room, and a relaxing drink on the sun-drenched terrace by the bar.

Olympic Torch on Acre Lane

The Olympic Torch has been parading around the United Kingdom - and beyond - for more than two months. I had seen reports from various places: when the relatives went out in their areas, when it was carried by celebrities I like, when I was bored and decided to watch the livestream.

It came very close to home on the Monday, which finished with an event on Tooting Bec Common. I thought of going, then read it was 'ticket only' - and tickets were only available for Wandsworth residents; then I read that the opportunity for Lambeth residents to apply for tickets had closed. I could have gone and watch it progress to the Common, but didn't.

Instead, on the Thursday, I went to watch it on its route in an ever-decreasing circular tour of Inner London (or so it seemed). A show was planned in Brixton, with performers, and celebrity appearances. Sebastian Coe cancelled but did send Edwin Moses in his place, But I decided - rightly, judging from the photos I've seen - that I would get a better view elsewhere, so I headed for Acre Lane and the junction with Kings Avenue. 

There's not a great deal to say about it. A convoy of vehicles went by. Then someone carrying the Olympic Torch passed by; if I read correctly, this torchbearer was Neil Robinsonand he passed to Harry Urquhart-Briggs just past the junction. That much I knew because someone with a microphone was getting the crowd to chant 'Harry! Harry! Harry!'

If you tried to analyse or deconstruct the torch relay, or objectively find meaning, you wouldn't. But I went out of curiosity and came away with a positive feeling. People out for a few minutes' pleasure, chatting to random strangers, feeling part of a geographically-based community, cheering on, amongst others, the police. 

When it started, I read some people smugly pointing out that the Olympic Torch relay started under the Nazis. Whilst technically correct, it strikes me as a bit of a so-what? It also occurred before the immediately PostWar 1948 Olympics held in a blitz-ravaged London. Were they Nazi sympathisers? Are all people who buy Volkswagens also Nazis? And was there anything in the London 2012 Torch Relay consistent with Nazi ideology? No.

I'm glad that I went, and I'm pleased I got a few usable photos. It started with the police motorbikes...

and then the NHS bicycle paramedics, to great cheers

A police car advertising Twitter

An official Torch Relay car

A bus carrying the torchbearers for further down the route

and vehicles representing various commercial sponsors

The cyclist in the grey kit was one of many police officers guarding the torch relay

Another coach

And a logistics vehicle, which carried on its back the Torchcam crew

People cheered and took photos