Cairngorm Hotel and Highland cuisine

It was easy to imagine that Hector Naismith MacDonald from Monarch of the Glen would walk in at anytime.

We ate dinner a couple of times at Cairngorm Hotel.  How could you resist dining in such surroundings as this?  We don't typically go for stout meat and potatoes fare if there are some ethnic restaurants to choose from, but we had to go back another time.

 When we first walked in, I stopped in my tracks and almost laughed out loud at the amount of plaid competing for attention.  And yet the riot of color and pattern somehow worked. 

Cairngorm Hotel across from the bus station.  We didn't get to eat in the turret nook on the first floor, unfortunately.

It was Hot Highland Buffet Night on our second trip to the Cairngorm Hotel.  Here are the foods we sampled:

• Steak mince
• Haggis (yes, we tried it again!  and still liked it!)
• Cairngorm stovies
• Venison casserole
• Bubblyjock pie (turkey and ham in a pie)
• Clapshot (potatoes and turnips)
• Skirlie (onion and oatmeal stuffing)
• Potatoes Rob Roy (potatoes with black pudding)

Oxford

The United Kingdom as a whole is roughly the size of Oregon. This is one of the things I had a hard time getting used to: how very close everything is. The entire trip between Lacock and Oxford, including waiting*, took about an hour or so. It was no big deal for us to hop on the bus and make several train connections to get to Oxford.

We arrived at Oxford in a chaos of tourists. School groups and tour groups jammed the heart of the city. Trying to move through the crowds sometimes felt like slogging through molasses. 

 There were lots of Oxford students out and about, most in academic dress of some kind or other. Some students were wearing short robes with strange flaps of fabric dangling off the shoulders. According to wikipedia, these are "streamers adorned with folds," and are worn by undergraduates.  Academic dress or not, they still looked funny, as if the undergraduates had sprouted extra arms.

The wildlife of Oxford

There were also schoolchildren in their uniforms. While we were waiting to cross at an intersection, we saw a schoolgirl walk by with artfully ripped tights. The group of schoolgirls next us started whispering furiously about her audacity.

We got our first proper tea at The Grand Cafe, site of the first coffeehouse in England.  The art deco interior was dazzling, due to an abundance of gold leaf and enormous floor to ceiling windows.

I got a kick out of the counterweight for the door, a teapot.  

The cafe was lit by lamps held aloft by arms sprouting from the walls.  They were eeriely similar to the arms in Jean Cocteau's 1946 movie La Belle et la Bete.  I kept expecting an arm to move, or the Beast himself to emerge from a hidden door, or out of one of those outlandishly huge mirrors.  My kind of place!

Tea itself was scrumptious.  A pot of steaming black tea, an overflowing sugar bowl (the British love their sugar), rich cream, and duchess cake, an intriguing mix of fudge, dried fruit, and nuts.  I truly settled into England after this tea.

Of course, we took a tour of the Bodleian Library. Our group waited for the guide inside the Divinity School, the oldest university building, built between 1427-1483.

Harry Potter was here

While building stone doesn't quite have the air of nature, I felt as if we were in a light-dappled glade. Such is the effect of light and airy Gothic architecture, and the skill of stonemasons from over 500 years ago. The columns were trees leaning over us, spreading a lattice-work of branches overhead in the form of lierne vaulting.

 

I wish I could have a painted ceiling like this

We visited Duke Humphrey's medieval library.  Books were not allowed to leave the room, not even for the king.  He had a screened in alcove where he could read books in private without commoners gawking at him.  There were also chained books, an early security measure in a time when books were extremely valuable.

After the Bodleian Library, we went to the TIC** and asked for directions to Tolkien's house.  At first, we were greeted with a blank stare by the first employee we asked.  After consultation with the entire staff, another employee came to the rescue and gave us directions***.

Tolkien's house is located in a very lovely suburb of Oxford, full of rambling old houses with arched windows, beautiful stonework, and windows full of happy plants.  The house itself wasn't one of the nicer houses, but, nonetheless, it is notable for containing the drawing room where Tolkien wrote The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.

After this satisfying stroll away from the crowd of tourists, during which we noted that Tolkien had most likely walked the same route countless times, we headed to the Eagle & Child pub, where the Inklings used to meet and discuss their current literary endeavors.

The usual place for their meetings was in the Rabbit Room, but people were sitting there when we arrived, so we ended up sitting in the enclosed conservatory in the back.  The bartenders recommended the nachos (I thought this was funny for some reason - nachos in England?), and we had some of the best beer of our trip there.  J. went to the bathroom and told me he went into a room where Tolkien has been, but where I can never go.

This tree looks like it is about to eat me

We walked along the Thames path and marveled at the many specimens of giant trees along the way.

Various rowing clubs were practicing on the Thames.  Once they got going, they really flew down the river.

We ate at Chequers pub for dinner.  I got to try a "ploughman's lunch," which usually consists of cheese, bread, fruit, salad, chutney, and a petite meatpie.  The cider I got here was the best cider I've ever had, Aspall Draught Suffolk Cyder, produced by Aspall Cyder.  Not cloyingly sweet, it had a pleasing floral note with a satisfying finish that put one in mind of the barnyard--an interesting mix of sweet hay and musky animal scents.  My description probably makes it sound unappealing, but you'll know where I'm coming from once you have a sip of this exquisite cider.

We returned to Damson Cottage pleasantly exhausted.  A chorus of baa's sang down the moon that night as we startled sheep lining the path between Lacock and Reybridge.

*See first footnote of post "And so it begins"

**"Tourist Information Center"-invaluable sources of information while traveling in the United Kingdom 

***If you're curious, the address is 20 Northmoor Road, Oxford

And so it begins

Jon was soon to wearily acknowledge his wife's propensity for picture-taking, especially self-portraits documenting places they've been, even airplanes and trains

After the long haul over the ocean (during which I am certain I saw lights along the Icelandic coast) and the flurry of Heathrow Airport, we arrived at Paddington Station in London. Pigeons fluttered about underfoot.  Grand Victorian architecture soared overhead.

This picture makes me wonder how often I show up in other people's pictures, a random person caught mid-step for perpetuity

People spoke with British accents. Normally - because that's how they really talk. I couldn't get over it. English is their native language too, and yet they pronounce things differently. What a concept for my parochial brain to grasp.

After this stunning introduction to the country, we caught the train to Chippenham and from there, the bus to Lacock, located in the southwest part of England in the county of Wiltshire. While waiting* for the bus, we got to be amateur anthropologists and covertly study the natives.  Our conclusions?  Teenagers are the same everywhere, regardless of accent or nationality.  What a revelation.  We did not indulge in amateur anthropology anymore after this discovery.

We arrived in Lacock, then shouldered our duffel bags for the walk** to Reybridge.  We had packed as light as we could, but our bags were still heavy (35-40 pounds), especially if you're packing for three weeks. Right when my shoulders began to protest vigorously, we made it to Damson Cottage.

Damson Cottage's blue door triggered my fascination with blue doors specifically, and painted doors in general.

Our hostess informed us of the public access footpath to Lacock.  It passed between several really old houses,

 through several sheepfields, 

over several stiles, and up a shady lane bordered by lovely stone fences.  I was happy, especially at the thought of walking through sheep.

The sheep weren't as thrilled.

I couldn't get enough of green doors, either

Lacock was a delight to explore.  

These buildings are older than America.  

It hasn't changed much over the past 250 years, due to careful management by the National Trust, which purchased nearly the entire village in 1944. 

The George Inn was a public house while Chaucer was alive.
 

We had our first dinner in England at The George Inn, which dates back to 1361.  When we first arrived, we sat at a table and waited.  And waited some more, looking over at the bartender, who was chatting with a fellow at the bar, occasionally glancing over at us.  We waited some more before we realized he wasn't coming over.  We finally asked for a menu at the bar, at which time we discovered that You Always Order At The Bar Before Taking A Table.

The George was very atmospheric.

Full of nooks and crannies.

Mismatched furniture and oriental rugs were crammed into every available space.  Light came in through windows still fitted with their original glass, imperfections and all. 

We had a hearty meal of steak and ale pies, "veg" (vegetables for us), and warm beer.  After relaxing for a bit, we walked back through the sheepfields at dusk to Damson Cottage.  It was the fitting end to a very long day.

*This was to be a preview of our travel for the duration of the trip: waiting.  We're so used to hopping in the car and going, that the notion of waiting is a somewhat foreign concept.  J. and I had to spend time throughout our trip examining bus and train schedules to make sure that we caught all of our connections in a timely fashion.  Initially, this was overwhelming, but it soon became curiously enjoyable.  Schedules and maps fascinate me.  I like perusing departure times and following lines on a map, imagining all the various permutations of possible travel.  This is probably why I was the primary trip planner.

**We walked.  A lot.   

Pizza and streudel

J. and I spent a day and a half in Chicago while visiting my folks.  We try to visit the Windy City everytime we go up for a visit, since my hometown is so close.  This time around, we attempted a culinary tour of Chicago.  First up was Chicago-style pizza at the Gino's East restaurant near downtown Chicago.  It wasn't too bad, but I don't think it tops Giordano's.  We ordered a small, with 2 slices for each of us, and left with bulging bellies.  The crust of Gino's East pizza seemed to border on fried cornbread, which was a different touch.

The next day we returned to Chicago in heavy snow, which proved an adventure to slog through on foot in the neighborhoods of Chicago that we visited.  We intended to get pastries at the Swedish Bakery in the Andersonville neighborhood, but the place was a crammed whirlwind of customers waiting for their holiday orders.  The waiting lines made no sense, so we wanded back up the street to a cafe and got crepes stuffed with strawberries and nutella.  The main stretch of Andersonville, a historically Swedish neighborhood, was particularly picturesque that day, with fat snowflakes falling, mounding on the sidewalks and streets.  Buildings here and there were painted the colors of Sweden, yellow and blue, and the snow made it all look so cozy and festive.

After a detour to the REI store, we wound up in the West Town neighborhood, at Podhalanka, directly across from the Division station of the Blue Line train.  Podhalanka was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, with 2 little old ladies working in the kitchen, icons decorating the walls, and an old TV set to the Polish channel.  We had a feast that warmed us up after a day of wading through snow and slush.  I got sour borscht soup, and we shared potato pancakes, stuffed cabbage rolls, and pierogi, which are dumplings stuffed with spiced meats, potatoes, and an interesting type of sweet cheese.  Quite delicious. 

As always, we also visited Christkindlmarket, for streudels and glogg, mulled wine that will put hair on your chest.  My introversion emerges in full force at this market, as people are packed like sardines among the booths set up on Daley Plaza, and I'm usually itching to leave almost as soon as we arrive.  I wish there was some kind of force field I could erect around my person--something that would force people away, or make them think of someplace else they should be whenever they draw too near.

Anti-social as always, but I still love to visit Chicago.

Cheese in the library

Going to the cheese aisle of a store is like going to the library.  There's so many different kinds cheeses, each with its own aroma, flavor, color, texture, and heft.  I have to spend time examining whatever blocks of cheese catch my eye. Like browsing the shelves of the nonfiction section, I rely on serendipity to lead me to the next type of cheese to try. 

My latest discovery is a hard goat cheese made by a Kentucky based company, Sapori d'Italia. I have no idea what it's called, as I threw away the wrapper in my eagerness to cut a slice.  It's a pungent, crumbly cheese with a rich nutty flavor and a hint of black pepper. 

My paltry description aside, I like it quite a bit.  J., on the other hand, thought it tasted "vaguely like soap."*  Which is good, as it means more cheese for me.

I love cheese.

*I have no idea where the soapy flavor comes from, and I think this is the result of J.'s tendency to devour foods without savoring them (ha!)

Food is never far from the hiker's mind

Low fat and low calorie is not an option when you go hiking.

I always feel slightly guilty when we go shopping for food for one of our hiking trips, since we're stockpiling on nutty, chocolate-y trail mix, Snickers and PayDay candy bars, and zeroing in on dehydrated milk that's 20% fat. Moderation is not the key during this time.

Rather than carefully regulating our caloric intake, we revel in it. You have to. I can remember times when I did not have enough food while hiking. Your brain develops a curiously keen sense of focus--the opposite of the light-headedness I feel when I've pushed my lunchtime too far. The gaping maw of your stomach is never far from your thoughts. Any food you eat during this time disappears into a black hole and you derive no satisfaction from it, no sense of your body storing anything for fuel. It's like your hunger is a separate entity that won't give your body anything until it's been satisfied.

What's past is past

Things we've done lately:

• cooked hobo sandwiches in embers from J.'s perpetual woodburning in the back (we have a pile of deadwood to get rid of)

• planted coneflowers, coreoposis, asters, bee balm, and "oranges and cream" (not sure what the real name is)

• painted the living room

• saw the movie "Up," which is really, really good

• shared a pasta arrabiata dish and chocolate souffle at Bella Notte

• watched the cats pounce each other

• started reading "Atonement" (just me)

• competed in a bike race in the Red River Gorge (where J. was disqualified for doing something that protected him and the other riders: classic case of disobeying the letter of the law, but fulfilling the spirit of the law)

Food and bookcovers

I've just finished reading Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from my Kitchen Table, and am determined to try out some of the recipes she includes. First up is "Doron's Turkey Meatballs with Golden Raisins and Pine Nuts," which you can see for yourself at her blog Orangette, which is the basis for this book.

This is a thoroughly domestic book. A little bit of memoir (no navel-gazing, d., thankfully) leavens this book about food and eating, with a collection of recipes that span the thoroughly homey (potato salad) to the truly unique (salad with chocolate). The cover alone caught my eye (how you can resist such a charming lineup of teacups and glassware?), but the writing snared me.

J.'s mom asked how I find such interesting books. For this one, I came across it using Amazon's "Customers who bought this item also bought..." feature while looking up another book, Made from Scratch: Discovering the Pleasures of a Handmade Life.

The joys of asparagus

The season for asparagus is almost upon us. This makes me very happy. Having a side of steamed asparagus sprinkled with salt is the equivalent of reading a good book, of reaching the summit of some Appalachian mountain after a long climb, of turning the corner and seeing home.

The associations we come up with

Cumin smells like hiker b.o. after several days.

Jon made lamb korma the other day, and every time I got a whiff, I was immediately transported into the woods. The memory was so strong, I could remember my dirty fingernails, the pack sitting on my hips, the knot of an ache in each of my calves, and the scent of hiker b.o. whenever a breeze came our way. Of course, none of this overrides the joy of being outside, summiting a mountain, seeing bear scat on the trail, seeing trees so tall you lose any sense of exactly how high they reach.

Jon and I ate at Rincon's Friday night. We were seated next to a table of guys, some with large-lensed glasses and comb-overs, others with ponytails and beer bellies. They were having a good time catching up on stories, both in their real lives and about their role playing games. Jon kept looking at me throughout the night, an amused smile lighting his face up. Later he told me what they were talking about.

They would segue effortlessly between real life and their role playing games in their conversation. He said they could be talking about something as normal as, "Yeah, I saw my parents the other night. We ate out at Bella Nottes. Then later that night my friend and I were in a cathedral fighting a werewolf. When we defeated it, my friend and his palindrome went to another plane to fight the dark lord. I didn't see him for a month..." then slide right back into real life stories, without any further explanation.