tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26751741801647537062024-03-28T04:14:18.990-07:00Merlin and RebeccaThere are 50 countries in Europe. We're spending two weeks in each. Follow us.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444594851304953597noreply@blogger.comBlogger714125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-86037421936933707382014-05-17T14:56:00.000-07:002014-05-17T14:56:14.160-07:00Castle Hunting: The Ones That Got Away<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYm9G-EV9nJQTWuZoqP2cSB2nWdNEAua6mZX1BcyDzUQczEtZou-gPV0P4NV2rXGd8Fosj6FF2fnK63Gb96T4vXiWMgJxHjNV3Qxd8_TU2HjJRMmQ_xnzPSmYM6RnDj5EuaQ_4-qZO6oHK/s1600/Castle+Hunting+Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYm9G-EV9nJQTWuZoqP2cSB2nWdNEAua6mZX1BcyDzUQczEtZou-gPV0P4NV2rXGd8Fosj6FF2fnK63Gb96T4vXiWMgJxHjNV3Qxd8_TU2HjJRMmQ_xnzPSmYM6RnDj5EuaQ_4-qZO6oHK/s1600/Castle+Hunting+Collage.jpg" /></a></div>
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We visited, by my informal calculations, about seventy-five or eighty castles on the trip, and all of them were memorable in some way. We explored <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/12/castle-hunting-pils-cesis.html">the dungeons by lantern-light at snowy Pils Cēsis</a>, in Latvia, and dodged stray dogs at <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/02/castle-hunting-soroca.html">Soroca, Moldova</a>. There were floating castles at <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/castle-hunting-kizkalesi-castles.html">Kizkalesi</a> and <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/03/castle-hunting-palamidi-fortress.html">Palamidi</a>, recent ruins in the Bosnian hills (<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/07/castle-hunting-ostrozac.html">Ostrožac</a>), <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.ro/2012/06/castle-hunting-fagaras.html">serene Romanian wonders</a> and brash <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/09/castle-hunting-le-rocher-de-monaco.html">Monagasque palaces</a>. Most Impressive? Maybe<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/11/castle-hunting-malbork-castle.html"> Malbork Castle, the headquarters of the Teutonic Order</a> (did you know they were based in Poland?). Maybe <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/castle-hunting-spissky-hrad.html">Slovakia's Spišský Hrad</a>, even in ruin. Megalomania? <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/castle-hunting-bojnice.html">Bojnice, the 19th century marriage proposal</a> that didn't work.</div>
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There were rebuilds (<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.ro/2012/04/castle-hunting-zamokot-samuil.html">Macedonia's Zamokot Samuil</a>, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/01/castle-hunting-mirsky-zamak.html">Belarus's Mirsky Zamak</a>), wonders of engineering (<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/02/castle-hunting-kamyanets-podilsky.html">Kamyanets Podilsky</a>), seats of kings (<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/11/castle-hunting-castillo-de-olite.html">Olite</a>) and brooding, heavyset masterpieces (Serbia's <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.ro/2012/05/castle-hunting-smederevo.html">last-stand Danube hulk, Smederevo</a>).</div>
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We visited castles at the end of the earth, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/01/castle-hunting-svanetian-towers.html">like the Towers of Svaneti</a>, and <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/12/castle-hunting-warwick.html">tourist-trap museums like Warwick</a> - but no matter where we were, these big piles of old stones always felt exotic. To an American, castles <i>are </i>Europe.</div>
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Inevitably, we couldn't post about all of the forts and towers we poked around, and a lot of worthwhile places got left out of the blog. Here, then, are some of the best Castle Hunting leftovers from our trip.</div>
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(<i><a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/p/castle-hunting.html">Here's a link to all of the posts</a> we <b>did</b> put up</i>)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyhQ4E6ryX8RKJLt8igAJU6ggKgRmCa60UrbR1oRk0Qq_Ia__TC6Jcb2Y29LUQyEe2E6DS-6KYuKZmk_ku1RwVt9Uixsp51L5sMnU4XIIwPz8urEMKkxNRO3xlpYAfLUZd0cfiYQN5zV6y/s1600/Kilitbahir.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyhQ4E6ryX8RKJLt8igAJU6ggKgRmCa60UrbR1oRk0Qq_Ia__TC6Jcb2Y29LUQyEe2E6DS-6KYuKZmk_ku1RwVt9Uixsp51L5sMnU4XIIwPz8urEMKkxNRO3xlpYAfLUZd0cfiYQN5zV6y/s1600/Kilitbahir.JPG" /></a></div>
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It had snowed when we visited Kilitbahir castle, but the day was mild and the air smelled of saltwater and grilling sardines. The <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/thin-strip-between-continents.html">Gallipoli peninsula</a> could lay a legitimate claim to the title "bloodiest place on earth." What is today a peaceful bit of Turkish coast,<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/eceabat-beyond-sights-to-see-life-by.html"> dotted with fish restaurants and maritime villages</a>, was long at the tumultuous fissure between Europe and Asia, where Byzantines and Ottomans once clashed and WWI saw some of its fiercest battles.</div>
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The name "Kilitbahir" means "lock of the sea." Built to guard the narrowest point between continental coasts, and to control the entrance to the Sea of Marmara (and the Black Sea beyond, and the Sea of Azov beyond that), it's a sun-baked beauty. There are gorgeous, spiral brick accents and cannon-ready, round towers.</div>
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It was also hemmed-in by ugly buildings, which is one of the more frustrating obstacles to fort photography. Aside from a few washed out pictures from the sea-facing side, this was the only good picture. Another memory I have of the place: walking along the snowy walls was pretty terrifying - <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Turkey">Turkey</a>'s not as litigious a country as the United States is, and they didn't seem to care if you fell off the ramparts. (Actually, no worthwhile castle has guardrails - this isn't just a Turkish thing.)</div>
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Albanians will tell you that Gjirokastër was named after Princess Argjiro, a lovely young mother who jumped off the castle tower with her baby instead of surrendering to the Ottomans. Greeks (and most historians) will tell you that the fortress and city got their name from the ancient Greek word <i>argyrokastron, </i>which means "silver castle." Doesn't matter who you listen to, Gjirokastër is one of the coolest old cities in the Balkans.</div>
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Rebecca put up <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/04/silver-citys-castle.html">a post about the museum in the castle,</a> and another about <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/04/houses-of-gjirokaster.html">the town and the writer Ismail Kadare</a>. We had both just read "Chronicle in Stone," which takes place in town, and were excited to look for old landmarks. We <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/04/albanian-food.html">ate frogs legs in a tree-filled courtyard</a> and <i>byrek</i> from a secret, cellar bakery. The castle was full of communist bric-a-brac, but still managed to feel pretty medieval.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfakaWseMz6FspYd-EQcOMRUvBqgIJZDW4k0q4oV4O06gSouQMnQcRNBjTkzjs8kClTEBzlbFurVWQWW2gO1cM86TqfoKMxM2rODcPB1ibGfZ1Mp5C4_TLKG_W3zdA77e6s4vndAC-uBvX/s1600/Novogrudok.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfakaWseMz6FspYd-EQcOMRUvBqgIJZDW4k0q4oV4O06gSouQMnQcRNBjTkzjs8kClTEBzlbFurVWQWW2gO1cM86TqfoKMxM2rODcPB1ibGfZ1Mp5C4_TLKG_W3zdA77e6s4vndAC-uBvX/s1600/Novogrudok.jpg" /></a></div>
In Novogrudok, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Belarus">Belarus</a>, we stayed in a little guesthouse run by nuns. They'd never taken in Americans before, and were wary of us. The town was quieted by a deep snowfall. At the local <i>kafeynya</i>, everyone started drinking vodka at eight in the morning.<br />
We walked up to the "castle" but found only this bit of brickwork.<br />
At some point in the 13th century, Navahrudak (as it's called by non-Russian speakers) was the capital castle of the Duchy of Lithuania. It was a major fortification by the 17th century, with seven towers. Sadly, the Great Northern War was unkind to the place, and what's left is more monument than citadel.<br />
Belarus has been so often fought over that not much remains from before the 1940's. Their one real <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/01/castle-hunting-mirsky-zamak.html">"castle" is a frosted-cake reconstruction</a> in the town of Mir.<br />
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Out on Saaremaa Island, in the midst of an Estonian winter, we ate cod liver mashed with onions and <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/12/kaali-craters.html">visited craters</a> and <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/12/bus-stop-post-office.html">painted bus-stop/post-offices</a>. We also made a stop at the square-jawed Kuressaare castle, which sits on a fortified islet overlooking the Gulf of Riga.<br />
There's a story associated with the fort that, at some murky point in its history, there were lions kept in a narrow pit inside the walls. While I believe in lions, and I've seen the pit, I don't know if I believe that there really were fifteenth century lions in this particular Estonian pit - an alternate myth, perpetrated by some, is that the fearsome beasts were really wolves. No matter, there's a surprising (as in, it made us jump) audio blast of roaring lions that's been rigged up to play as you pass by the "lions den," which looks suspiciously like a sewage drain.<br />
It was cold, grey and unbeautiful on that December day, and we got only a few worthwhile snaps. That early on in the trip, I wasn't very good at taking pictures of things that weren't perfectly lit.<br />
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Narikala fortress is a ruined crumble of bricks and soft stone, high up above the<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/12/traditional-balconies-of-tbilisi.html"> dusty sprawl of Tbilisi</a>. There's not much left to see, but the feeling of the place is wonderful. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Georgia">Georgia</a> already feels far away from the rest of the world, and eighth-century Georgia (when the castle really took shape) seems like a fragment from Scheherazade.<br />
It was chilly in the January breeze. Below us, in the town, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/12/for-sale_30.html">generators and car horns coughed and spluttered</a>. The walk up to the castle passed a pretty little painted church. Little prayer flags or remembrance tokens had been tied amongst the brush - some made of cloth, others just brightly-colored plastic bags.<br />
Later, in the middle of the Caucasus, we saw some <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/01/castle-hunting-svanetian-towers.html">even more interesting Georgian fortresses</a>.<br />
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Pazin, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Croatia">Croatia</a>, is best known for its chasm - the funny sounding "Pazin Chasm" - which Jules Verne wrote a story about. Perched beside the chasm is a very Adriatic looking castle, with a tiled roof and a jaunty little clock tower. From the street side, it looks like a Baroque post office. From across the abyss, it looks like an abandoned mill or a prison.<br />
Grad Pazin was closed when we visited, and the town was in the middle of the hot, dry Istrian peninsula - we didn't linger too long before hurrying back to the coast.<br />
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Castle hunting was an obsession, but it was also one of the most popular parts of the blog, and we were chasing content as much as fun experiences. Sometimes, the search brought us to places we'd never have found otherwise. Sometimes, it meant a frustrating, hot afternoon. The Bulgarian town of <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/06/veliko-tarnovo.html">Veliko Tarnovo was much more interesting</a> than the lame, reconstructed fortress of Tsarevets we had come looking for.<br />
Castles bring visitors - or, at least, town officials hope that they'll bring visitors. Tsarevets, like too many other ruins, was "rebuilt and restored." This means a medieval-looking stone thing was built with cranes and tractors and outfitted with bathrooms, ticket counters and souvenir stands. Another name for this kind of thing is "theme park."<br />
In it's defense, Tsaravets was one of the largest and most important fortresses of the early castle age, though almost nothing of the original is still around. In Bulgaria's defense, we visited two other, much cooler fortresses in the country: <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/06/castle-hunting-baba-vida.html">Baba Vida, at a broad part of the Danube</a>, and the incomparable, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/06/belogradchik.html">indescribable Belogradchik</a>.<br />
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Tallinn is one of Europe's overlooked gems. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Estonia">Estonia</a> isn't a big place - or a very bright place in the middle of the northern winter - but its capital is cosmopolitan, cool and beautifully medieval. It was around Christmastime when we slipped and skidded our way through the icy, cobbled streets. There <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/01/tallinn-santa-market.html">were holiday markets</a> and little mitten stores, crowded beerhalls and friendly locals.<br />
The old town is entirely ringed by an impressive, many-turreted wall. It's one of the last surviving, well-preserved town walls in northern Europe, and it looked especially good bedecked in festival lights. We were coming to the end of our first block of the trip, and were probably too worn out to put up a good post.<br />
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Away from the sweeping coast, the wine country and the glitz of Lisbon, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/10/alentejo.html">Portugal's Alentejo backcountry</a> is dry, hardscrabble and beautiful. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/10/is-cork-screwed.html">Red-trunked cork trees</a> shade skinny cattle and goats. There are bull-rings and whitewashed towns.</div>
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<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Portugal">Portugal</a> has a long string of castles along its eastern border. We did a post about the <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/10/castle-hunting-castelo-de-marvao.html">pretty, tiled Castelo de Marvão</a>, but neglected nearby Castelo de Vide. It was a little grubby, with trash in the corners and some half-hearted graffiti inside. But, when the Portuguese sun hit the walls, it attained a fiery glow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43OpePtFxjkTA8M4RNshv3F_lrUzpfIpND25-qWTR9YUC14mJIUhrTkxEV0Mp5JkcXCkDNjWmfGcDIlKN17D-WQZCXSaoeC3nimRDOL03uz4E2QPLRd41UWTUuoUARtPNlSIdzCfpmN-i/s1600/Sumeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43OpePtFxjkTA8M4RNshv3F_lrUzpfIpND25-qWTR9YUC14mJIUhrTkxEV0Mp5JkcXCkDNjWmfGcDIlKN17D-WQZCXSaoeC3nimRDOL03uz4E2QPLRd41UWTUuoUARtPNlSIdzCfpmN-i/s1600/Sumeg.jpg" /></a></div>
There was work being done on Sümeg castle when we visited. Battered Unimog trucks rumbled up the steep castle road and scaffolding was set up in the courtyard. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Hungary">It was overcast and hot</a>. We came upon the town while driving through <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/great-plain.html">the Hungarian Puszta</a>, in the last days before we headed south for Croatia and the sea.<br />
Sümeg was built quickly as central Europe was being swarmed by the Mongol horde. European castles in 1440 - especially this close to the Ottomans - were already being built with gunpowder in mind. Sümeg, though, was constructed in an older, squarer style. Apparently, it was just horsemen the Hungarians feared, not cannon fire.<br />
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Valletta is one of those fortified cities that - like Luxembourg City - should really be more famous. It has some of the most extensive and incredible sea-walls I've ever seen, and countless castles and towers built into the defenses. All of it is done up in a Mediterranean style using beautiful yellow limestone.<br />
<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Malta">Malta is full of quirks</a>, and it barely surprised us to <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/03/cannon-youre-fired.html">find the "largest cannon in the world"</a> among Valletta's defenses. We put up <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/04/castle-hunting-victoria-citadella.html">a post about Victoria Citadella</a>, on Gozo, but never did a proper write up on the capital.</div>
Merlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107394248553508646noreply@blogger.com329tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-54792871960033758762014-04-27T11:28:00.002-07:002014-04-29T06:27:55.860-07:00CRF: The Best Of Liechtenstein<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>"CRF" is not a crime show you've never heard of, it stands for "Cutting Room Floor." It's been more than a year since we returned from Europe, and we've started to get seriously nostalgic. To give us all an extra travel fix, we're posting some of our favorite photos that never made it onto the blog. Here are our favorite unpublished memories and pictures of Liechtenstein - a tiny, odd, forgotten place.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenJP2jwDTysw-XT0KyElDxwAmXTHu8WJ6u9PN5xeAJwB0Pnrp2No_D_iwR1BZh_HQAPeu_eI87krdeDzD7nXHrpYiv95Ud3VmO24LQN-JBQzroICSjwvWRvYiRlTpAtKepbcClvAxix3g/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenJP2jwDTysw-XT0KyElDxwAmXTHu8WJ6u9PN5xeAJwB0Pnrp2No_D_iwR1BZh_HQAPeu_eI87krdeDzD7nXHrpYiv95Ud3VmO24LQN-JBQzroICSjwvWRvYiRlTpAtKepbcClvAxix3g/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+1.jpg" /></a></div>
These Swiss browns with Switzerland in the backdrop were photographed from a <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/liechtensteinische-berggasthaus.html" target="_blank">berggasthaus</a> just like the <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/05/berggasthaus-experience.html" target="_blank">ones we'd hiked to in the Appenzell Mountains</a>. We were carrying Swiss francs in our wallets at the time and trying to speak Swiss German. Surprise! Du bist nicht in der Schweiz!<br />
Liechtenstein might not look like much on a map, it doesn't have its own language or currency, but we left The Principality with a real sense that we'd visited a country all its own. Sure, there are more registered businesses than there are citizens, but this tiny country's identity as an unlikely survivor rings truer than its status as a tax haven.<br />
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Not to say you're left to forget that Liechtenstein has the highest GDP per person in the world, the world's lowest external debt and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hans-Adam_II,_Prince_of_Liechtenstein">Europe's wealthiest ruler.</a> It feels moneyed in the capital, Vaduz, even if it also feels like a farm town. <br />
Their National Museum had one of the finest Natural History exhibits we've ever seen, anywhere. Their <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/liechtenstein-on-display.html">Kunstmuseum is world-class and their ski museum and stamp collections are as cluttered and quirky as can be</a>. The public spaces are filled with art. If there was a roundabout, it had a sculpture at its center. The capital's center plaza was sleek and modern, though very tiny. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5IH6U2xwF1v5a6uKClyKvkc86aYVAri6hRX6sioM81Rrv5pNiaMXUa5Nk540yQJ3gcegNjHpd-08L2UVEPNB6496i6IRiFK0dnp6EEwmm0u8gex0QR1zVk64cJhPlWE3w9VrveNpOciZ/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5IH6U2xwF1v5a6uKClyKvkc86aYVAri6hRX6sioM81Rrv5pNiaMXUa5Nk540yQJ3gcegNjHpd-08L2UVEPNB6496i6IRiFK0dnp6EEwmm0u8gex0QR1zVk64cJhPlWE3w9VrveNpOciZ/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+2.JPG" /></a></div>
The food was... expensive and alpine. There were some great local specialties <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/bauernmarkt.html">at the <i>Bauernmarkt</i></a>, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/oldie-night-and-two-fests.html">Weinfest Trieson, Sommernachtsfest and at "Oldie Night,"</a> but we otherwise had little success eating well. We did <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/gypsy-kitchens-rosti-in-mountains.html">cook some great <i>forellen und rösti</i></a>, and had plenty of camping picnics, but white asparagus toasts in aspic aren't our idea of inspiring, even if they did come with a squirt of mayonnaise and a bit of pickle.<br />
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The heat at the end of August, dusty with the last cuts of hay, drove us to the water. The Rhine is too swift and sharp-bottomed to swim in, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/bads-never-felt-so-good.html">but there were plenty of pools</a>.<br />
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Liechtenstein isn't <i>tiny </i>tiny, by microstate standards. At 61.78 square miles, it's about three hundred and sixty three times larger than Vatican City - but that's like comparing grapes and poppy seeds. In terms of micro-ness, it's closest to San Marino, though Liechtenstein's still over two and a half times larger.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7YdX2TZ2q1C5Y9UwRMoMHYtBvoFRvmlKMNiZmZXeaf2FJHo0Tmf3-4vm6bvBKujurUQ2aGf8JJFiSWOy17mMWZThbrq1WlCK_X1aF05tYQwsqQgc7wtPsbKFtfc3So-ZuVUeBVg5VYZD/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7YdX2TZ2q1C5Y9UwRMoMHYtBvoFRvmlKMNiZmZXeaf2FJHo0Tmf3-4vm6bvBKujurUQ2aGf8JJFiSWOy17mMWZThbrq1WlCK_X1aF05tYQwsqQgc7wtPsbKFtfc3So-ZuVUeBVg5VYZD/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+3.jpg" /></a></div>
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Still, it's the third smallest place we visited on the trip, and every larger country felt a LOT larger. You can walk across Liechtenstein in a day. Luxembourg, which many people confuse with Liechtenstein, is sixteen times larger, and has a functioning train system.</div>
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This greenhouse was situated alongside our walking path from campsite to capital. The walk took less than an hour and covered more than a quarter of the country's length.</div>
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But that's on the flats along the Rhine river valley. Along the Austrian border on the other side of the country - locally referred <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/oberland.html">to as the "Oberland"</a> - Liechtenstein is mountainous and harder to get around. We spent a sunny day hiking the ski resort of Malbun and <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/birding-in-liechtenstein.html">watching a falconry show</a>, and another few days on a long, trans-nation hike. The peaks here are part of the Western Rhaetian Alps. Cowbells clanked on the summer breeze.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtzee_wJb_mvIymZ1I235kW4yjuL-U9zRyKNN1JUKD0cUgE42VZcq-3TNi4-oaKOYgLpw69dVKEJTWYAHfOWcy7Apzw7ZpFDhBEH3NZn9L1L-QVabsNElTCRe2hkUW7UPPKKgmZ4wzAhk/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtzee_wJb_mvIymZ1I235kW4yjuL-U9zRyKNN1JUKD0cUgE42VZcq-3TNi4-oaKOYgLpw69dVKEJTWYAHfOWcy7Apzw7ZpFDhBEH3NZn9L1L-QVabsNElTCRe2hkUW7UPPKKgmZ4wzAhk/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+99.jpg" /></a></div>
One of the trip's wierd animal experiences was at "BIRKA Bird Paradise," <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/birding-in-liechtenstein.html">a zoo-like aviary that we never really figured out</a>. There were plenty of parrots and chickens, but who the heck knows why they were there?<br />
In some ways, Liechtenstein feels a bit like a roadstop along the expanse of our trip. We visited just after returning from a trip back home - we flew back into Ljubljana airport, where we'd left our car, and drove up into the Austrian Alps feeling excited and full of energy. Two weeks later, we left Liechtenstein bemused and restless, driving on to France and broader horizons. What had we seen? What had we done? Walked, looked at postage stamps, wandered around a garden, gotten confused, felt hemmed-in - and seen some strange birds. It's not that it wasn't pleasant, it's just that we wanted to get back on the road.<br />
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There's a romantic myth about Europe: that it's filled with tiny kingdoms, where princes and kings and queens sit in their castles, ignored by the rest of the world. Two and a half centuries ago, before Napoleon and the fall of the Holy Roman Empire, there really were little duchies and comtés scattered amongst and beside the major countries - in Germany alone there were around 300 sovereign states. <br />
Today, almost all of those little kingdoms are gone, and you'll find only three micro-states ruled by royal families: Luxembourg (which isn't really that micro), Monaco (which can hardly be called a forgotten kingdom) and Liechtenstein. In a lot of ways, this little place is a unique throwback.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwP-uB3lTvJDC0xrQTflHjIR4oaG4UO3GkcZ9aKG1anOc-APHlDuWbQZbrfzPtyVPXv_aNJQFIQxDCDWEDRAGwdheCHI7pq_r9kO9-edQYFZE0eZ4Ffy6XmCXC3bSnZ9VVS6FBWMoIpQc4/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwP-uB3lTvJDC0xrQTflHjIR4oaG4UO3GkcZ9aKG1anOc-APHlDuWbQZbrfzPtyVPXv_aNJQFIQxDCDWEDRAGwdheCHI7pq_r9kO9-edQYFZE0eZ4Ffy6XmCXC3bSnZ9VVS6FBWMoIpQc4/s1600/Best+Of+Liechtenstein+7.jpg" /></a></div>
Approaching Vaduz, a traveler passes through farms and <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/fine-wine-fine-time.html">orderly vineyards</a>. The mountains rise to one side, very green and lush in the late summer, but topped by glaciers and distant rocks. There's <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/castle-hunting-schloss-valduz.html">a quaint little castle just above town</a>, where a real prince lives. A few Victorian-Gothic steeples rise above the beech treetops. It looks, from afar, just like the capital of a fairytale, middle-european, lost-principality should look.<br />
Of course, close up, it's full of Toyota dealerships, pizza places, bank buildings and shopping complexes. Theres too much traffic and not enough places to park. If modern concrete is your thing, maybe you'll like it. If you want to visit a peaceful principality town, though, avoid the capital. You can stay anywhere else in the country and still drive to Vaduz in twenty minutes, if you feel like it. Better yet, take the bus.<br />
This picture was taken at dusk from a third story window of the one old Inn still left in town, Gasthof Löwen. The timber-framed building has literally been walled in by roads and development. On the last night in the country, we went to sleep under the eaves, listening to the grumbling roundabout outside in the night, dreaming of bigger places to explore.<br />
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To see all of our posts about <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Liechtenstein">Liechtenstein, just click here</a>.</div>
Merlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107394248553508646noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-10299214846398532392014-03-01T07:54:00.000-08:002014-03-01T07:54:01.971-08:00Congratulations, Kosovo!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It was announced yesterday, or at least reported in the <i>New York Times, </i>that Kosovo has finally been given a chance to form their own soccer team and compete in international "friendly competitions." This may or may not make them eligible for the next World Cup, but it's still a big step and we felt inclined to post a big congratulations to the country. We watched the final matches of Euro Cup 2012 in Kosovo - mostly outside on pull down projection screens, on computers, on sides of buildings. It was fan-demonium punctuated by calls to prayer and we wondered just how into it they would be if they had their own team to root for. We wrote about the experience <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/07/euro-cup-runneth-over.html">here.</a> Good luck Team Kosovo!<br />
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Read <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/07/euro-cup-runneth-over.html">Euro Cup Runneth Over</a> from our travels in Kosovo.<br />
Look through <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Kosovo">our Kosovo archive.</a></div>
Merlin and Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11254659435101044471noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-56756762264515518352014-01-13T09:57:00.001-08:002014-03-27T14:16:49.728-07:00Our 10 Most Popular Posts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Here's the travel blogging catch-22. Most people are looking for information about places they plan to visit. So, millions of people search for things about Tuscany, Paris or Amsterdam's canals. The <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/01/in-land-far-far-away.html">most amazing place on earth</a> won't receive much traffic if nobody knows about it. The problem is, the more popular a place is, the more bloggers there are writing about it. The chance that someone reads <i>your</i> post about<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/03/great-reconstruction-project.html"> the Acropolis</a>? Slim.</div>
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Predicting which of our 700 (plus) posts would get read was almost impossible. Some of the best things we wrote didn't even get read by our own parents. Some of our silliest or worst-written bits have became enormously (and embarrassingly) popular.</div>
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Our 10 most popular posts (based on Google analytics data and Blogger.com traffic reports) are a mixed bag. Some are good (number one, thankfully), some began their online life as throwaways (see number nine), some are just weird (number five). Only one of these posts was specifically designed to attract traffic (number two).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KqKoOYMiNV4g5NDMIEDHKscRDT0J_6kYw0iQfaKe1iI3FSr_hM4FhZguCCd9VmpNZjOY8vXBHYrrFkzDj_iEJvIS-RUKxXl9TGtMWTbykMoNIu1AYNcMJJbtTC6wYXcuexYrQs-uBMs1/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+1+Cihangir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KqKoOYMiNV4g5NDMIEDHKscRDT0J_6kYw0iQfaKe1iI3FSr_hM4FhZguCCd9VmpNZjOY8vXBHYrrFkzDj_iEJvIS-RUKxXl9TGtMWTbykMoNIu1AYNcMJJbtTC6wYXcuexYrQs-uBMs1/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+1+Cihangir.jpg" /></a></div>
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10. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/cihangir.html">Cihangir</a></div>
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Sometimes we just hit upon something. Cihangir is a <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/cihangir.html">hip, young Istanbul neighborhood</a>. It reminded us of a Turkish Williamsburg and confirmed our belief that renting an apartment is the best way to see a city. The best neighborhoods are often the best because they don't have any hotels. Don't get us wrong, the center of Istanbul is as gobsmacking is you'd expect and we never tired of tooling around in search of <i><a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/balk-ekmek.html" target="_blank">balik ekmek</a> </i>or <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/do-you-know-mussel-man.html" target="_blank">The Mussel Man</a> (who we wind up finding in Cihangir anyway). But the best cities are great because of their ever-changing qualities, their momentum and the neighborhoods defined by the young people there at a given time. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmQ1NCZNtmSzh1PuCXsOKaBOZ39CqwejQUd6GcRSSpmxm67uMDrRG3hpeyJuPJIX6s97fhjpVdxeXqpq4gK-uGijSEUKYlhKqMwQzpLyzqShrkx_Lpg3RdiQNB81ysEj5gfkVdBASf721/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+2+Sistine+Chapel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmQ1NCZNtmSzh1PuCXsOKaBOZ39CqwejQUd6GcRSSpmxm67uMDrRG3hpeyJuPJIX6s97fhjpVdxeXqpq4gK-uGijSEUKYlhKqMwQzpLyzqShrkx_Lpg3RdiQNB81ysEj5gfkVdBASf721/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+2+Sistine+Chapel.jpg" /></a></div>
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9. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/03/not-taking-pictures-of-sistine-chapel.html">Not Taking Pictures of The Sistine Chapel</a></div>
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As bloggers, we found ourselves in a jam. Here we were in Vatican City, two whole weeks of posting about a very, very small microstate and the pièce de résistance was off limits. No photos in the Sistine Chapel. Seriously? If this were a rule decreed by the pope, the security guards would probably have worked a little harder - or at all - to enforce it. As it turns out, a Japanese TV company owns the exclusive rights to some of the art world's most famous images because they funded its restoration. (This is after NBC turned down the deal. Probably because they were too busy fine-tuning <i>Joey</i>, the <i>Friends</i> spin-off). Anyway, the whole thing was ridiculous, made only more so by the fact that <i>everyone. was. taking. pictures</i>. So, we decided to half break the rules and snap some shots, too. Just not of the ceiling. We're sure this gets traffic because people are searching to see if photos are allowed in the Sistine Chapel. Not that finding out is going to stop them. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovabw7xanICq_emEEoeaaNEqJNNdT4HiP1oUMAf-Ia_1n8kETlAhGaFdhc7Wnjb09skhWH_PXJ4rOJgj870o9KMokekshk35JPOXus8CpGU-zGqSJxKzqzGZJ3lkIWGaImnJRECYy-25u/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+3+Georgian+Food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovabw7xanICq_emEEoeaaNEqJNNdT4HiP1oUMAf-Ia_1n8kETlAhGaFdhc7Wnjb09skhWH_PXJ4rOJgj870o9KMokekshk35JPOXus8CpGU-zGqSJxKzqzGZJ3lkIWGaImnJRECYy-25u/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+3+Georgian+Food.jpg" /></a></div>
8. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/01/georgian-food.html">Georgian Food</a><br />
We can vouch for the fact that it is very difficult to search for anything about Georgia, in English, without being directed to the state instead of the country. Using the word "Georgian" helps matters a lot. This one makes us happy because Georgian food really did feel like a revelation. The textures and flavors were consistently surprising and delicious. Pomegranate seeds, crushed walnuts, cilantro, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/01/puri-khachapuri-lobiani-and-kubdari.html" target="_blank">the best bread of our lives</a>. And then there were <i>khinkali</i>, the soup dumpling like concoctions pictured above. In the tiny town of Mestia, at the time <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/01/welcomes-in-svaneti-region.html" target="_blank">the most remote place we'd been</a>, the only restaurant in town basically only served <i>khinkali</i> We discovered, quickly, that they are so delicious you don't need anything more.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZZYqcM7BnehBNk8fWFpZe70LvD95fMQqLv6KdY1qJOA7YxslT6YEAhLqpXtPlaQvr_-4UtOVBJ14yinJfwOtgrs_t-3dsCrUDrvY1hmPQtlnKesJXV4_MxA2OF4xqV0vdbWOCV0JCmdb/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+4+Tirana.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZZYqcM7BnehBNk8fWFpZe70LvD95fMQqLv6KdY1qJOA7YxslT6YEAhLqpXtPlaQvr_-4UtOVBJ14yinJfwOtgrs_t-3dsCrUDrvY1hmPQtlnKesJXV4_MxA2OF4xqV0vdbWOCV0JCmdb/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+4+Tirana.JPG" /></a></div>
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7. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/04/bright-spots.html">The Bright Spots</a></div>
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Amazingly, this is only our second most-popular Albanian post (see below!) </div>
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Sometimes we know exactly why people are reading a specific post. After a <a href="http://blog.ted.com/">TED Blog</a> writer used our photos of <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/04/bright-spots.html" target="_blank">Tirana's painted buildings</a> we got a sudden surge of visitors.</div>
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The story of Edi Rama (painter turned Minister of Culture turned mayor) and his brilliant idea to transform ugly communist-era cement blocks into bold, bright works of art is a great one. It's no wonder it's garnered some attention. We're just happy that our own piece focuses more on the story of the city today and of Malvin, a young man who served us dinner one night and was showing us around the next. Maybe he'll stumble upon the post himself and shoot us an email. We wonder if he ever made it to that bioengineering school in Canada.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRpjwZMKzp956sl_X3kj4YCSohDa3dQDazEZzKwb0Rpp5MkLlGbtWXp7YsgFbqKuUzrSE7zvSDN6bYynXR6wFJ0Cxdk5Wu6jI41ZoFZP0jOGG_rMbF_0XD_RPDVhxSJlYH5x7uGmb3DtM/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+5+Trakai+Castle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRpjwZMKzp956sl_X3kj4YCSohDa3dQDazEZzKwb0Rpp5MkLlGbtWXp7YsgFbqKuUzrSE7zvSDN6bYynXR6wFJ0Cxdk5Wu6jI41ZoFZP0jOGG_rMbF_0XD_RPDVhxSJlYH5x7uGmb3DtM/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+5+Trakai+Castle.JPG" /></a></div>
6. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/11/castle-hunting-trakai-castle.html">Castle Hunting: Trakai Castle</a><br />
Island castles are a little bit of a trend (see number 4).<br />
We remember this castle most for the speeding ticket we got nearby. Lithuanian police take road safety very seriously. For the record, if you should ever find yourself stopped by an officer in Lithuania, be prepared to pay your fine in cash on the spot. If you don't have the money, he/she will drive you to the nearest bank to withdraw the amount. Don't be scared. This is absolutely normal. Well, you can still be scared. As we were.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcH4RBHGqwlmWUe9_lwRLMs4gmImwQHt95cSjxdrV7ptdMBVvTvW0TgRLFNmqI3L9NE_I5tlUmxQhc_6Yrmlz3uHY9cPkwEC60-2c3hLdlVT2NJGZZKwg7Xs9STPdBW_X1qsdgLaYYU9w0/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+6+Belarus+Hotels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcH4RBHGqwlmWUe9_lwRLMs4gmImwQHt95cSjxdrV7ptdMBVvTvW0TgRLFNmqI3L9NE_I5tlUmxQhc_6Yrmlz3uHY9cPkwEC60-2c3hLdlVT2NJGZZKwg7Xs9STPdBW_X1qsdgLaYYU9w0/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+6+Belarus+Hotels.jpg" /></a></div>
5. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/02/sleeping-in-soviet-style.html">Sleeping In Soviet Style</a><br />
This little Belarusian piece has always baffled us. For almost a year it was our number two most-viewed post, second only to<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/01/belarusian-tractors.html"> this, about Belarusian tractors</a> (which now ranks about 12th). It would make sense if people were only landing here while looking for lodging in Belarus - which is hard to find - but that didn't seem to be the case. Inexplicably, thousands of people showed up after searching for "armenian elevator buttons." The internet is a weird, weird place.<br />
(Thanks to one visitor, we learned that what we thought was a very cool smoke detector was actually an even cooler single-channel radio from the Soviet age).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEAr5npoK3Z3tgnXV3drFIze1TB4AX7rTNWLbnDo6jg5j4CzJ-qpx2b_Tgaet8Xxyx8Rw-ZszOkXxtRDYeNoOy57Z_kJ04dKgln2nsPnDHAwpiz1AOYPL2PIQv8Hq5diyiR7C7jX27XRcg/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+7+kizkalesi+castles.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEAr5npoK3Z3tgnXV3drFIze1TB4AX7rTNWLbnDo6jg5j4CzJ-qpx2b_Tgaet8Xxyx8Rw-ZszOkXxtRDYeNoOy57Z_kJ04dKgln2nsPnDHAwpiz1AOYPL2PIQv8Hq5diyiR7C7jX27XRcg/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+7+kizkalesi+castles.JPG" /></a></div>
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4. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/castle-hunting-kizkalesi-castles.html">Castle Hunting: Kizkalesi Castles</a></div>
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We were never even supposed to be there in Kizkalesi, but we were finding it a little difficult to catch a boat to northern Cyprus, and we needed a place to stay. For a Turkish seaside town, it's a little drab. People visit for the "floating" castle (and visit our blog for pictures of it). We stayed in an empty hotel, run by a very nice Kurdish man who took us to the nearby <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/02/caves-of-heaven-and-hell.html">Caves of Heaven and Hell</a> and invited us to watch a televised NBA game with him in the evening. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixje8t3QYzah2LWtjfvNPpc-0WYOS20kGEBP2kaladfyEn3F0zu-lHrfUlOEPRz3YFDofAjlX6iSls5LD6uXgESHrp9i-gESFCZb1KjYP-G9y6duPKoyMy1V736LOp9O3vYlyID8E297ph/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+8+Lithuanian+Food.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixje8t3QYzah2LWtjfvNPpc-0WYOS20kGEBP2kaladfyEn3F0zu-lHrfUlOEPRz3YFDofAjlX6iSls5LD6uXgESHrp9i-gESFCZb1KjYP-G9y6duPKoyMy1V736LOp9O3vYlyID8E297ph/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+8+Lithuanian+Food.JPG" /></a></div>
3. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/11/lithuanian-food.html">Lithuanian Food</a><br />
For a long time, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/11/lithuanian-food.html">Lithuanian Food</a> was the most viewed post on the blog. It features grainy, unappealing photos of <i>cepelinai</i>, <i>blyneliai</i> and various other cheesy, gloppy dishes. This is a poorly-lit shot of <i>kiaulės audis</i>, which is smoked pig's ear. We had no idea - as we crunched cartilage on that dark night in the Žemaitija National Park - that so many people would find this stuff interesting. Then, again, we may not have ordered the smoked pig's ear if we didn't at least <i>hope</i> they would.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzpLKbT65tfYnLmn2sqb8kHpKRpMqP3LxeVGLUTNw-w5x9-gAbyxqT2than5NMoq2kuvpA4qgjzfGuZDyRB6Y4nILyiTa52tLnVEED3uVdjtPNngE6gg-_a4BchTykvxdyFsaTvCzjhwq/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+9+Montenegro%2527s+Best+Beaches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzpLKbT65tfYnLmn2sqb8kHpKRpMqP3LxeVGLUTNw-w5x9-gAbyxqT2than5NMoq2kuvpA4qgjzfGuZDyRB6Y4nILyiTa52tLnVEED3uVdjtPNngE6gg-_a4BchTykvxdyFsaTvCzjhwq/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+9+Montenegro%2527s+Best+Beaches.jpg" /></a></div>
2. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/07/montenegros-best-beaches.html">Montenegro's Best Beaches</a><br />
Some day soon, this will be the most read merlinandrebecca.com post. It's been popular since day one, and it does really well around every vacation time. Montenegro is newly independent and popular, so there isn't as much written about it as, say, Croatia. We think that's why readers end up on our site. This one feels a little bittersweet, though, because we created it while thinking "this will get so much traffic!" But, hey, the hope is that then you stumble upon something like <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/07/most-untrammeled-doorstep.html" target="_blank">this</a>. The other hope is that more people will look beyond the big resorts that are threatening to destroy the coastline and find those little places that remain untouched… for now.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOv9mnolZpz_bg4LAFxZziqv-4BBgQEL3PsFHk0R7p2LiorAZu6B8eK7FiBEsufvuDoAZp7lpLacfqi9hIShOM-jxpUO4eLHhSX5AVhT0fEmy-fQ_hZXI8mEf4YO5dC87WkrK_wUQ_-NAV/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+91+Albanian+Food.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOv9mnolZpz_bg4LAFxZziqv-4BBgQEL3PsFHk0R7p2LiorAZu6B8eK7FiBEsufvuDoAZp7lpLacfqi9hIShOM-jxpUO4eLHhSX5AVhT0fEmy-fQ_hZXI8mEf4YO5dC87WkrK_wUQ_-NAV/s1600/Most+Popular+Posts+91+Albanian+Food.JPG" /></a></div>
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1. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/04/albanian-food.html">Albanian Food</a></div>
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While it's not too surprising that 3 of our 10 most popular posts are about food, Albania sneaking in for the win is a bit of a shock. Here's our theory: there's simply not much information available online about Albanian food. So, unlike a search for "Italian food," you're more likely to stumble upon us. In fact, googling those two words right now, we're right there behind wikipedia, food.com, ask.com and pinterest (which may or may not have even existed when we published this post). If the title had been "Frogs Legs and Lamb's Head" - as I'm sure at least one of us wanted it to be - there's no way this would be our number one. But… hey… we learned a few traffic tips along the way. Now, add the fact that Albania was named Lonely Planet's Top Destination for 2011 and you've got yourself a winner!</div>
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Merlin and Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11254659435101044471noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-71328002439726346232014-01-12T12:49:00.000-08:002014-01-12T12:55:29.935-08:00CRF: The Best of Slovenia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>"CRF" is not a crime show you've never heard of, it stands for "Cutting Room Floor." It's been more than a year since we returned from Europe, and we've started to get seriously nostalgic. To give us all an extra travel fix, we're posting some of our favorite photos that never made it onto the blog. Here are our favorite unpublished memories and pictures of Slovenia - truly one of our favorite countries.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBCYgQdTqp9T_8Rvn204TeDQse0d-Y7GfNUjdXxymTXySOiCCpUb-bd6rlM89mW-lny7paFqbhefWypmLG_B9xpoZm6HppJsqx9we_f81L1l-G0a_Qmo57ecekmD4GKzk1PpWp47ZeRUh2/s1600/Best+Of+Slovenia+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBCYgQdTqp9T_8Rvn204TeDQse0d-Y7GfNUjdXxymTXySOiCCpUb-bd6rlM89mW-lny7paFqbhefWypmLG_B9xpoZm6HppJsqx9we_f81L1l-G0a_Qmo57ecekmD4GKzk1PpWp47ZeRUh2/s1600/Best+Of+Slovenia+1.JPG" /></a></div>
Slovenia held a special place in our heart years before this trip and we were a little worried about tarnishing it. You see, it was the first "weird" place we had ever travelled together. Our former trips included the post-collegiate trifecta of France, India and Amsterdam. One of us had read an article about Slovenia in a magazine and the idea of the place stuck (along with Lake Baikal in Siberia, which seemed a little less doable). We went, in 2006, without knowing how to pronounce the name of its capital and came back its biggest ambassadors, dubbing it "The Vermont of Europe" and encouraging everyone we knew to visit. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo4Ie-0tfLPqZ4NFnSTGQQ052b10P8Se4bHHmo8uZvUcP4Z0DKXU_XSyRr7-0wt7bCBnPWZqXX2p4cB3aN5r9IMCFxYuR79PlOII2_ZaSrpW9ed5W54z-bfNgDD6EuszNp_uPx3TdsMyHE/s1600/Best+Of+Slovenia+7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo4Ie-0tfLPqZ4NFnSTGQQ052b10P8Se4bHHmo8uZvUcP4Z0DKXU_XSyRr7-0wt7bCBnPWZqXX2p4cB3aN5r9IMCFxYuR79PlOII2_ZaSrpW9ed5W54z-bfNgDD6EuszNp_uPx3TdsMyHE/s1600/Best+Of+Slovenia+7.JPG" /></a></div>
It was both more "European" than we'd expected (what does that word mean anyway?) and quirkier than we could have imagined (a doormouse museum?). It felt like a discovery, a magical place. One day we were driving through foliage that could rival New England, the next we were eating shellfish on a blip of Mediterranean coast. There were <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/putting-gorge-in-gorgeous.html" target="_blank">gorges</a> and <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/water-cave.html" target="_blank">caves</a>, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/castle-hunting-grad-predjama.html" target="_blank">castles</a>, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/would-you-eat-me.html" target="_blank">horse burgers</a>. Our <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/back-on-tourist-farm.html" target="_blank">farm stay had a pet bear</a>, the capital had parking spots dedicated to electric cars ("way back" in 2006) and a <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/sunday-in-ljubljana.html" target="_blank">Sunday flea market </a>that finally served up that slice of Slav we were expecting. Revisiting the country, after traveling to places even further afield, we worried it would feel…. predictable. Or, dare I say, average. And then, this happened...<br />
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<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/water-cave.html">The water caves of Križna Jama are special</a>. They really are. They are that solitary, unknowable, ancient thing that lurks at the edges of human existence. There are human remains in the entryway that date back ten millennia. One travels for hours by headlight, in blowup rafts, past the oldest of earth's rocky bones. There are creatures there, in those depths, that exist literally nowhere else in the universe. No more than eight people a day are allowed in. All of this, accessed through a rock in the deep Slovenian forest. By some wonderful twist of fate, our guide was a photographer himself and the photos he prompted us to take <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/water-cave.html" target="_blank">are some of our favorites of the trip</a>, inextricably linked to the memory of snapping them.<br />
When we're asked that inevitable question - "what country did you like best?" - we have no idea what to say. Phrased: "what was the most memorable experience you had?" the answer would be easier. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/water-cave.html">Križna Jama </a>is the experience we call up when we mean "unbelievable." <br />
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The Slovenian karst is full of caves - there's the theme-park-like Postojnska jama and the <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/castle-hunting-grad-predjama.html">outlandish cave-castle of Grad Predjama</a>, with hundreds of other caverns in between - but there is none to match the grandeur of Škocjanske jame. We've been twice, but photos aren't allowed in the main caverns, so we never blogged about it. This is a picture of the exit, which actually feels small at the end of the tour. Notice the full-grown trees being dwarfed by the archway.</div>
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The main cavern in Škocjanske jame is so large that standing inside, with the lights off, feels like standing outside on a dark night. You can hear a river flowing, a hundred feet below the walkway. You feel damp cave-breezes and gusts. It's the largest enclosed space you can imagine. A friend brought along on our second visit was nervous. "I'm claustrophobic," she explained, logically reasoning that this would make spelunking unpleasant. Škocjanske jame conjures the exact opposite feeling. All you feel is the expanse, your own smallness. You feel anything but trapped. You feel like you're on the edge of something that is somehow even bigger. </div>
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At the very top of Rogla Ski Resort, in the Zreče region, we came across this funny group of schoolchildren filing onto a down-slope chairlift. Even though it was midsummer, it was cold and blustery in the Julian Alps.<br />
We had hiked up from the endearing, bizarre deer farm that we were staying at, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/halfway-up-mountain.html">Tourist Farm Arbajter. Our hosts cooked us venison dinners</a> and gave us homemade <i>borovnica</i> (blueberry schnapps). We loved it there and promised to return with our family one day.<br />
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Slovenia's glamor spot<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/bled-and-bohinj.html"> is lake Bled</a>. It's the Slovenian stuff of postcards. The rolley-bags outnumber backpacks and footwear gets noticeably less clunky. It's easy to see how one could be content dropping in on Bled and being whisked back away without ever setting foot in the more rugged landscape surrounding it. Retirees rent rowboats by the hour. Young, fashionable people sunbathe on the grassy shores. <br />
Slovenia is very much a tale of two lakes, Bled and Bohinj. Both are beautiful, but we actually <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/bled-and-bohinj.html">prefer Bohinj</a>, nearby, which has zero luxury hotels.<br />
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At some point in our trip, we began taking photos of local candy. It's the little things. These were a cross between Necco wafers and hole-less life savers. We just liked the packaging, really.<br />
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We considered doing a post about the unusual and emblematic Slovenian roofed hayracks (called <i>toplarji</i>), but never got all the pictures we wanted. Here's an old toplar surrounded by modern digging equipment. It's not easy to find prime examples of <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/high-gorenjska-meadows.html">the old Slovene way of life</a>, because the country doesn't dwell on its past. History in Slovenia has been relegated to the national parks, culinary tradition, a few <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/castle-hunting-grad-sneznik.html">quaint castles</a> and their excellent museums. Everyone looks forward. <br />
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Despite its diminutive size, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/08/sunday-in-ljubljana.html">Ljubljana</a> (pronounced "loob-lee-yah-na") easily feels the most modern of the former Yugoslavian capitals. It's demeanor mirrors the national spirit: lighthearted, friendly, unpretentious.<br />
Slovenia was the first republic to gain independence from post-Tito Yugoslavia, and there wasn't much violence during the breakaway. Compared to Bosnia, Kosovo, Serbia or even Croatia, the country has few scars and better memories.<br />
We love this red picture of a tiny, communist-era Zastava (nicknamed "Fičo" in Slovenia and "<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/05/fikjo-cutest-macedonian.html">Fikjo" in Macedonia</a>, where we posted about them) against a high-tech construction site. About a block from here, we saw a tractor pulling bales of hay through downtown Ljubljana.<br />
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Like<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/slovenian-food.html"> Slovenian food</a>, Slovenian wine is pretty basic. It's also cheap, tasty and plentiful. For a while, we were working on a vini-post that didn't get finished. It was going to be about the vineyards of the Vipava and Štájerska regions, but we never got the cornerstone picture or experience that a good piece needs. It was still fun to try. <br />
We took this picture at a courtyard "vinotok" in the colorful wine town of Slovenska Konjice. Underripe grapes hung from an arbor over our heads. If it had been September instead of July, we probably would have had a great, boozy post.<br />
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We're still crazy about Slovenia. Comparing it objectively to its neighbors, it might seem a little boring. It has nothing to rival the history and cuisine of Italy. It's mountains aren't as impressive as Austria's. Ljubljana doesn't hold a candle to Hungary's Budapest, and it's tiny bit of coast is barely a blip next to Croatia's sprawling seafront.<br />
But Slovenia has a bit of everything, and also possesses maybe the most pleasant vibe of any European country. It's always at the top of our list of recommendations - especially because of <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Slovenia+caves">all those caves</a><br />
To see all our posts from <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Slovenia">Slovenia, just click here</a>.<br />
To see all the Cutting Room Floor posts, with <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Cutting%20Room%20Floor">great pictures from the other 49 countries, just click here</a>.</div>
Merlin and Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11254659435101044471noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-72851583002679364092013-12-20T09:53:00.001-08:002013-12-20T09:53:37.703-08:00CRF: The Best of Croatia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>"CRF" is not a crime show you've never heard of, it stands for "Cutting Room Floor." It's been almost a year since we returned from Europe, and we've started to get seriously nostalgic. To give us all an extra travel fix, we're posting some of our favorite photos that never made it onto the blog. Here are our favorite unpublished memories and pictures of Croatia.</i></div>
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More than any other country, we associate Croatia with hedonism, sun and the scent of saltwater. Our trip never felt like a vacation, but Croatia is a vacation by definition. Everyone there was on holiday in one way or another - it was the same for the naked Germans and drunk Russians and sunburned Brits that joined us on those rocky shores. It was July. The sun never seemed to go down.<br />
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For a few happy days, we stayed <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/camping-kovacine-grill-night.html">at a huge campsite</a> on <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/cres-island.html">Cres Island</a>. There was squid to eat in town and beer to sip on the long oceanside promenade. When we swam, we were stung by tiny jellyfish. When we walked in the balmy evenings, we listened to cicadas and waves. Nearby, in a pine forest, a rusty amusement park spun its blinking, neon magic.<br />
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At home in the US, not long after the trip, someone told us that Croatia sounded "scary and Russian." It's true that in <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/citys-coast.html">some places, like Zadar</a>, one can find bomb-scarred buildings from the Balkan wars - but you have to look hard. The scariest thing about Croatia today? Probably the spiny sea-urchins that lurk in the shallow water.<br />
The Dalmatian coast<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/hiking-on-cres-island.html"> is mostly rock</a>, and some salt-scoured islands <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/desolation-of-pag-island.html">feel almost entirely dead</a>. Real, comfortable, sandy beaches are rare. Most people sunbathe on concrete slabs.<br />
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In Opatija, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/foodies-flock.html">a city where seafood approaches perfection</a>, we had a <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/gypsy-kitchens-hrvatska-cookout.html">barbecue of squid and <i>blitva</i></a>. The market where we shopped for our supper was made of Tito-era cement and seemed like the only cool place in the sun-baked city.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyXwSybfzop6D8eMH6w-XPVh2ffjT3NFbRxCdw1N6pjxNAsybs-7TrjlME8ho7TZqkhKPgBYOiyXT0u5HxlW0YMtF4CShpluTZEiJk6xODAJcEUZsI0FqEcaihm4YcLhKZzzOG-pTYhPU/s1600/Best+Of+Croatia+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyXwSybfzop6D8eMH6w-XPVh2ffjT3NFbRxCdw1N6pjxNAsybs-7TrjlME8ho7TZqkhKPgBYOiyXT0u5HxlW0YMtF4CShpluTZEiJk6xODAJcEUZsI0FqEcaihm4YcLhKZzzOG-pTYhPU/s1600/Best+Of+Croatia+5.JPG" /></a></div>
The heart of the summer - no rain, mild air, a sense that nothing bad can possibly happen - is best spent in a tent. We soaked up the sun and got into our sleeping bag coated with salt. We never went inside. We ate by the ocean, we napped in the shade, we swam and walked and came home to a crowded camping city that smelled always of grilling sausage and suntan oil. <br />
This was the semi-permanent home of one of our neighbors <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/camping-kovacine-grill-night.html">there at Camping Kovačine</a> - grandparents, small children and at least two couples used this one camper as a base. Did they all sleep inside? Hard to tell.<br />
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Late one night - well past midnight - we were returning to our campsite in Ičići and came across this streetlight game of volleyball.<br />
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These scales always remind us of communism. Every market from Minsk to Budapest to Sarajevo is full of them.<br />
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We spent a lot of time near the Mediterranean on the trip, but almost always during the colder months. The summer seashores are too crowded in Malta or Greece or Provence. At least, they're too crowded for serious travel.<br />
But there we were, in Croatia during the high season. We succumbed because there was no other choice. It's Croatia that we think of first when our minds turn to sunny saltwater. It was unavoidably perfect. It was a vacation.<br />
To see all our posts <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Croatia">from Croatia, just click here</a>.<br />
To see all the Cutting Room Floor posts, with <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Cutting%20Room%20Floor">great pictures from the other 49 countries, just click here</a>.</div>
Merlin and Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11254659435101044471noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-13235139473205588262013-12-20T09:53:00.000-08:002014-01-13T05:00:49.721-08:00CRF: The Best Of Slovakia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>"CRF" is not a crime show you've never heard of, it stands for "Cutting Room Floor." It's been almost a year since we returned from Europe, and we've started to get seriously nostalgic. To give us all an extra travel fix, we're posting some of our favorite photos that never made it onto the blog. Here are our favorite unpublished memories and pictures of Slovakia.</i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_L23uqXKSMc4Lgpesr2BF28zu3hOqfN1iJ62A6z7P-S7qAzNG2-FioKjvBuUW_-dvUT3wWaAIEPP4BRq_DJS-p-uBGzB51RDc4KA4SMvCunH1DxpBC2nOlpjuLF4KK3a6jVKTylLOW0/s1600/Slovakia_best_1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727809718234342578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_L23uqXKSMc4Lgpesr2BF28zu3hOqfN1iJ62A6z7P-S7qAzNG2-FioKjvBuUW_-dvUT3wWaAIEPP4BRq_DJS-p-uBGzB51RDc4KA4SMvCunH1DxpBC2nOlpjuLF4KK3a6jVKTylLOW0/s1600/Slovakia_best_1.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>There are lots of Slovak trucks on the roads of Europe, and it's well known as the "other half" of Czechoslovakia, but it's still a little-known, hidden away country. Crossing from the Czech Republic, we descended into a rougher land, spiked with tall pines and criss-crossed with big rivers - Slovakia smells first of wet woods and coarse paprika.<br />
But there are also elegant promenades and beautiful towns, great museums and copper steeples. One of our favorite towns was our last, the charming Banská Štiavnica in the south-west of the country. This intriguing "plague tower" shone brightly in the middle of Trojičné námestie square.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-SosjcgSucQWhn10TtsAG91jaPl1NJk6EtkeOSeoDTK2u90EoX2cJ2NymKXUXBgcYRHOQyZaAV4jpIYixtaWzO7Z1rdjznZ85wVZ5BA42JalnNJ4SPwNH0TUDDX3Px32Ix8I4mQUhcNE/s1600/Slovakia_best_2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727809709814310786" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-SosjcgSucQWhn10TtsAG91jaPl1NJk6EtkeOSeoDTK2u90EoX2cJ2NymKXUXBgcYRHOQyZaAV4jpIYixtaWzO7Z1rdjznZ85wVZ5BA42JalnNJ4SPwNH0TUDDX3Px32Ix8I4mQUhcNE/s1600/Slovakia_best_2.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>At the technical museum, in Košice, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/simple-pleasures-of-provincial-museum.html">we got lost in the dark, wonderful rooms</a>. Outside, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/all-worlds-summerstage.html">the city was full of music</a> and weddings, but the world contained in those dusty hallways was a silent one. Displays of prickling antennae, bare wires, worn typewriter keys, dull lenses, remote controls - and what seemed like a hundred gramophone speakers.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOycpef99mKuFQMGW63v0BprUaivGRxRZZ_2YKHQIwOL6xW-Kf8orSUN8vSFidFZUOB066DHrSLd92PwgGO3hM83UHGNijMg2-WS1cnSQXepVdnu_eVCuVQWtGGqWmBryaw3SH54kb6A8/s1600/Slovakia_best_3.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727809701495743698" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOycpef99mKuFQMGW63v0BprUaivGRxRZZ_2YKHQIwOL6xW-Kf8orSUN8vSFidFZUOB066DHrSLd92PwgGO3hM83UHGNijMg2-WS1cnSQXepVdnu_eVCuVQWtGGqWmBryaw3SH54kb6A8/s1600/Slovakia_best_3.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>Slovakia was a prickle of peaks and forests in the western part of the country. At first, as we climbed in from the Czech Republic, the whole landscape was made of wood and stone. It was wild. We passed a shepherd once, standing in the mist by his flock, who wore brown robes of sheepskin that reached all the way to the ground. He stared at us in the alpine cloud, leaning on his crook. At that moment, Slovakia felt like part of the untamed past.<br />
On the other hand, the middle of the country is flat and hot. The land there is a continuation of the great <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/great-plain.html">Hungarian puszta,</a> and the roads stretch out simple, flat and dusty. We ate oil-slicked, paprika chicken soup at this restaurant, in the heart of the plain. A thin, aproned Roma woman served us. Across the road, a shanty village glowered. Kids kicked at trash, the streets were full of brown water. We stopped for not much more than an hour. The food was delicious and hearty, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/slovak-food.html">as it tended to be in Slovakia</a>.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikermKJbU9pWl7QJ7THhkfwLQQktjkf4jmtM_F4rObDOqzn8T9TumdtGWWmneQAmYbZzVfdPTRRdMNyxEnPQQzniwqvOBqu1hq9OTkbwTeyUMpYe96HR6zlf9kz9tBlmL5GdnlB9p3cx8/s1600/Slovakia_best_4.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727809696224043010" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikermKJbU9pWl7QJ7THhkfwLQQktjkf4jmtM_F4rObDOqzn8T9TumdtGWWmneQAmYbZzVfdPTRRdMNyxEnPQQzniwqvOBqu1hq9OTkbwTeyUMpYe96HR6zlf9kz9tBlmL5GdnlB9p3cx8/s1600/Slovakia_best_4.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>At "Theatur" bar, in Košice (not the gambling den pictured here), we had a long discussion about martinis. Mainly, we talked about how good Theatur's martinis were - the young, blond bartender shrugged when we complimented her work. "I didn't even try," she said. We agreed, after much discussion, that they were the best drinks we'd had in months, and were probably the best to be found within two hundred miles.<br />
Košice is <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/slovakias-second-city.html">full of good food and exciting things</a>. It's also has - like so many regional hubs in ex-communist backwaters - its share of red neon and bleak-faced vagrants.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrLa2-XyTj4OYZNA5GphVQlYhWEuNmNe6VlTbRjwLZtQ30wAHGlL3EWQwyd0u4w4a6fGHfoMs6IO3GoqWlpw9_zIC4nnuFr6LQEnWkF5ckRJXyB79Mp8nITfcLTx4Ga5DcAwlcqBsJdE/s1600/Slovakia_best_5.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727807757533366370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrLa2-XyTj4OYZNA5GphVQlYhWEuNmNe6VlTbRjwLZtQ30wAHGlL3EWQwyd0u4w4a6fGHfoMs6IO3GoqWlpw9_zIC4nnuFr6LQEnWkF5ckRJXyB79Mp8nITfcLTx4Ga5DcAwlcqBsJdE/s1600/Slovakia_best_5.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>When we stayed in the forested hamlet of Podlesok, there wasn't much light at night save for the moon and stars. In Slovenský Raj Národný Park (home to <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/sucha-bela.html">the slippery, scary Suchá Belá</a> waterfall course) we saw men logging with horses and clearing weeds with scythes. This was the edge of modernity, where tradition and machinery were meeting each other in the forest.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMjgw1GenKP_pnO-akpqzLmx-0_-g_ww4S49iLnRmP53Kzka8uFKO2y-8kK4RUlUwMZ3tkUTJKy6wXxHxR6XEjZqFWomYKgk6HA-ILuh3W0VEZorV9syVBpST3f9qaLamSoXLWpWrgck/s1600/Slovakia_best_6.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727807744487130866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMjgw1GenKP_pnO-akpqzLmx-0_-g_ww4S49iLnRmP53Kzka8uFKO2y-8kK4RUlUwMZ3tkUTJKy6wXxHxR6XEjZqFWomYKgk6HA-ILuh3W0VEZorV9syVBpST3f9qaLamSoXLWpWrgck/s1600/Slovakia_best_6.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/ovci-syr-stands.html">Ovčí syr (Slovak sheep cheese)</a> can be so dry and thready that it almost feels like fiber on the tongue. The tendrils squeak in your teeth. The texture is both bouncy and melting. Forget <i>bryndzové halušky</i>, this is Slovakia's real national flavor.<br />
(Actually, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/slovak-food.html">bryndzové halušky is just potato dumplings</a> with <i>bryndza - </i>one type of ovčí syr. So, really...)<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-R1bTNnSKZJEtXbZJhUrw3RdCLW5jcAh3czPgyJhFHmuDZBh9kPs1u61gnGTH2NE-7OcWKQLThx7R_ididzZ3knQDAWeIxoAGdUd4yWTOkCkd6KIU-BgeOQ0GqH4fPDzdg_Qqgt4ItA/s1600/Slovakia_best_8.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727807725885865362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-R1bTNnSKZJEtXbZJhUrw3RdCLW5jcAh3czPgyJhFHmuDZBh9kPs1u61gnGTH2NE-7OcWKQLThx7R_ididzZ3knQDAWeIxoAGdUd4yWTOkCkd6KIU-BgeOQ0GqH4fPDzdg_Qqgt4ItA/s1600/Slovakia_best_8.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>It was June when we visited Slovakia, so our memories are of summer heat, the sound of bugs, the intense green of early wheat and the yellow of rapeseed. The days were long. We ate picnics beside country roads, smelling pollen on the wind.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWF2tozHqu5STmfWgzByHiubPgn0vfrZckYU7fk4VEl4Kpm6zJsKDcthk1KUH4-42eN0OIcovKnyGkBOrdwITssbZO8gY_XlkhfVm9H4sF2U9kKcYT73sgFTQXCLUZNL5Ywwf8rvv04HI/s1600/Slovakia_best_9.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727807718666964482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWF2tozHqu5STmfWgzByHiubPgn0vfrZckYU7fk4VEl4Kpm6zJsKDcthk1KUH4-42eN0OIcovKnyGkBOrdwITssbZO8gY_XlkhfVm9H4sF2U9kKcYT73sgFTQXCLUZNL5Ywwf8rvv04HI/s1600/Slovakia_best_9.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>We spent one hot afternoon walking around Levoča, a pretty village with an imposing town wall and almost no people in the streets. Slovakia evokes as much central-European grandeur as any of its neighbors (see <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/castle-hunting-bojnice.html">Bojnice castle</a>, the <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/im-not-rolling-my-eyes-im-looking-up.html">incredible ceilings inside</a> or the <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/castle-hunting-spissky-hrad.html">ancient edifice of Spišský Hrad</a>), but has many fewer tourists than the Czech Republic or Hungary.<br />
Levoča has medieval history, UNESCO listed carvings and dark little cafes set in crumbling stone buildings - but, at the time, it was all ours.<br />
To see all of our <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Slovakia">posts from Slovakia, just click here</a>.<br />
To see other Cutting Room Floor posts, with <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Cutting%20Room%20Floor">lots of other great pictures, just click here</a>.</div>
Merlin and Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11254659435101044471noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-63194012369435806382013-05-09T07:05:00.002-07:002013-05-09T07:05:46.392-07:00British Food: Neeps, Squeak, Chips and Guts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfbf9vNpWFIEhPKpkYkEoyRxmQWjYsbAShsDbaSwteZFB56jy8C0Rjzcch0mXKb3Sd1Vhc9ltCOH-FE2cUaoMVOSop6rcNqUExracbdGqKzRFe0btFLfOxMcqui38lNSy3lvNN9F8h1E/s1600/British+Food+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfbf9vNpWFIEhPKpkYkEoyRxmQWjYsbAShsDbaSwteZFB56jy8C0Rjzcch0mXKb3Sd1Vhc9ltCOH-FE2cUaoMVOSop6rcNqUExracbdGqKzRFe0btFLfOxMcqui38lNSy3lvNN9F8h1E/s1600/British+Food+1.jpg" /></a></div>
When the fish hit the fat, it made a racket. Sputtering, splattering, bubbling and squealing, it cooked fast and hot. Within a bare few minutes, we were handed our lunch. It was still hot after we'd walked from chippy ("fish and chip stand" is too long a name for something so simple) to beach, sat down, taken this picture and tasted the fries. Or, "chips," as we all know they're called. On the Welsh island of Anglesey, in the middle of November, this felt like our most British of meals, and it came so close to the end of our time there. The haddock was juicy, the crust was crisp, the whole thing tasted of salt and empire.<br />
Beside the fish is a little dish of "mushy peas," which is exactly what it sounds like.<br />
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America and Britain are not culturally similar. Anyone who tells you otherwise hasn't been to both places. We may speak the same language, but would a typical, small-town American restaurant serve haggis with neeps-n-tatties? Is blood sausage a normal part of American breakfasts? Can you imagine supermarket freezers displaying pre-made kidney pie?<br />
Brits love their offal, especially certain pieces in certain places. Haggis might seem like a joke to us Americans, a weird food that couldn't possibly be common, but it's truly a staple in Scotland. This plate of haggis (the "neeps-n-tatties" beside it are simply mashed turnips and potatoes) was served to me in a raucous pub in Elgin, which is about as blue-collar a place as there is. I ate the dish a few other times while in the north, and grew to really like it. And I really liked it; not as in "it's weird, but I can tolerate it." As in "I hope they have haggis on the menu!"<br />
It's made from ground sheep's heart, liver and lungs mixed with oatmeal and traditionally cooked in a sheep's stomach. Nowadays, a plastic casing is often substituted for the stomach. The flavor is richened with mace, nutmeg, allspice, marjoram, thyme and plenty of ground pepper. It is so aromatic, so uniquely spiced, that vegetarian versions (using grain instead of organ) tasted undeniably haggis-like. It really is delicious, and definitely isn't a joke. <br />
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Scotland isn't the only country within Great Britain with a signature dish that gets the imagination going. Welsh rabbit is neither originally Welsh nor made of rabbit. You'll find it referred to as "rarebit" in Wales, a word invented for the purpose of saying something other than "rabbit" for this meatless dish. Welsh rabbit originated in England and is, essentially, fondue. Cheese, usually cheddar, is melted and mixed with ale, mustard, cayenne, wine, what have you. Then, it's either poured over bread or served with "soldiers" (finger sized slices of toast) for dipping. So how did this cheesy food, which tastes exactly as you'd expect it would, get named after Bugs Bunny? The two theories I've read point to the English insulting the Welsh - either that they were so poor, cheese was their rabbit (an animal the English already considered 'the poor man's meat') or that they were so bad at hunting, cheese on bread would be a Welsh rabbit hunter's dinner.<br />
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In Criccieth, while walking beneath a seaside castle, we stopped into a bakery. It was early morning. The sun was coming up over the Snowdon mountains. The town smelled of baking. We asked the girl behind the counter what these little rectangles were - she'd just pulled them from the oven and they were puffed up and emitting visible plumes of steam. "These?" she said, giving us a suspicious look. "These are pie." Pie? <br />
"Yeah," she said. "Cheese pie." She gave us another funny look. How could we not identify pie?<br />
In the UK, pie can be fruity, meaty, cheesy, round, square, deep, flat or otherwise. It seems that if it's wrapped in pastry, it can be called a pie. This one was mildly cheesy, with a small dose of grassy herbs and sweetish potato inside. It tasted a bit like a knish.<br />
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In Hawes, in one of the small stone pubs that dot the Yorkshire Dales, we tried steak, kidney and "Old Peculier" pie. The beer, which really is spelled that way, made the dish an English take on an Irish classic "steak and Guinness pie." Fish pies were about the same, with cream replacing gravy and large, pillowy chunks of fish. It became clear that 'pie' could mean a stew with a puff pastry hat sitting on top or a broiled topper of mashed potatoes. <br />
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That's not to say that sometimes a pie is a pie just as you'd want it to be. The United Kingdom kept our excellent baked goods streak going. Through Scandinavia, over to Ireland and now here, it's been three months of excellent whole grains, seasonal fruit and powdered sugar. It was the stuff of dreams, of magazine pictorials. And 'stuff' couldn't be a more appropriate word, because there was never a case in which we needed dessert. We were often full on ale before a meal even began. And yet... who can resists?</div>
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Once we had 'pies' sort of figured out, there was the whole issue of 'puddings.'</div>
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Now, to address the elephant in the kitchen. Is British food bland? We can't deny the fact that salt shakers were employed at almost every meal and that things like "mushroom stroganoff" (a vegetarian pub staple) had a dizzying array of ingredients while still managing to taste like nothing at all except for a hard to describe, oxymoronic mix of 'rich' and 'watery.' But we can't say that this, umm, subtlety of flavor was necessarily the mark of bad food or unskilled chefs. It's just a style, one that favors the heartier, homier flavors of cinnamon, clove, cream and thyme rather than the punch of salt and spice. One that prefers you tailor your own dish to your taste with the always readily available supply of condiments. Above, a selection of packets in a Scottish pub. Traditional British food may have a reputation for being bland, but does it really get much more British than worcester sauce, HP, English mustard and malt vinegar?<br />
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There's all that Indian food if you're looking for something punchier. Some of the best Indian food of our lives. It's what Brits eat out, if they're not having stew in a pub. Like red-sauce Italian food in America, it's not seen as "ethnic" anymore. We never had a true, traditional afternoon tea - towers of sandwiches, scones, china pots, clotted cream. Nor did we stop for a "sunday carvery" - a man with a saber, thick cuts of meat, plentiful sides. But we did eat plenty of curry, saag and daal. Indian food is popular from London to Inverness, an omnipresent second flavor. It is also not particularly photogenic, especially in dimmed restaurant lighting on reflective copper dishes. Instead, we leave you with this picture of a ram. Lamb or "mutton" is very common in the UK, and at Indian restaurants it is simply referred to as "meat." Sorry, big guy.<br />
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Merlin and Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11254659435101044471noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-83451147715279142662013-05-04T09:35:00.001-07:002013-05-09T05:51:32.945-07:00A Riot Of Color On The Welsh Shore<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Traeth Mawr </i>means "Big Sands" in Welsh; it's the name given to the wide estuary between Portmadog and a blank hillside of trees and rock. Or, a mostly blank hillside.<br />
Portmeirion is a fabricated, storybook "village" that is unlike anything else we've seen. It is literally a patch of Italian baroque set down in Wales, like a spill of paint on a concrete slab. Nobody knew how to explain it to us, and I'm not sure I can explain it here. Imagine two postcards set side by side; the first is of wintry Britain, the second is of summery Portofino. Portmeirion is like two distant vacations, remembered in a dream, thrown together and piled atop itself on the rocks. Some people actually live here. The rest of us pay an entrance fee and walk around, bemused and surprised.<br />
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The emblem of Portmeirion is a naked woman, calf-deep in waves, a hint of mermaid tail rising behind her. When we walked those rocky shores, it was hard<b> </b>to imagine swimming or sunbathing. The beaches of North Wales are empty expanses of sand and rock; the sounds of gulls and waves only<b> </b>made the loneliness more vast. November there is a time of frosted fields and rattling, leaf-bare forests. The fish and chip shops are closed for the season, the ice-cream stands boarded up. <b> </b>This isn't a season when the rough coast - barnacled rock, concrete wharf, frozen sand - could seem hospitable to bare flesh.<br />
But the pale citizens of this grassy land do emerge in the summers to venture into cold waves and lie in tepid sunshine. North Wales, like the whole of North Europe, is home to hardy people who tire of winter. People are always drawn to the sea, aren't they?<br />
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A man named Sir Clough Williams-Ellis built this place in the half century between 1925 and 1975, using Italian seaside villages as a model, and bits of other buildings as his material. Many of the architectural pieces already existed, and were moved and reassembled at Portmeirion. Ornate clock towers jostle against wrought-iron porticos. Hard angles take surprising turns, statues peer from unexpected windows. The whole thing has a postmodern, collage-like air of disorder and order. It feels a little like a town made from children's toys, where disparate parts are thrown together in a pile and expected to play out a fantasy. <br />
Though some of the buildings are semi-inhabited (there are "private" signs everywhere, so that we tramping tourists don't stumble into an actual Welsh living room), the majority of the structures really serve their own purpose. William-Ellis was building a piece of art, not planned-housing in the mold of Le Corbusier. Room is needed for a cafeteria, of course, and for souvenir shops and ice cream, a hotel and restaurant. Tens of thousands of people visit Portmeirion every year. It might as well be a called a museum.<br />
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The small touches are some of the most poignant. Little copper fixtures, wooden statues of sea-captains, painted rocks, a sermonizing Jesus on a balcony. The town isn't actually town-sized, but the few acres of buildings are so intricate that they feel like a much bigger place. <br />
While William-Ellis used Italy as a rough template, the buildings and architectural features are from every corner of the globe. A colonnade from Bristol, England, is set against statues from Myanmar and Greek gods. It's meant to be surprising and confusing, and some of it isn't even real - one whole facade is done completely in trompe-l'œil. If there is one commonality, it's the influence of the sea on all these surfaces. Everything is salt-touched and vaguely nautical.<br />
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I remember wondering, in the November darkness of two years ago, how <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.co.uk/2010/11/curonian-spit.html">the cold Lithuanian coast</a> could <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.co.uk/2010/11/palanga.html">ever attract hollidaymakers</a> and sun seekers. Cold light, beach-walkers in parkas, the threat of overnight snow. We turn towards the sea for half the year, and away from it the rest of the time.<br />
Something that remains is the smell of the ocean, especially in the still waters of the Big Sands. That odor of kelp, salt and something indescribable emanating from the deep - it's the same all year.<br />
Portmeirion was originally called "Aber Iâ," which Williams-Ellis took to mean "frozen mouth." He changed the name to make it seem more pleasant, but he couldn't erase the actual image of a cold estuary. As colorful and tropical as the village is, it will always look out over a big slick of Welsh, northern sand. It's beautiful, but it could never be confused with Le Marche.<br />
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Near the estuary, on a rocky hillock, the Portmeirion "lighthouse" stands duty over nothingness. The tiny, metal figure in the scrub is something like a playhouse feature - we ducked inside and peered out through the empty porthole. It's only about ten or twelve feet tall, and doesn't have a light (as far as we could tell). The design suggests moorish rocketship more than naval signal. The view from inside is empty except for glistening sand, reeds, wheeling birds. Maybe it's the sea that projects to this lighthouse, not the other way around.<br />
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If I haven't really explained this place, forgive me. Portmeirion isn't so much a defined space as it is a funny concept. It isn't the right season, or the right texture, or the right temperature, color or height - not just for Wales, but for anywhere. In a children's book, the zaniness might make better sense. In a architectural textbook, the ideas might be better ordered. On a rock beside the water, it's just a pile of buildings. Which is to say, it's fun. It made us laugh, which is something a town usually doesn't. It made us want to open every door we could find.</div>
Merlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107394248553508646noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-89392581658299244662012-12-03T14:45:00.003-08:002012-12-03T14:46:20.068-08:00A Warm Winter's Jacket<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You say 'po-TAY-to' and Brits say... well, they say 'tatties,' mostly. Depending on the form, they also say 'crisps' for chips, 'chips' for fries, 'mash' for mashed potatoes - unless they are mashed with cabbage and other leftover vegetables, in which case they're 'bubble and squeak.' For the sound they make in the pan? Then, there are 'jacket potatoes,' the British name for baked potatoes. And with winter upon us, being able to eat my lunch all wrapped up in a warm jacket has been wonderful.<br />
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It all began on our very first day in the United Kingdom, in Edinburgh, Scotland. We spotted a place called The Sandwich Shop. Here, in the birthplace of the sandwich, it only seemed natural. The Sandwich Shop had all our dream fillings - avocado, cheddar, red onion, hummus, all sorts of condiments. The trouble was, it was so cold out that a sandwich just didn't seem... comforting enough. That's when I noticed that the optional vessels in which you could have your toppings piled were baguette, wrap, roll and jacket potatoes. Some fresh, summery fruit and veg nestled inside a warm, mushy jacket, please! Would I like butter? Why, yes, I would, thank you!<br />
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We were in the University neighborhood the next day and went into a coffee shop. The homey smell of spuds mixed with the ground beans in the air. While a young woman ladled out soup and plated scones from behind the counter, most people had their orders delivered from a staircase in the back. Jacket potatoes just oozing with curry and cream obscured objects. Chicken strips? Tuna chunks? Out the front door, we saw a steady stream of people descend stairs and then come back up with a square styrofoam parcel. The cafe was above a place called Rotato, in which the jackets were cooked on spits over a fire. Get it? ROtating poTATO. We went down and got ourselves a spicy chickpea jacket with rocket and sour cream (this time, holding the butter) and ate it in the park.<br />
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From then on, jacket potatoes were always an option - in cafes, pubs, restaurants. Menus had a sandwich section, maybe wraps or paninis and a 'jacket potatoes.' In Scotland, haggis made some appearances as a filling option. Otherwise, though, the trend began that we would see throughout England and Wales. Jacket Potato topping choices were almost uniformly tuna mayonnaise (a very honest description of the tuna-to-mayo ratio), coronation chicken (chicken with a yellow curry mayonnaise), coleslaw (cabbage and mayo), prawns marie rose (tiny shrimps mixed with a sauce of ketchup and mayonnaise, 'marie rose') and beans & cheese (baked & cheddar). Above, the prawn choice.<br />
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In Warwick, England we saw a car pulling a cart behind it. The black cart with gold trimming had a bell affixed to it which rang as it moved down the street. He set up shop in the town square and put up his specials sign. It was the Shire Jacket Potato guy and people, including us, lined up to grab our hot street treat. Chicken curry, Chili and Beans were his hot options for the day. The potato was removed from his coal oven and split - the steam escaped, stabbing the cold air in thick streaks. Then, a healthy slice of butter was patted in, Merlin's curried chicken was ladled on. For my beans and cheese one, he asked if I wanted beans first or cheese. I said beans for aesthetic reasons, but should have said cheese for melty-goodness reasons. Those are some stick-to-your-ribs spuds right there. Beware of burnt tater tongues.</div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444594851304953597noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-52896450673747196212012-12-02T02:44:00.000-08:002012-12-02T02:44:30.373-08:00Castle Hunting: Warwick<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Much of England and Wales was underwater. We'd driven through flooded streets and crossed rivers that had broken their banks and lay sprawled across the fields. The whole of Great Britain, it seemed, was fighting off the rising waters, pumping out their cellars and trying to keep their feet dry. Warwick, when we arrived there, was on the edge of disaster. The river Avon was higher than it's been in years. There were sandbags across doorways and swirling eddies in people's yards. The rain came again in the night; everyone was following the television news, watching the disasters unfolding further afield. Warwick is a town of tudor half-timber, Georgian soberness and brick Victoriana. It has a timeless feel to it, as though a millennium of English history's been made to happen all at once. In a crooked-walled pub not far from the castle walls, the last of the storm beat against the windows and a drunk grandmother told us about her African Grey Parrot. The dark corners around us were filled with furtive characters straight from Dickens or Chaucer or even the Domesday book.<br />
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We woke up to sun and a little blue sky. When we went back to Warwick castle that morning, where we'd walked in the blustery afternoon a day before, we found its walls golden hued and the floodwaters receding. It was an impressive sight, one of the most famous in the midlands.<br />
Warwick's used to high tides and chaos - from the first motte-and-bailey in 1068, to the huge expansion of the middle ages, the imprisonment of King Henry IV and the English civil wars it has played a central part in England's fortified history.<br />
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It's the most expensive castle we've visited (£45 for two day passes!), and the one with the loudest music - speakers play a continuous, medieval-styled torrent of drums and synthesizers interrupted occasionally by piped-in cheering. Because Warwick is owned by the Madame Tussauds group, there are dozens of wax-figure lords, ladies, knaves, blacksmiths, scullery maids, babies, soldiers and prisoners. It's an ugly display of olde warts and unhealthy stoops.</div>
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To survive for nearly a thousand years, a castle has to incorporate a few tricks and have a bit of luck. Warwick's most spectacular feature is its main tower, the Guy's Tower that soars above the rest of the structure and commands a wide view of the surrounding countryside. This highest part was built in 1260, then rebuilt in 1315 as midland England went through it's last period of grand castle building. The curtain walls, a second main tower and the keep were part of the same expansion.</div>
As Britain consolidated and turned its attention outward, fortresses like this one became strategic afterthoughts. The last significant action that Warwick saw was in 1642, when the civil war was raging through the area. Parliamentarian forces holding the castle obtained two cannon, and the "besieging" Royalist forces installed two cannon of their own into a nearby church steeple. A few ineffectual barrages were fired, the siege was lifted after about a month, and the Royalists beat a small retreat.<br />
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The Madame Tussauds figures - which are frighteningly lifelike - focus on an earlier episode in Warwick's history. The castle's most interesting owner was Richard Neville, the 16th Earl of Warwick, who led a successful insurrection against King Edward IV. In the convoluted years of the War of the Roses, Warwick was partly responsible for the overthrow of two kings, and earned the name "Kingmaker" as a result. General troublemaking and warmongering brought assaults on his stronghold, though none were ever successful.</div>
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The middle part of the 14th century was among the most bloody times in England's history, and the Tussauds figure-makers like to dwell on the sharp points and short lifespans. Aside from their stillness and waxy pallor, they look just like real people.</div>
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The current structure is one of the oldest and best examples of true medieval fortress architecture still standing today. In the fourteenth century, during the early devastation of the Hundred Years War, the castle was thickened and modified to withstand the siege-warfare weapons of the day - catapults, trebuchets and ballistas. The towers are remarkably thick and built as cylinders to help deflect the blows.<br />
This kind of fighting - done with glorified slingshots and battering rams - is obviously more romantically medieval than the cannons that later knocked everything down. Though catapults really weren't all that effective, and were probably used much less than people think, at Warwick they're played up mightily. Around the grounds are several models of these siege engines, looking something like monstrous, wood-and-rope insects. In the fortress foreground, on what is normally called the island, are a few model trebuchets; we'd seen just the tops of them when the river was high, and the island had washed over with water.<br />
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Warwick has been almost hermetically sealed off from the public. In fact, it's almost impossible to catch a glimpse of the place without paying the admission price. This despite the fact that it lies roughly adjacent to a large town center and nearby a river and fields. The one good, public view is from a nearby bridge, and it's fleeting.<br />
The line of sight towards the castle wasn't cut off by Madame Tussauds, but by the later Earls of Warwick, who had converted the castle into a grand home. The great hall and living chambers are still decorated in baronial decadence - there are countless oil paintings, queen Victoria's riding saddle, scores of suits of armor, gold-trimmed pistols, plush furniture, Queen Anne's four poster bed, silk brocading - and filled with more stately wax figures. In one bedroom, a diminutive likeness of the present Queen stands somewhat awkwardly beside a mound of pillows and blankets (apparently, her majesty visited Warwick a few years ago).<br />
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Warwick escaped the worst of the flooding. Downriver along the Avon, Shakespeare's hometown of Stratford wasn't so lucky - there, the streets were full of water and the river had run right into people's homes. As the river slowly withdrew from around the castle walls, a tangle of branches and detritus was left behind. The trebuchets below the castle, that had been nearly swept away, were swathed in debris when they emerged. Pools of water were left behind in the sodden earth, and a brown wash of mud. It looked something like a deserted battlefield after a rout.<br />
Still, Warwick looked less sodden than triumphant. It's walls were as impressive as ever. A man was performing a falconry show for the tourists, flying hawks and owls over our heads while speaking over a loudspeaker. He told jokes and fed the birds bits of chicken. Life went on. Warwick's been there for a thousand years. It's seen wet feet and rain before.</div>
Merlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107394248553508646noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-82637207054857198672012-11-30T10:28:00.005-08:002012-11-30T10:56:02.645-08:00Where We Could Pull Over <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We'd finally found a pull off spot after an hour's drive through the Scottish highlands. The last of the day's light was about to disappear behind the stream-veined peaks and thick swaths of grey cloud. Merlin scurried up a hill with his camera, I stayed below and mostly took pictures of his silhouette. Nikon appendage against an IMAX movie backdrop. There'd been a castle at the water's edge just a few minutes earlier, there was an island with a single tree standing up from it like a flag just a little further along. But this is where we could stop. And we were more than willing to drink as much of it in as possible.<br />
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This
is a wide shoulder on British country roads, a foot or so between the
pavement and the stone walls. This is in the Yorkshire Dales, England. Our car was left a few hundred meters back, in the parking lot of the White Scar Cave. Our jeans were still wet from the rushing water underground and, at only 3:45 PM, that beautiful twilight was already setting in. So, we walked along the shoulder. A tight squeeze even on foot. Most of the time, there's no space at all,
hardly enough room for two cars to pass each other. Our GPS did an
admirable job at keeping us on the scenic route, on leading us from one
place to another over narrow stone bridges, off pavement onto dirt,
through the villages within National Parks and always, always steering
clear of private roads that lead off into the woods to a secluded
estate.<br />
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Pheasants
make their way across the road at their own speed, pulling
that long, pretty tail behind them like an airplane over the Jersey
shore, going extra slow so you can read the promotion banner it drags
behind it. Land Rovers filled with dapperly outfiitted hunters take a
sharp turn onto one of those private roads. And all you want to do is
pull over to take a picture. But there's just no darn place to do it.
So, you snap a photo from the window of your car. You're in the Lake
District now, the English countryside at its most storybook. It's the land of William Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter, where dogs sit at their owners wellies in all the pubs. Rolling green with
grids of stone walls, cottages with curly cues of smoke rising from
their chimneys, farmsteads with gorgeous old barns. Sheep in their
winter coats.<br />
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Back in Scotland, up on Cow Hill, there were Highland cattle, squat, long-haired animals that are more Mr. Snuffleupagus than Bessie the Cow. Sturdy animals for this difficult landscape - one filled with powerful winds and heavy rains. Other then them, we were alone on our Highland hike, in the shadow of Ben Nevis with views down over Glen Nevis and the Loche Linnhe. Our car was down at Braveheart Car Park, built for the crew of that great Mel Gibson epic. Somehow to keep the trailers and equipment trucks while they filmed here on Cow Hill. I almost began to hear the Braveheart soundtrack in my head, the bagpipes and strings, but my brain kept getting stuck on Titanic. All James Horner sounds the same.<br />
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There's a rugged beauty to the Highland landscape, one that just <i>feels</i> like wild red head and rough wool. The
thistles and gorse that cover the landscape with purple and yellow when flowered, make for a
blanket of thick thorn and spikes at the dawn of winter. Driving along Loch Lomond in Trossachs National Park was spectacular. "National Park" doesn't mean the same thing in Britain as it does in America. Here, the area is not so much "parkland" or nature reserves cared for by rangers. They are whole areas deemed too special to develop. They are unspoiled and pristine, and also the home to thousands of people in villages throughout. Just off to the right of this photo, a white house sat in the blip of flat space between two sweeping hills. It was like an ant between a camel's humps. The narrow dirt path of pull-off room we'd found was probably the very start of their driveway. </div>
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There are castles and ruins, barns and walls, old towers and bridges all through the British countryside. Old stone reflected in puddles and the waters of lakes and loches, structures half covered in bright green lichen. They mostly blend right in with the scenery, a natural fit like a cloud in the sky. The Ribblehead Viaduct was an exception and, in a rare stroke of luck, we were actually able to stop our car fairly close by. Twenty-four arches stretch across the valley of the River Ribble in North Yorkshire, England. It was a marvel of modern technology in its day, a project that resulted in the death of at least 100 labourers whose graves doubled the nearby cemetery. An incredible structure, young for these parts at only 128 years old.<br />
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We just arrived in Wales yesterday, our final stop in the United Kingdom. The final days of our entire trip - and the weather has begun to look up. Clear skies make photos easier, but there's still the issue of finding a place to stop. We drove across The Cob three times (insert corny joke here - ha!). Back, forth, back we traversed the rock and slate causeway, a sea wall across the Glaslyn Estuary. To our right (and then our left, and then right again) was this view of the Estuary. We finally found a construction site a few minutes' walk away and left our car with the workers'. Then, we strolled The Cob leisurely on its lower level, next to the cars. Above, on the other side of the causeway more people strolled, alongside the old steam train track which still gets use most days of the week.<br />
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When we'd left Warwick, England for Wales that morning, we were warned about recent weather. "Oh, Wales is flooded," a young woman said with wide eyes and a shake of the head. While its true that <i>parts </i>of Wales experienced terrible flooding, we found most of it still above water. Nothing compared to the deep water we'd driven through two days before in England. These tractor tracks were filled with rain, but otherwise the land was dry. This was a terrible place to pull to the side of the road, by the way. A tight squeeze for the two-way traffic, a nerve-racking reemergence onto the road.<br />
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Just a few minutes further, Criccieth Castle cut a beautiful silhouette into the sky. The village of the same name stood beside it, tucked inland. As good a place to pull over as any. We walked along the pier, which jutted out into Tremadog Bay and looked at Wales all around us. I don't remember the last time I was able to see as far into the distance, the sky was so clear. Water to sand to stone to dirt to hills with more hills behind that and more behind that. We parked the car and ourselves for the night, checking in to The Lion Hotel which was hosting "Christmas Evening" for a busload of seniors. Mince pies, turkey, a raffle and holiday sweaters. Our car collected a thick coat of frost by the morning.</div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444594851304953597noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-23956971239431269502012-11-29T15:20:00.001-08:002012-11-29T15:20:12.629-08:00The Most British Cheese<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I think the personality of a place can always be tasted in its cheese.
The voluptuous, brash, classic array from Italy. The
seduction and traditionalism, sensory overload and decadence of
cheese from France. Britain's big three paint a picture of their own.
Stilton blue is complex, showy and rich, like the palaces and manor
houses. Cheddar is the stone walls and old mills, the Industrial
Revolution and the stuff upper lip. And Wensleydale is the B&B
owner who has set out a hospitality tray of cookies and teas.
Wensleydale is the misty cow pastures, the cream teas and the tailored tweeds. It's
the Yorkshire Dales and English hospitality.<br />
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Wensleydale cheese has a long history and has changed over time, growing milder with age. Now a white cow's milk cheese, it began life as sheeps-milk blue made by Cistercian monks from the Roquefort region of France. They'd resettled in the valley of Wensleydale and brought their French blue recipe along with them. In 1540, the monastery was closed and local farmers decided to pick up where the monks left off. This is when Wensleydale started to take on its own character, ditching its French roots and blue veins.<br />
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Generation after generation continued the craft, even through World War II, a time when most other small production creameries died out. During the war, cows were drafted into service. Don't worry, they weren't outfitted with grenades or anything. Their milk was called in for the production of "Government Cheddar." Doesn't that just sound delicious? But somehow, the Wensleydale Creamery in Hawes survived. Today it is the last remaining dairy in Wensleydale that makes the eponymous cheese. ("Wensleydale" doesn't have the same protection as, say, "Stilton" and can be produced places that aren't in Wensleydale. But Wensleydale Creamery stuff's the real deal.) Approaching the Visitor's Centre, you smell warm milk. <br />
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The Wensleydale Creamery in Hawes really gave a new meaning to the term Visitor Centre. I see those two words on a sign and assume that it means some sort of tourist set-up with cafe, shop, souvenirs, a small exhibit. It had all that and a museum to boot, but it also was just this big, buzzing place full of... well... visitors. Families came in to grab lunch in the cafe and then go tap on the glass window overlooking the cheese production. "Simon!" One shouted while waving and snapping a camera phone picture. Simon's blush could have been the reaction of an embarrassed brother or that of a caught-off-guard crush.<br />
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People made the sample station rounds, munching on the different orange and white cubes, flecked with bits of cranberry, apricot, chili and blue mold. Then, they grabbed the good old mild & crumbly original Wensleydale they came in to get, along with a jar of chutney, and went to the cash register to pay up. We sat with our computers, happy to take advantage of their "Free WIFI" tabletop signs, another testament to the fact that they wanted you to linger after your "breakfast bap" (bap = wrap) or daily pud special (pud = dessert). The cheesecake made from the ginger Wensleydale looked divine.<br />
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There's a spring in Wensleydale Creamery's step these days. After two near-closures, the flagship cheese is enjoying a resurgence in popularity, thanks to cartoon characters Wallace and Gromit - well, Wallace, specifically, the sweater vest wearing cheese connoisseur. His very favorite cheese just happens to be Wensleydale. Why? Because its delicious of course! But also because the creator just thought that the name sounded so wonderfully British. There is something really quintessential about it, I think. The way it rolls of the tongue like green hills do across the landscape. Quintessential in name and flavor, really.<br />
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It's not as loud and vivacious as Stilton, and not the dependable
workhorse that Cheddar is, but Wensleydale may just be the most British of British cheeses. It mixes amiably with pickle or chutney on a
Ploughman's sandwich, rests on a cracker like an old hand on a walking
stick. Beside a slice of fruitcake, it's the loyal companion, a tad
bland, but lovable. The perfect complement, not too salty or sweet or
sharp or tart. It is a subtle flavor, but a strong one
nonetheless. One could call it brightly acidic, well-rounded, mild but strong. <br />
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People say that the heart of the Yorkshire Dales is in the town of Hawes - and the heart of Hawes is Wensleydale Creamery. The town's population is mostly employed at the creamery, the menus at tea houses and pubs all feature Wensleydale cheese in a proud way. Hawes is a tight cluster of old stone buildings, the type of grey, hard-edged exteriors that you know have floral wallpaper and decorative pillows inside. The flowery interior within the walls that were built to last. When you put a knife to Wensleydale cheese, it feels the same way. It crumbles and the morsels are wonderfully bright. A cheese really does resemble the place it comes from.</div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444594851304953597noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-60698305661593162552012-11-29T09:45:00.000-08:002012-11-29T09:45:49.618-08:00The 700 Club<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today is our 700th official day of the trip and, in a bizarre coincidence, we just happened to publish our 700th post. So, in honor of both milestones, we've decided to pick a favorite post from each block of the trip. Looking back, we're a little embarrassed by some of our earliest writing and photography. We didn't quite have a knack for the whole blogging thing yet. There was also a matter of learning to balance the time spent experiencing things and the time it takes to sit in a dark hotel room and plug away at documenting it all. We hope you enjoy reminiscing a little with us.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Xh03_STO0eJ5IuVczGOini9m8rNHfR9U9r9ZSxqddCbyhIPHqdMe6ijDMbGlkOtueSkUok1Rxz9B-Zh9BcSHoLhiIde26RKQ9XjVQuFEwO9Wi7ZpZknkyKGUewEaFDbIJZ5WJ4oA7eEN/s1600/DSC_6467_2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545220821229581394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Xh03_STO0eJ5IuVczGOini9m8rNHfR9U9r9ZSxqddCbyhIPHqdMe6ijDMbGlkOtueSkUok1Rxz9B-Zh9BcSHoLhiIde26RKQ9XjVQuFEwO9Wi7ZpZknkyKGUewEaFDbIJZ5WJ4oA7eEN/s800/DSC_6467_2.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/11/centraltirgus-riga.html">Centrāltirgus, Riga</a>
- Lithuania<br />
1-100, Holland to Estonia. The snow began to fall in Riga and we didn't see uncovered earth again until Ukraine, well into our next block. This was the beginning of our Slavic winter and wandering into the <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/11/centraltirgus-riga.html">Centrāltirgus</a> in Riga was surreal. We had never seen a market like it and still count it amongst the best we've ever encountered - and we got to <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Marketplaces" target="_blank">a lot of markets</a>. They're perfect gateways into a new place, an accessible entry into the authentic life of a place. Looking back, it was probably our experience at this one in Riga that really taught us that lesson. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoRRKmRC7OgMYAnlVhpFROpfWz9Ugz5QTQve-SK8kk8Bm24B-GTqVSePJ_fmwItKx2IXqqGdBSLE4AoB4pU_A7O_BglS2h-btiKlV7aPPlpN3g6bqnA7hI5gh1EpLEHUzOWVQ0j5x2e39u/s1600/DSC_9301_2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568702734846003394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoRRKmRC7OgMYAnlVhpFROpfWz9Ugz5QTQve-SK8kk8Bm24B-GTqVSePJ_fmwItKx2IXqqGdBSLE4AoB4pU_A7O_BglS2h-btiKlV7aPPlpN3g6bqnA7hI5gh1EpLEHUzOWVQ0j5x2e39u/s800/DSC_9301_2.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>
<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/02/monumental-brest.html">Monumental Brest</a> - Belarus<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">101 - 200, Russia to San Marino. We began in one place and ended in quite another. In between was a lot of snow, a crash-course in Russian language, two Pope Benedict sightings and the last remaining dictatorship in Europe. Belarus. </span><a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/02/monumental-brest.html">Monumental Brest</a><span class="Apple-style-span"> was an experience of true Communist grandeur, propaganda and pomp. We are forever grateful to have made the effort, obtained the visas and crossed the border into Belarus at this point in its history. We've no doubt it'll be very different in the not-too-distant future.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTQ8RW7ZA6BnIyFUKD0T6B41g48OIHSIgtfqa30QXe2U5ZMMIZ1sbUGENlNpPxkwOEmquHwgDWUeA0p3POxlTI2_eg0NV1vgjGh7L_uDmibyR2znqK7F0bBEiItFn3IsX2tY01l7CnbU/s1600/DSC_0037.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622438416471899650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTQ8RW7ZA6BnIyFUKD0T6B41g48OIHSIgtfqa30QXe2U5ZMMIZ1sbUGENlNpPxkwOEmquHwgDWUeA0p3POxlTI2_eg0NV1vgjGh7L_uDmibyR2znqK7F0bBEiItFn3IsX2tY01l7CnbU/s800/DSC_0037.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>
<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/puszta-horse-show.html">Puszta Horse Show</a> - Hungary<br />
201 - 300, Switzerland to Croatia. Sometimes we resent this blog for keeping us in on a sunny afternoon, keeping a camera in hand when it only adds to our conspicuousness, taking up time we could be spending doing something wonderful and exotic... but more often, we realize that actively thinking about content has lead us to do so many things we wouldn't have otherwise. For example, the <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/06/puszta-horse-show.html">Puszta Horse Show</a>. Basically a Hungarian rodeo, how could it not make a good post? It also made for a hysterical, wonderful afternoon. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzk12EFEgikH5gXBIUFU3agskKQiDJOvoaQFAqQ8P_Kh0DmFpUsMI5m5K8FrgjC-LFnl2QP2ZzPUP41o3pxnt8q_zYq8inMt9yOXzn_a6FZNsSMlbY0Ksy-zpTWIp_qZN7LnCuXp1qhew/s1600/2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632196324936764530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzk12EFEgikH5gXBIUFU3agskKQiDJOvoaQFAqQ8P_Kh0DmFpUsMI5m5K8FrgjC-LFnl2QP2ZzPUP41o3pxnt8q_zYq8inMt9yOXzn_a6FZNsSMlbY0Ksy-zpTWIp_qZN7LnCuXp1qhew/s800/2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>
<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2011/07/water-cave.html">The Water Cave</a> - Slovenia<br />
301 - 400, Slovenia to Spain. Like Marketplaces, <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/caves">Caves</a> are a common theme for us. We love spelunking and never would have even known it had we not gone to Slovenia a few years before this trip began. That time, we went to the Škocjan Caves (which doesn't allow pictures). On our return trip, we upped the ante with this once-in-a-lifetime tour of The Water Cave. One of our very favorite days of this entire trip. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-bJXj0uCBLuBznpeQrVkB6AZieQyjatJ6qyl7DEtCV1wN2xLBiAhEWkHJsl0NK_CB-WFqwe4of1VKcBJSSE80jhytyiliUOQPuNwsuq111nFWuP-tost_7W4HGGkcJkFOvegiZI5A3r0L/s1600/Xinaliq_8.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700693792767595010" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-bJXj0uCBLuBznpeQrVkB6AZieQyjatJ6qyl7DEtCV1wN2xLBiAhEWkHJsl0NK_CB-WFqwe4of1VKcBJSSE80jhytyiliUOQPuNwsuq111nFWuP-tost_7W4HGGkcJkFOvegiZI5A3r0L/s800/Xinaliq_8.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>
<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/01/in-land-far-far-away.html">In a Land Far, Far Away...</a> - Azerbaijan<br />
401 - 500, Georgia to Malta. At the beginning of this year, we became backpackers. Our loyal companion Nilla (our Subaru Outback) had been sent home. We left Christmas with our families and took one, two, three planes to get to Georgia. It was exhilarating and scary and with our comfort zone punctured, we decided to really just go all-in. We never would have driven to Xinaliq, Azerbaijan ourselves. And staying with <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/01/living-skansen.html">a family</a> whose house was heated with dung was a<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/search/label/Homestays"> homestay</a> to remember. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYplqrwTe_q3Bgw1RMnQtoeiuT0Oz4ZiwLwFBOeJEymHgNo9rU3GArGx3R64vNpTS9-5q5FndG9plsytzWbQE-5HzvzVjXX035aH9Oa60oHErffpAiJYxwNiQwnMIC_rOHGFcSBZcRKg/s1600/lake_komani_ferry_5.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734231660824424770" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYplqrwTe_q3Bgw1RMnQtoeiuT0Oz4ZiwLwFBOeJEymHgNo9rU3GArGx3R64vNpTS9-5q5FndG9plsytzWbQE-5HzvzVjXX035aH9Oa60oHErffpAiJYxwNiQwnMIC_rOHGFcSBZcRKg/s800/lake_komani_ferry_5.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>
<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/04/beautiful-lake-komani-ferry.html">The Beautiful Lake Komani Ferry</a> - Albania<br />
501 - 600, Albania - Bosnia & Herzegovina. We found ourselves missing Nilla a lot. Wishing we could camp, have our own cooking equipment, just have the freedom to get from point A to point B on our own time. But any time we start thinking this way, we inevitably think of all the experiences we never would have had if we'd kept the car around. All the situations we were thrown headfirst into. We always think of the <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/04/beautiful-lake-komani-ferry.html">Lake Komani ferry</a>, a bus made to float which carried us, a man showing off his machine gun, elderly people in traditional clothes and whoever they randomly picked up at the water's edge of nowhere to northern Albania. It was beautiful, yes, but also bizarre, adventurous and unlike anything before it or since.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYpgXTEa9SMeBT3XWiD1iV6fFLSW_-FxoOPhx9eUhenxyem0kSgxUUpDkNyrJSNXrTASdFznMRTg5eJL6LnAuguYzCtDT54BUobQjx5k0OZgXNM14KeENrBz59Jbosrd2-oVhlbISzD_E/s1600/Arneshreppur_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYpgXTEa9SMeBT3XWiD1iV6fFLSW_-FxoOPhx9eUhenxyem0kSgxUUpDkNyrJSNXrTASdFznMRTg5eJL6LnAuguYzCtDT54BUobQjx5k0OZgXNM14KeENrBz59Jbosrd2-oVhlbISzD_E/s800/Arneshreppur_2.JPG" /></a></div>
<a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/08/forty-eight-people.html">Forty-Eight People</a> - Iceland<br />
601 - 700, Iceland - United Kingdom. Iceland is sort of Europe and sort of nowhere. At the edge of the Arctic and in the middle of the Atlantic, it's very much its own thing. Huge swaths of the country can only be seen by hiking for days with everything you need on you. In some places, we got a tiny insight into what it must feel like to be in space. The deepest sense of isolation in an unimaginably beautiful place. On the eastern coast of the Westfjords, only a small number of resilient people have remained. <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2012/08/forty-eight-people.html">Forty-eight to be exac</a>t. We contemplated staying put and bringing their number up to fifty.</div>
Merlin and Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11254659435101044471noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-61348235388177358202012-11-27T04:12:00.002-08:002012-11-27T09:20:34.143-08:00Gypsy Kitchens: Mincemeat Pie From Scratch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPJIsYLMlTI3AkVFu8lZbeZmcm2p0C3DgUiZOw7932wdXCyNRxGc9fgxlY1yrggmRYwvII63THnJDFYmx7j5VZ19fq4TISXWWbkIlzhNXqqzLas7EIlnEMU6n7jMUfBsdW4OxXq30qAY/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPJIsYLMlTI3AkVFu8lZbeZmcm2p0C3DgUiZOw7932wdXCyNRxGc9fgxlY1yrggmRYwvII63THnJDFYmx7j5VZ19fq4TISXWWbkIlzhNXqqzLas7EIlnEMU6n7jMUfBsdW4OxXq30qAY/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+1.JPG" /></a></div>
At the village market in Elgin, we asked a man if his mincemeat pies had meat in them. "Yeah," he said. "But it gets confusing this time of year. Christmas mincemeat doesn't have meat. Those would be mince pies." We pointed out that <i>his</i> pies were labeled "mince pies," and yet he said they had meat in them. "Yeah," he said, and shrugged. "It gets confusing around Christmas."<br />
A woman <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/the-barrel-builders.html">at the Speyside Cooperage</a> cafe gave us this piece of advice about mincemeat pies - "If it's got all sweet things around it, it's probably sweet. If it has meat things around it, it's probably meat."<br />
The intrigue doesn't stop there. Most people make mincemeat pie with jarred filling - it's almost universally regarded as too difficult to make from scratch. When we began looking into creating a recipe, it actually looked pretty simple. Except... not really. As it turns out, we're not fluent in English. What are <i>sultanas</i>? What's suet? Can we buy "mixed peel," or do we have to make it? And, why are there vegetarian versions of meat-less mincemeat? <br />
Here are the answers, and the surprisingly easy recipe for from-scratch mincemeat filling.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8uaakDpeJX7AXFY_9NFNcc5BWALroQo-yEkCsK1IgX5oMdmgTvC59vA1lmviZ8q3wvrMTabi0pnUFguCrq7KCiSi5pITRsARRhb0lgekbpfE78CU5T9oKja8Krx-ud2elfXgeH-Y9hM/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8uaakDpeJX7AXFY_9NFNcc5BWALroQo-yEkCsK1IgX5oMdmgTvC59vA1lmviZ8q3wvrMTabi0pnUFguCrq7KCiSi5pITRsARRhb0lgekbpfE78CU5T9oKja8Krx-ud2elfXgeH-Y9hM/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+2.JPG" /></a></div>
"Make the mincemeat a year before and keep it in a jar," is a common refrain. Some sources even suggest that the key to a good mince pie is to let the apples ferment and bubble. We made our mix the day before, and it was fine. In England, the pastries are Christmas treats and are usually topped by a star. Since ours was for Thanksgiving, we thought about topping it with a turkey, but decided to keep it simple. <br />
Our little Keswick rental cottage, in the beautiful lake district, was outfitted with an oven and range - we cooked all day, kept in by driving rain and a sense of tradition. We dubbed our holiday "Thanksgiving in the Land of Oppressor" and made a feast that was half American and half motherland. An appropriately sized pheasant, brussel sprouts, mashed potatoes, stuffing and gravy, kale and corn, candied carrots, traditional American stomachaches and traditional English mincemeat pie.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6840M1lLioLZvffDc3WoFjfzs6Wv3uTymWY0_U3VN1CwJ9b5_vpwjQ-rO0IHiCGGjYj6hyphenhyphenV7KKyrERYOnaJvim5XlGRH5Hy3AUCWBDA18tJ0YEbHfF9biop_miORuZzLyPbdyXiWJm8/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6840M1lLioLZvffDc3WoFjfzs6Wv3uTymWY0_U3VN1CwJ9b5_vpwjQ-rO0IHiCGGjYj6hyphenhyphenV7KKyrERYOnaJvim5XlGRH5Hy3AUCWBDA18tJ0YEbHfF9biop_miORuZzLyPbdyXiWJm8/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+3.JPG" /></a></div>
The filling is made up of apple (as a base), citrus peel (in three forms- dried, boiled and zested) and lots of raisins, currants, cranberries, candied ginger - candied pineapple would work too, basically anything dried and diceable. To this, we add liquor and a bit of onion, nutmeg, cinnamon, clove and brown sugar. The ingredients are great to munch on, add to stuffing, salads (and sip). Except for one, which we'll get to.<br />
For the citrus peel, boil a lemon (unwaxed if you can find it) in water for an hour, until it's soft and pungent. A great kitchen pleasure is smelling the astringency and sourness of lemon vapor as it boils. After an hour, cut it in half, remove all the seeds and finely mince it (peel and all) or put it into a blender. Add to this pulpy slop a few tablespoons of fresh citrus zest. We used clementines. Also, about a quarter cup of mixed peel (which you can buy in a good supermarket in America), a half cup of raisins and a half cup of sultanas. So, what exactly is a sultana? A golden raisin.<br />
From here, get creative - we used candied ginger, because we love it, and cranberries, because it was Thanksgiving. Chop everything with a knife or blend it loosely with a blender and add in two medium, diced apples. Saute lightly a few tablespoons of minced onion, then add the fruit and peel mixture to the pan along with a quarter cup of brown sugar, the three spices (1 tsp. each of cinnamon and nutmeg, half that of clove). Cook until it's beginning to make some noise, then splash in a quarter cup of cheap cognac, brandy or whisky. Reduce a bit and then add the suet. And what is suet?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zt12_CIEdOk60c3AyCp3qJ4cdYOs_s0KyUvgq9sc2YAeV712Jq9DMz0D6zE6w6UkhW71eg6vWjyadu1Xcm7ji8qoc8dtnrLgcWtvC2vB0E9NkqMLxZK9j489PH4d98OaEnkouhTTMpY/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zt12_CIEdOk60c3AyCp3qJ4cdYOs_s0KyUvgq9sc2YAeV712Jq9DMz0D6zE6w6UkhW71eg6vWjyadu1Xcm7ji8qoc8dtnrLgcWtvC2vB0E9NkqMLxZK9j489PH4d98OaEnkouhTTMpY/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+4.JPG" /></a></div>
Suet, in America, is generally relegated to the bird feeder. It's made up of the hard, high-smoke-point fat from around beef loins and organs. Good quality butchers should be able to source or cut the stuff, but they may need a reminder of what, exactly, it is. At the Booths supermarket - where the butchers seemed pretty competent - they referred me to this dried, shelf-ready version. It comes in a cardboard box and looks a bit like white mouse pellets.<br />
Essentially, suet is dried shortening, and it can be used in a variety of roles - a lot of people advocate it as a pastry aid, or as a butter-substitute for frying. It's not particularly healthy, though - it used to be used most extensively for "tallow." You know, to make candles and to waterproof boots. It definitely sticks to one's arterial walls.<br />
Nonetheless, we used a healthy dose of it, mixed right into the fruits and liquor. It dissolves easily and smoothly, and gives an incredible richness to the mix. That vegetarian version of mincemeat we mentioned earlier calls for frozen unsalted butter or harder-to-find "vegetarian suet," whatever that is.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXFk7osDHSMC0T4ccdFJ0ZdrslV3tGe-jDkzXfPQV5drr5pzaWEjJFZJUapxEuOOqeUoTeR8npbOkJYmvPzMITiH0_CmoC31kv3NR3BnviDtD24KjIxfafeunbY5SiQOQ_6IIBraBfr2E/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXFk7osDHSMC0T4ccdFJ0ZdrslV3tGe-jDkzXfPQV5drr5pzaWEjJFZJUapxEuOOqeUoTeR8npbOkJYmvPzMITiH0_CmoC31kv3NR3BnviDtD24KjIxfafeunbY5SiQOQ_6IIBraBfr2E/s1600/Mincemeat+Pie+Filling+5.JPG" /></a></div>
Our pastry was a simple butter and flour mix, but use whatever recipe you're comfortable with. Since the filling doesn't really have to be cooked, bake just until the crust is golden. We set the oven at 375º fahrenheit and let the pie bake for about 45 minutes.<br />
This filling is extremely citrusy, dark and nicely sweet. It tastes nothing like most American pies - it's complex, savory and tasty, much in the tradition of chutney. It goes as well with a sweet ice cream as it does a pungent blue cheese. The best part is it smells intensely like the holidays. Our kitchen aroma was of lemon, apple and spices.<br />
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It's nice to eat the pie a little warm, before the suet begins to harden up again. It's fine cold, though, and is even better the next day. Ours went really well with a slice of local Stichelton blue cheese. Of course stilton would do the trick, as would a nice sharp cheddar. As the English say, "A pie without the cheese is like a hug without the squeeze." If you have the time, try making the filling a few days or a week ahead of time, so that the flavors have a chance to mingle. Go ahead and make more than you think you'll need. If we weren't vacating our rental two days later, we'd have put the extra in a jar and enjoyed it on cheese sandwiches, leftover pheasant and whatever else we had around. <br />
<br />
Here's our recipe:<br />
<br />
<b>Thanksgiving Mincemeat Pie Filling</b><br />
<i>Ingredients:</i><br />
<i>- 2 medium baking apples, diced</i><br />
<i>- 1 lemon</i><br />
<i>- 1/2 cup raisins</i><br />
<i>- 1/2 cup golden raisins ("sultanas," to the British)</i><br />
<i>- 1/2 cup combined other dried fruits, such as cranberries, currants or candied ginger</i><br />
<i>- 1/3 cup beef suet</i><br />
<i>- 1/4 cup mixed peel</i><br />
<i>- 1/4 cup cheap, brown, hard liquor (cognac, brandy, whisky, dark rum...)</i><br />
<i>- 2 tablespoons citrus zest (clementine, orange, lemon...)</i><br />
<i>- a small amount of onion</i><br />
<i>- 1 teaspoon cinnamon</i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>- 1 teaspoon nutmeg</i></span></i><br />
<i>- 1/2 teaspoon clove</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Method:</i><br />
<i>- Boil the lemon in water for one hour, until peel is soft. Cut in half, remove the seeds and mince the peel and flesh. Casually mince the raisins, sultanas and other dried fruit and chop the apples.</i><br />
<i>- Sautee the onion in a pan, then add all the fruit, spices, peel and a good splash of liquor. Cook for some minutes, then add the brown sugar and cook over low heat, adding more and more liquor (to both the pan and your glass) until the apples have just begun to soften. Mix in the suet and wait until it's melted.</i></div>
Merlin and Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11254659435101044471noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-86950662733845593322012-11-25T03:28:00.003-08:002012-11-25T03:29:48.222-08:00The Barrel Builders<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The life of a whisky cask is romantic. It begins as a tall oak tree in the United States, a part of the great American landscape, in places like Tennessee. The wood is steamed until malleable, bent, pieced together, fastened by big metal rings, made into a barrel. Then, the likes of Jack Daniels or Jim Beam fill them with spirit. The bourbon is aged, bottled and the barrels cast off. By law, bourbon barrels can only be used once. So, off across the Atlantic they go, to Scotland, where scotch companies re-use the perfectly good barrels gladly. They can live on for up to 50 years of whisky aging. There's no bourbon-like rule that stipulates a single use. And then, when there's really no life left in them, they go off to the Scottish smoke houses as chips, ready to live on as the fragrant, worldly, smoky notes on salmon. Perhaps the coolest stop in the lifespan of a whisky cask is right here, at Speyside Cooperage.<br />
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The Cooperage works almost exclusively in mending American bourbon barrels along with sherry casks from Madeira. Whisky was traditionally made in old sherry casks from Spain, but when all of these once-used barrels became available from America, it was too good a thing to pass up. So, this is where they're christened European, disassembled and put back together with additional pieces, so that they're a bit bigger. They're checked for any damage, flame treated to give a new surface to the inside and tested for air tightness. Most scotch whisky distilleries "marry" spirits that have been aged in bourbon casks with ones that have been aged in sherry casks. The sherry casks may pass through the Cooperage from Madeira, needing the same repair and rejiggering as the bourbon barrels. Other sherry casks are made from (American oak) scratch right in the cooperage. Since it's become a little difficult to source old sherry casks from Spain - and that sherry note is a big part of the whisky recipe - distilleries have taken to filling barrels with sherry themselves, letting it sit in there for 2 odd years and then repurposing the casks for their own use.<br />
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The Cooperage used to get a great deal of business from beer breweries, but the switchover to stainless steel dealt a huge blow. Even a lot of whisky is being distilled in stainless steel, and the oak only comes into play at the aging process. The fear of this trade being lost has been potent since the 1940s. In fact, the rule that bourbon barrels can only be used once was created simply to make sure that American coopers would always have a job. It was a power play made by the Cooper's Union to recover from the blow dealt by Prohibition. What's ironic is that this rule probably wound up hurting the American cooperage field in the long run. The one-use rule protected the need for work that could be replaced by machines, but it took away any need for the work that only humans could handle. Machines can spit out the barrels and only being used once, the barrels require no mending or refinishing or recycling. The need for a cooper is cut out completely. <br />
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Scotland lost a fair share of jobs due to modernization, but as we were told "the machines can make casks, but they can't repair them" and since the flavor of whisky has so much to do with the life of the aging barrel. its seasoning, the human touch is necessary. The coopers are still vital. There are fifteen men and 2 apprentices currently at Speyside Cooperage. They get paid by the barrel, not the hour, rolling and hammering and inspecting, going over to a pile of discarded wood to see if maybe there's a piece that will fit their purposes perfectly. It reminded me of building a stone wall, searching the quarry for that one sorta pointy sorta round piece that you need. A jigsaw puzzle of your own design. <br />
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The coopers may be paid by the barrel, but their part of the team for life. The two tour guides on hand when we visited Speyside Cooperage were both former coopers, though they wouldn't use the word 'former' themselves. When we asked who was the longest running cooper still active in the place, they both named a man who was 75 years old. He was now in the back office, but that didn't make him any less of an active cooper in their eyes. The two guides were a study in contrasts. One was older, shorter and more enthusiastic, the other younger, taller and more reserved. The older was a hammer-wielding cooper for around 20 years. Short and compact, he looked like he could fit right into one of the casks. He pointed to a similarly sized man on the floor who'd been at it for over 25 years. "He's just the right size for a cooper. Not too tall." The younger tour guide stood over six feet and had to retire prematurely after his second shoulder operation. The work is physically gruelling and having to bend over more only makes the strain worse. Some modifications have been made in recent years. Earplugs, lighter hammers." They use 3 pound hammers now. We used 5." <br />
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Speyside Cooperage likes to say that each cask begins life as an acorn. I think it's interesting enough to skip ahead and just imagine the tall, mighty trees a few steps later. They live for 100 to 150 years old before being harvested for their wood. Only at that old age do they possess the qualities necessary. The coopers themselves tend to get better with age as well. It's a lifelong vocation, one that begins with an apprenticeship and ends with whatever service you can offer. Even if its showing a few tourists around. The Speyside coopers are all local men, the apprentices local boys. One cooper currently working here is from Hungary, but we were assured that he'd arrived with "all the proper paperwork" to vouch for his skills and experience as a cooper. And having been there for over a decade now, he's considered an honorary Scotsman. The reeds they use to seal the top of the casks come from a local furniture maker. The operation is as Scottish as scotch, a homegrown operation... even if the wood does come from America. <br />
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We stood in a viewing room, looking down on the operation. Coopers measured, hammered, examined, disassembled, reassembled. In another section of the huge space, workers cut wood to specifications, performed quality control processes. The apprentices along the back wall toiled diligently at building new casks. The Master Cooper watched over and tutored them. Against the backlighting of a midafternoon soon, we could see one man after another walk out the big warehouse doors and come back, rolling a cask beside him. A plume of smoke billowed out as if it were the top part of a chimney, hacked off, but with a last breath left in it. The inside of the cask is torched, igniting easily because of all that residual alcohol, and a new surface is made. You know a cask's life as a vessel is up when its refinished one too many times. The wood gets too thin. It's time for it to move on to the next phase, to retire to some smokehouse.</div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444594851304953597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-42119430980786803472012-11-23T10:54:00.004-08:002012-11-23T10:54:46.241-08:00Where There is Wool, There's a Way<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Something about 'historic woolmill' conjured up images of women in bonnets behind big, pedaled looms, metal brushes, spinning wheels, wooden equipment tucked into the corner of a bedroom. Perhaps I've visited one too many folk museums. The smell of machine oil, the nuts and bolts and auto mechanic feel surprised me. The Knockando Wool Mill is the last one of its kind, the oldest working wool mill in Britain. The Victorian machinery and make-do architecture are relics of not one bygone era, but many. A whole period of time, spanning generations, during which communities had a central place, a District Mill, where they could go to process their fleece.<br />
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These district mills were really no different than a local gristmill or dairy cooperative where farmers could come with their wheat, corn or milk and leave with flour, butter and cheese. The shepherds would come with fleece and leave with knitting yarn, blankets and tweeds. The link between agriculture and food production is obvious and well-traced. In Scotland, the link with textiles was just as important and widespread. In fact, the well known clan tartans, the different plaids to represent different families, began simply as the pattern of each community's mill. Everyone in town wore the same tartan because all their fleece was processed at the same place. "Knockando tweed [was]...rather coarse and scratchy but lasted forever." <br />
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The very first district mills provided shepherds' wives with the two things they didn't have at home. Enough water to waulk and wash the wool and enough space to dry it out. Town records from the late 1700s list Knockando Wool Mill as "Waulk Mill," making its purpose obvious. <br />
Everything else was done at home - which is where my visions of looms in the bedrooms come from. However, when machinery was designed that took care of the carding
process - the combing of wool to open it up, essentially the same thing
as teasing your hair - women welcomed it into their lives. This task
had traditionally fallen to the children and was a tedious and thankless
job.<br />
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So Waulk Mill got a carding machine. The same one that's still there today. Knockando mill grew to fit whatever need the community had. At different points in the early and mid 1800s, documents list the mill as a wool dyeing place, a spinning operation. More machines followed, all second hand, and attachments to the mill
were built, ramshackle, to shelter them. There was the Platt Mule,
which could spin 250 threads at a time. Built in 1872 and still going
strong it's the oldest machine of its kind still in use in the United
Kingdom. Each generational owner put their mark on the place and once a machine was purchased, it was never replaced. Only repaired.<br />
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The
two behemoth Dobcross looms, dated 1896 and 1899, are also the oldest
working ones of their kind. We peaked at them through a doorway, this sculptural mass of everything that is masculine and feminine jumbled together to symbolize "work." Visiting the
mill was great because we were allowed to just poke around, go into
different buildings, keep a safe difference delineated by ropes and read
about what we were looking at on a provided laminated info sheet. They were just two of the additions made by Duncan Smith, who took charge of the mill in 1863 and made advancements and changes for a good 40 years. He extended buildings or sometimes just erected a roof in order to make space for a new machine, resulting in the meandering factory layout that's there today. <br />
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Between the two world wars, all the other district mills in Scotland vanished. Somehow, Knockando survived and local farmers were bringing fleece here all the way until the 1960s. Duncan Stewart was in charge by this point. He switched over from water power to electricity and welcomed three young men from England who were interested in the old ways of doing things. One of them was Hugh Jones, who wound up taking over for a retiring Stewart. With no previous experience at all, he became a master and is still the head weaver at Knockando today. The problem was that he had no customers and, as only one man with not even familial support, he struggled to maintain it all. That's where the historic societies stepped in, the private donors and a BBC television show called "Restoration," which gave the cause an audience.</div>
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The
mill's machines are undergoing some repairs right now, so we didn't see
them in action. Instead, we the got the nuts and bolts at rest, in
repose. For the moment. The smell of oil, bolts on the floor, tools,
gloves. Cardboard boxes
filled with odds and ends, scribbled notes peppered the rooms. Places like this are rare, survivors that are recognized as such at exactly the right time. Like endangered species, the world comes to their rescue (hopefully). Prince Charles (with Camilla, of course) came to the re-opening of Knockando Woolen Mill just over a month ago. His Royal Highness restarted the water wheel, now fit with plaques naming some of the biggest donors. It signaled that this mill, which has been processing wool since 1784, was back in business. </div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444594851304953597noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-66253115199391483482012-11-23T09:52:00.000-08:002012-11-23T09:55:40.652-08:00Tipsy Tours of Speyside<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Under pagoda-shaped cupolas all along the River Spey, goose-necked stills steam and gurgle. This is whisky country at its most densely congested - a full half of Scotland's distilleries are found in the Speyside region. Driving along the roads is like taking a quick tour of a bar shelf: there's Balvenie, here's Glenfiddich, now we're passing Glenlivet and Johnnie Walker.<br />
We took tours at three distilleries over two days, ambling through forests of copper stills and dank, cask-filled cellars. Our first was Glenfiddich, where the countryside around was full of shaggy Highlander cows. Glen Grant, the second tour, was nestled by a little stream with autumn-brown gardens. At Cardhu, on the day we left the region, the small clutch of stone buildings basically made up the entirety of Kockando village.<br />
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Of the three distilleries we toured, the Glenfiddich plant was by far the biggest and most commercial. We were shown a sweeping, highly-stylized video about the founder of the company and the heather-filled highlands around the town (lots of slow-motion, rain effects and mist). The video was more mythology than nuts and bolts, and made the process seem like alchemy more than industry.<br />
The truth is, whisky <i>is</i> kind of a benevolent magic for the towns along the River Spey. In the Cardhu tasting room we were shown a photograph of the distillery's founders. The elderly, craggy-faced husband and wife wore muddy, peasant clothes and worn boots. "They were arrested two or three times before they finally got a liquor license," we were told. Distilling was that kind of game in the 1800's, one for half-outlaws in the highlands with little money and small operations. Today, it's the realm of globalized giants. Not only is whiskey from here shipped and revered all over the world, but the world comes tramping back to Aberlour and Dufftown to take a look. Alcohol tourism is a major boon for the area, and the Speyside distilleries are big local employers.<br />
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The magical process is really pretty simple, even if it's carried out on a large scale - it's both romantic and mechanical. "Malted" barley - which is grain that's been allowed to begin sprouting and then dried out - is put into huge wash tanks (called "mash tuns") and soaked in hot water. Sugar is released from the grain and seeps into the water, which is then pumped into a big fermentation tank, where yeast is added. Less image-conscious distilleries use stainless steel, but all three plants we visited had wooden tanks, which were almost thirty feet tall (what you can see in the picture is just the very top). Some of these mammoth things were as old as fifty years; their wood was black and soft with age.<br />
The sugary liquid is left in the tanks for a day or two while it ferments. When it's done, it's basically a strong beer, at about eight percent alcohol. This frothy liquid is sucked through tubes and spat out into the stills, where the actual distillation process begins.<br />
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The deep luster of copper isn't all for show. The metal helps remove impurities in the liquor, and it transfers heat well… but the dull, orangish gleam is also regally impressive, especially when it's executed at this scale.<br />
The stills are heated from below and (I'm oversimplifying) the alcohol inside evaporates and goes up the neck into a cooling coil, where it becomes liquid again. Because alcohol becomes a vapor at a lower temperature than water, more alcohol is removed from the "mash" than other liquids, which stay in the bottom of the still. After the first distillation, the alcohol content of the putative whisky is about thirty five percent. A second run-through, in a "spirit still" raises that number to about sixty five or seventy percent. It's clear, strong, undrinkable stuff. A few years sitting in a barrel mellows the taste, adds color and reduces the strength.<br />
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Down in a corner at one end of each distillery was a locked, brass and glass case, about the size of a coffin. Inside, visible behind the glass, hot, clear liquid splashed and flowed from copper tubes. Beakers and hydrometers filled, emptied, bobbed and gave readouts. These were the most fascinating things, like relics of some fancy, 19th century laboratory - and we weren't allowed to photograph them.<br />
"Nothing secret," our tour guide at Cardhu told us. "But we can't take any chances with electronics." They were worried, as all the distilleries are, about an explosion. The hot liquid flowing through the locked box was new, very-high-proof liquor, and the air was thick with the scent of alcohol. After a few minutes near the box, we began to feel slightly tipsy. Any little spark ("faulty wiring" was what they worried about) could blow up the entire town.<br />
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The glass boxes are locked by the British government - the distilleries are only allowed to open them if something breaks inside. "Every shipment of grain we get is recorded," the Cardhu guide told us. "The government knows exactly how much whiskey we should get at the other end." They can't even taste their product until they've paid the tax. When I asked the tour guide at Glen Grant about how the distillers knew things were going okay, he told us that it was all computerized. "There are instruments inside the pipes," he said. "We get feedback from those, and then we make a few decisions."<br />
Really, there are few decisions to be made - the whole process almost runs itself. At Cardhu we were told that it's possible for one person to run the entire distillery by themselves, at full capacity, for a whole shift. That includes every part of the process, from the raw grain to the barrel-ready liquor. "We're open twenty four hours, every day," she said. "Even Christmas. Even the royal wedding!"<br />
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At Glen Grant, in the village of Rothes, we took a tour with a group of Welshmen as the evening grew dark. From room to room, warehouse to storehouse, the smell in the air changed. In the beginning, the odor was of barley and autumn fields. By the fermenting tanks and mash tuns, it was deeply sweet, a cross between a bakery and rotting apples. In by the stills, the air was almost palpably thick with sharp, fiery liquor. In the aging buildings it was rotting wood, old sherry and damp earth. Even though Glen Grant's a big business (and part of the giant Campari multi-national), it was a reminder of how pleasing the alcohol process can be.<br />
And then there's the tasting. Every tour included a dram or three, even Glenfiddich's, which is free. Speyside whiskies are generally light, clean and have very little peat - much easier to drink than the smoke and brimstone stuff of Islay.<br />
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<span id="goog_1019344539"></span><span id="goog_1019344540"></span>Something about distillery tours… they're all the same. We came to expect everything about the routine, from the jokes about fermented grain waste being fed to cattle ("we have very happy cows in Scotland") to the familiar refrain about the evaporated alcohol that escapes from whisky casks ("we call that 'the angel's share'"). The mash tuns were the same, as were the fermentation tanks, and the stills differed mostly in arrangement. The tastings had diffrerent styles, but it was the same general idea - swirl, taste, add water, taste again, agree that it was very tasty, say thanks and leave. Essentially, if you've been to one you've been to them all. Which is to say, definitely go on a tour. Just don't go to all of them. And don't try to do too many in one day, at least without a designated driver.</div>
Merlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107394248553508646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-81725577588300078252012-11-20T06:50:00.001-08:002012-11-20T06:50:31.664-08:00Edinburgh in the Rain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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What is it about the rain that makes a European city feel more otherworldly? I think that maybe it has something to do with drainage. In America, all the water just runs off down well planned gutters and into grates and we never see it; in Europe, it sticks around while it finds its way through the old streets and out some old rainspout. Maybe it's wet cobblestones, or dripping stone walls, or damp moss on an obscure monument. In southern Europe, I associate rain with sitting under cafe awnings - people sit looking out, watching the drops splatter on dust. Eastern Europe in the rain makes me think of splashing Ladas and loose paving stones that squish when you step on them.<br />
In Edinburgh, the rain actually felt very natural. It's part of the atmosphere. Here we are in a rainy place. It was rainy for Sir Walter Scott and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It was rainy for Mary, the Queen, and Sir Sean Connery. If we came to Edinburgh and didn't find it rainy, we might have been a bit disappointed.<br />
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In the airport, a woman was returning to Scotland looking like a modern Robin Hood - green leggings, a feather in her cap, tartan vest. If you looked for Scotland in the food, it would be a tough search (tandoori and Thai are more popular than haggis, neeps and tatties), but the façades brood and the people are as brogue-tongued and ruddy-cheeked as you could hope for. Some men even wear kilts, free of irony or pretension.</div>
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In the rain, it became a city of nooks and hideaways, especially the convoluted old town. People hid under arches and bridges to smoke their cigarettes or talk quietly with a friend. Tucked-away pubs beckoned down the alleyways. It was all very secretive, wet and grey. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwDVHfJd2bjJk5nxVx28Jig16x6yaqgZGzYdaa4MGFqwMwAdxYrttVnyR6xr2Em5xidjD9Q5TFOhhFdWmWv4CVO6XEnL2zwiVKkZtm_ObCLE_mCnLQo0NLa72GSbIyab9GXB-5HftSLdE/s1600/Rainy+Edinburgh+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwDVHfJd2bjJk5nxVx28Jig16x6yaqgZGzYdaa4MGFqwMwAdxYrttVnyR6xr2Em5xidjD9Q5TFOhhFdWmWv4CVO6XEnL2zwiVKkZtm_ObCLE_mCnLQo0NLa72GSbIyab9GXB-5HftSLdE/s1600/Rainy+Edinburgh+4.JPG" /></a></div>
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Steep streets, keg deliveries, stately houses and bars full of concert posters. It's a black-and-white, dark early, northern nights kind of city. At five o'clock, the sky was approaching black and the bars were beginning to fill.</div>
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We played Scottish-version Trivial Pursuit at the Thistle Street Bar one night, just the two of us ("Who scored a career best 188 against Australia on 8 February 1975?"). The young bartenders were excited for us to try different microbrews, and to talk about foreign beer. They had Red Stripe on tap alongside "real ales." Drops peppered the windowpanes and we had to sprint home in a downpour.</div>
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Edinburgh only has about 450,000 people, but it feels much more substantial. The medieval city was squeezed within a city wall, so everything was built up into five and six story tenements that were pretty unusual for their day. The buildings are connected by shoulder-width "closes" and courtyards, and by high bridges that reach out and across narrow valleys. It's a very up and down place. Everyone knows about Edinburgh castle - the mainstay, sure-thing icon of the city - but it's not the only rocky spire in town. Walking around, one suddenly finds that the sidewalk looks out over rooftops and that traffic is some forty feet below. There are gothic steeples and underground chambers (infested during the plague) that alternate between soaring and plunging. It's what we like to call a city in three-dimensions, where navigation occurs on several planes.<br />
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The last evening we were there, the sun broke out for a bit. Suddenly, the remaining autumn leaves were brilliantly yellow, hats were cast off and the city felt triumphantly regal. Not much later, it was dark. The November moon rises mid-afternoon in Edinburgh. It's pitch-black by five or five thirty. It feels like a last hilltop bastion on the edge of the real north. For the Scots, Edinburgh is the holding wall against England to the south, but for us it feels like a gateway to wilder, rainier, mistier terrain further up.</div>
Merlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107394248553508646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-57957230528662143502012-11-17T11:43:00.000-08:002012-11-17T11:43:06.064-08:00At the Edge of the Ocean<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's easy to forget that the meeting of land and water isn't always gradual - that a coast isn't just beaches and harbors, docked boats and storehouse-lined bays. You forget that the ocean is the most vast wilderness there is and that the people living on the edge of it feel governed by its every whim. Even in the most remote mountain regions, you have a sense of the peak, of the beginning and the end. But that's just not the case with the ocean. We'd driven the Copper Coast with a setting sun in our eyes and no place to pull over. We'd stayed in coastal Dungarvan, but tucked inland at Kilcannon House. The Bay of Galway was a calmed pocket of coast without even the audible lapping of water. So, our cliff walk in Ardmore was our first real encounter with the wild and woolly Irish coast. Below this stone ruin, far down where seafoam marked the water level against the cliff, was the bent crane of a 1987 shipwreck. A few minutes back, we'd found a notebook tacked to the outside of a simple wooden structure. A whale watching station and logbook. Five days ago, someone scribbled a report. One minke whale spotted. <br />
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With
all the green, it's easy to forget about the blue. But the blue is at
the heart of the Irish identity, I think. "I feel for Greece," a fellow
boarder in Kinsale named Michael told us. "They're like us. Most of
its an island. And we're ancient civilizations, us and Greece. We have
our own pace. We can't expect to be Germany with all its neighbors and
its modernity." He was talking, of course, about the economics and EU
membership. And though I understood his point about Greece, I
immediately thought of Iceland - - and its<i> No Thanks, EU!</i> billboards. For an island that has survived, by the skin of its teeth at times, self-sufficiency is key. It's the exact thing that gets compromised
when joining a coalition. All of a sudden that precarious setting in
the wild Atlantic doesn't just reap benefits for those willing to live
on the brink of it. Its bounty is available to trawlers just passing
through. Men spoke of the coastline like an alma mater, like other men
talk about their college football team that's gone to hell. Because as
close as all Irishmen live to the Atlantic, there's also a huge number
of them that have lived on the water itself.<br />
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"I miss the people. The ones that take to the sea because they don't fit in anywhere else." Pat Ormond was described as "the best sailor ever to come out of Dungarvan" to us by the town historian. (A true historian, not just a guy with that nickname at the pub). This was the first summer Pat hadn't spent on the water. Money's dried up for a lot of the people who usually hire him out for the season. So, he was around with the guests at Kilcannon House. A lifelong transient among travelers. We felt a kinship - often likening our own strange existence these past two years to living on a floating island, a deserted one with just Merlin and me. Pat equipped us with hand drawn maps of the coastline in County
Waterford and West Cork. There were two rocks off the coast of
Baltimore named Adam and Eve ("avoid Adam and hug Eve"), all the harbors
were drawn in and the public restrooms on the dock, but no clear road
to get there. "Oh, I've left those out haven't I? I'm always looking at
it from the sea!"<br />
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To borrow a term from Merlin, Ireland is "the breakwater of Europe," an island stationed in
the thick of the Atlantic, after miles of unobstructed free rein. The coast represents every obstacle and
opportunity, and the dramatic shift between the two that life (and
history) so often is. Stories of the coast included boatloads of
Irishmen setting off for America, pioneers of a sort, setting an Irish
satellite in a far off land that still holds a deep connection. News of
hurricane Sandy played at a pub in
Clonakilty, the waitress offered her condolences. "If that'd been us,
we'd just be gone. 8 million people in New York, there are only 6 in
Ireland! A storm like that would just swallow us whole." The town had
serious flooding earlier this year, more than once there was 2 feet of
water in the pub's main room. Storefronts had signs that said they'd be
"closed indefinitely" due to the flooding. Buildings still had
sandbags
at the base of their front doors. <br />
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Clonakilty's claim to fame is its blood
pudding, the best in Ireland, but what locals will tell you about first
is the old carpet factory. It supplied the Titanic, of course. Titanic tourism is actually a thing. For the Irish, death is just a part of a conversation. You may describe what your grandmother looked like, they'll tell you how and when she died. I can only think the coast has something to do with it (and the Roman Catholic beliefs about afterlife). It doesn't really matter that the ocean took the Titanic, it left the land a majestic work of craftsmanship. So, why not brag about a connection? A love leaving on a boat or leaving your love on land is the subject of 'lament' ballads. The crown jewels of Irish sightseeing are on the coast. "You going to Kerry then?" Everyone asked when we said we were driving along the coast Well, no, not this time... Not going to County Kerry was a little like not having the dessert a restaurant is famous for because you're too full from the appetizer, entree, cheese and drinks that you enjoyed so immensely. We have no regrets.<br />
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Kinsale
would evoke dreamy emotion in everyone. "Oh, you'll have to stop in
at the Tap Bar," a man at the Ardmore craft shop told us. Pat
personally recommended The Spaniard pub, which wound up being one of our
favorites of the trip. A yellowed newspaper hung over the cash
register shouted the news that the Lusitania had sunk only 11 miles
offshore. Their own claim to fame. The bartender was an instant
friend. "Say hello to..." was a common addendum to a pub
recommendation. We wondered, often, how people choose their pub in
Ireland. The selection and prices are almost always the same - and in
towns with more than one (and as many as ten) the regulars are loyal.
But we think it's about whose tending the bar more than the bar itself,
what friend you can visit, whose ear you can bend. On the coast this is
especially important. This is your time back on land to give
confession or have a laugh; to flirt or learn or be silent with an old
friend. <br />
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But the
dreamy sigh that would sound at the word "Kinsale" was almost always
attached to one thing. A quick facebook message from an Irish coworker
of my father's had "Kinsale - the Irish Riviera - great chefs." Other
people were more specific. "You have to go to Fishy Fishy" - man in
Ardmore. "Now you're making me want to take the drive to Fishy Fishy!" -
woman in Dungarvan. "Of course, there's Fishy Fishy." - Pat. The food
scene in Kinsale is renowned and the mother of it all is Fishy Fishy, a
seafood restaurant that's an institution in Ireland. Their Surf
& Turf is scallops and blood sausage. Their daily specials
outnumber the printed 'menu. The monkfish and parsnip puree was an
indelicate bulk of flavor, a sense of pub under the supervision of great
chefs. My sea bass came as a pile of three crispy skinned fillets, set
atop a mound of mashed carrots and topped with fried leeks. You have
to go to Fishy Fishy. And The Spaniard, while you're at it. <br />
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444594851304953597noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-8377498725854923052012-11-13T10:44:00.000-08:002012-11-13T10:44:09.348-08:00The Full Irish<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This is what an Irishman eats in the morning. A "full Irish breakfast." Variation may occur in the number of components, but usually not in the style. Of all the full-Irishes we saw, this one was the most complete. Two eggs, cakes of potato "mash," sauteed mushrooms, sausage, fried ham, toast, cooked tomatoes, baked beans and black pudding. Sometimes there may be white pudding too, or perhaps some pan-cooked kidney. Contrary to popular belief, an Irish breakfast is <i>not</i> just a pint of Guinness.<br />
We found this hearty specimen at The Courtyard Bar in Clonakilty, where, like many places, they serve breakfast all day. Clonakilty is famous for its black pudding - which is spiced blood sausage fried in a pan. It's delicious.<br />
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At Dublin's Heuston train station, on our first morning in Ireland, the ticket lady was apologetic. "Train's not for two hours," she said, looking us up and down. We were foggy-headed and grubby from a long journey. "Why don't you go get yourselves something warm to eat," she said.<br />
The station restaurant (called Galway Hooker) had all the worn, wood-panneled appeal of any pub in the country - tatty couches, framed oil paintings, the smell of cooking eggs and singed toast. There were men drinking, and families with bags arrayed around them like the sides of a nest. A man stood behind a high counter with steam rising around him. He stirred beans, cracked eggs, flipped ham, served customers and took a little time to sip his cup of tea. Each breakfast component was priced individually - so much for an egg, this many cents for black pudding. A blank-faced girl rang us up. She was utterly bored by the beer and bacon.<br />
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Breakfast on the island doesn't have to be heavy and meaty. There were plenty of "mini-Irish" offerings, which might include one egg, toast and some bacon. Some people had yogurt and granola. We even spotted a few pancakes here and there. In <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/galway-sunny-side-up.html">Galway, at the comfy Ard Bia at Nimmo's</a>, a relaxed crowd sipped cappuccinos and browsed their table of baked goods.<br />
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If there's a <i>really</i> Irish breakfast food, though, it's got to be porridge. On a wet November morning, with fog over the fields and frost on the windows, its a great dish to sit down to. Our favorite version was made for us by <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/gypsy-kitchens-baking-with-gertie.html">Gertie Ormond, at Kilcannon House</a>. Simmered in milk, the oats were topped with brown sugar, whipped cream and a shot of Irish whiskey. "I like booze in my food," Gertie told us, with no attempt at humor. It was delicious, but it made me want to get back in bed.<br />
It was important to our hostess that we apply the toppings in the right order - first the coarse sugar, then the whiskey to "caramelize" the sugar, then the whipped cream to melt down over it all.<br />
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Gertie's breakfast didn't begin or end with the porridge - it was a three course, stuff-til-bursting, early morning extravaganza. She greeted us, when we came downstairs from our room, with a quivering plate of freshly-made panna cotta, which she served with four different stewed fruits: prunes from the garden, pears cooked with saffron, poached apples and late-summer rhubarb, sweetened and spiced with ginger. There was also fresh melon and scones, of course, and a foursome of handmade preserves (gooseberry, blackberry, etc...). After the porridge, we were given a choice of eggs - on a menu, no less - from the "chuck-chucks" in the barnyard. The first morning we had an herb-filled omelette, the second day we were given a chive scramble. It was a meal designed to prepare us for the day - we certainly didn't need lunch.<br />
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Much simpler and quicker, the ubiquitous Irish oven goods usually sufficed. Scones (like the rhubarb ones above, at The Bake House in Cashel, where old men ate beans on toast), crumbles, pies, cookies, barm brack, brown bread, cakes... walk a few steps in any town in Ireland and you'll come across the smell of something baking. It's hard to resist the baking-soda lightness of a raisiny soda bread, or the sugar decadence of a hot berry crisp.<br />
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At Lemon Leaf Cafe, in Kinsale, we had the inevitable full-vegetarian-Irish: peppered potatoes, mushroom, tomato and spinach, but, curiously, no beans. It was also the only breakfast we had with tea, which is really more Irish than coffee (despite "Irish coffee"). People here drink more tea per capita, they say, than anybody else on earth, and they certainly like their brew <i>strong</i>. After a few cups, we were more caffeinated than we should have been. I had to have a raspberry tart to calm myself down.</div>
Merlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107394248553508646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-80546154809676399512012-11-12T14:43:00.002-08:002012-11-12T14:43:57.002-08:00Things Irish People Like<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><b>Butcher Shops.</b> </b>Just about every town has one. In villages like Golden, where shuttered businesses are casualties of the recession, the butcher shop is still up and running. Sure, people shop at the supermarket and you'll see bags from Durres Stores or Supervalu in the hands of butcher shop customers, but some things you save for the people you really trust. The local butchers.<br />
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<b>Green.</b> While driving around, even on major highways, we just kept gawking at how much it all looked like the Ireland of our imagination. A rainbow here, a double rainbow there, cows and horses in the mist and the brightest green you've ever seen absolutely everywhere. The color occurs so often in the natural landscape of Ireland, you'd think they'd be sort of tired of it. Nope. It's a little like St. Patrick's Day every day. The mailboxes are green, windowboxes, doors, houses are all different shades of it. It's a favorite in clothing. It's a national emblem.<br />
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<b>Turf Fires.</b> At the back of every pub, there's a fire burning and if you have the luck of being welcomed into an Irish home, there's probably one going in the sitting room. You won't smell coal or hear the cracking and snapping of wood, the flame will smolder steadily and smokelessly for hours. Because they're burning turf. Turf bricks look like solid chunks of earth - which is essentially what they are, but with certain scientific properties that make them efficient forms of energy. Fossil fuel. They smell subtle and lovely and are so much a part of Ireland that <a href="http://www.irishturffire.com/" target="_blank">this exists</a> (You know how you can watch the yule log on tv in America? Well, it's a turf fire dvd - with complimentary turf incense!) Ireland is actually the world's second largest user of turf fuel, after Finland, and around one sixth of their electricity comes from turf-burning power plants.</div>
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<b>Guinness.</b> This seems like a cop-out, I know, but it's still worth noting. We figured Europe's 4th biggest beer consuming country would be more like the top 3 (Czech Republic, Germany and Austria) in that there'd be lots of local brews to try. But microbreweries in Ireland really don't stand a chance against the loyalty to Guinness. It's the best-selling alcoholic drink in the country. It's the most popular beer by far and, in most places, the only Irish one on tap. While we stuck with Smithwicks (an Irish red ale) and Bulmer's (an Irish hard apple cider), everyone around us drank Guinness. Oddly, the other beers on tap were usually Carlsberg, Budweiser, Heineken and Coors Light. It's like they're actively trying to make Guinness taste even <i>better</i> by comparison.<br />
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<b>Vegetable Soup. </b>This isn't to say that Irish people like vegetable soup more than, say, steak & kidney pie or Irish breakfast. It's that they like a very specific soup, called "vegetable soup." In my experience, describing a soup as "vegetable" can mean any number of things. Tomato based, cream-based, pureed, chunky, brothy. In Ireland, vegetable soup is an orange puree, a mix of carrot, onion, potato - maybe some squash, maybe some celery or peas. Spices may vary, but the overall taste and look is the same. It's always delicious, always served with a slice of brown bread and some intensely good Irish butter, and always available.<br />
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<b>Preserving Storefronts.</b> There must have been a time when walking down a street in Ireland was like flipping through the local phone book. The old facades on pharmacy's, general stores, pubs and grocers spell out a family name. You didn't name your saddle shop "Horse's Friend" or anything like that. You named it "Connolly's" if that was your name. These storefronts are now like old family albums in many villages, towns and even cities. No matter what's inside the space, the name is kept the same. It may have begun life as R. A. Merry & Co. Ltd, but now it's a great gastro pub simply referred to as "Merry's." Pat and Gertie Ormond's cafe is now a restaurant with different owners, but is still called Ormonds. Their contribution to the town and place in local history remembered. <br />
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<u><i>Honorable Mentions</i></u><br />
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<b>Discussing Politics.</b> Of course, this is basically the only country we've visited where we can understand all the conversation going on around us. But even context clues would have brought me to this conclusion. It's rare to see more newspapers in hands than magazines, and not tabloid newspapers either. The real factual stuff. Pub interaction often involves an older (and drunker) man 'schooling' a younger (and soberer) man, who listens politely and very respectfully disagrees. Specifics about EU policy, trade agreements, parliamentary salaries are all widely known and energetically discussed. "Who are you voting for?" we were asked in the run-up to the election. It's not a "personal" question here. (Should it be anywhere?) It's a topic of discussion. And boy were they informed about American politics. Which brings me to...<br />
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<b>The Irish-American Connection.</b> Sadly, we were just about the first American couple most Irish people had met without a <i>smidgeon</i> of Irish between us. (Even President Obama has a distant Irish cousin. I know this and that his name is Henry Healy, because he was the talk of the pub). But, we're still American, which made us kin anyway. "There are 70 million Irish descendants in America," one man said proudly, acknowledging that the wealth of Irish in America has made the scope of Irish culture in the world larger than its geographic size would suggest. At a pub, a young man asked for the tv channel to be switched from <i>soccer</i> to US election coverage. They take what happens in America personally. We're family.</div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444594851304953597noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-29595669445320531412012-11-12T02:30:00.000-08:002012-11-12T02:30:10.123-08:00Castle Hunting: Cahir Castle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Having brought the Army and my cannon near this place... I thought fit to offer you Terms, honourable for soldiers: That you may march away, with your baggage, arms and colours; free from injury or violence. But if I be necessitated to bend my cannon upon you, you must expect the extremity usual in such cases. </i><i>To avoid blood, this is offered to you by, </i><i>Your servant,</i><br />
<i>Oliver Cromwell.</i><br />
On the 24th of February, 1649, a fifty year old religious zealot - who was banging around Ireland with the full strength of the English cavalry - conquered Cahir castle with a letter. It was one of the low points in the island's history, and one of the most embarrassing moments in the history of a proud fortress.<br />
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We first saw Cahir castle in the rain, as we were waiting for a bus to Cashel. From across the street, in the dry confines of a local cafe, it didn't look like much more than a small keep and scattered towers. It's not until you go around to the back that the full size of it is apparent. This isn't huge for a castle, but it's very expansive for Ireland, where fortresses tend to be small and simple.<br />
Built in several stages beginning in the 12th century, Cahir occupies a rocky position on a small island in the River Suir. With water on two sides and a strong foundation, it was an obvious place for a fortress; hill-forts built of both wood and stone had occupied the spot for at least a millennia before the current keep was erected.<br />
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Oliver Cromwell was a curious man. Born into a middle-class family, he became one of the most powerful civil and military leaders in British history. His bludgeoning style of warfare was at the center of the English civil war, and by the 1640's and '50's he was perhaps the key figure in the conflict. His was the third signature on King Charles I's death warrant. But perhaps the most well-known aspect of Cromwell's personality is his severe Protestant puritanism. The man simply hated Catholics. This meant that his invasion of Ireland bordered on genocide. When he did "bend" his cannon, very little was left afterward.<br />
With several overlapping curtain walls and a convoluted gate system, the central part of Cahir was designed to be very difficult to attack. Despite rough masonry (some of the inner chambers look like they've been pieced together with field stones) and a highly desirable location, the castle was never taken by an invading army before the advent of gunpowder.<br />
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That all changed in 1599, when Elizabeth I sent troops and artillery onto Irish soil. After a three day bombardment, the castle was captured for the first time in its existence. Back in Irish hands soon after, Cahir was expanded and "improved" during the first part of the 17th century. The outer walls were lengthened (I have no idea why) and rounded fortifications were added at the gatehouse and at the rear of the keep - rounded angles held up better against cannon fire than the older, square designs.<br />
A great deal changed between 1600 and 1650, though, and the architectural disadvantages of the fortress became more and more apparent. When Cromwell invaded Ireland, he came with lighter and more maneuverable guns that could be brought into range quickly and more easily than the mammoth siege weapons of the past. Also, the new guns were actually being <i>aimed</i>, which sounds simple but was actually a departure from tradition. A great deal of thought had been put into cannon warfare by the British, especially by the Englishman Nathaniel Nye. A science had arisen around the triangulation and mathematics of gunfire. Instead of just lining up guns and hoping to hit something, Cromwell was battering fortresses with a smidge of accuracy.<br />
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Cahir remains one of Ireland's best preserved castles because - in short - they gave up at the right time. Cromwell's forces were much stronger and more modern than anything the Irish had encountered up to that point, and the castles he was conquering weren't designed to hold up against gunpowder weapons. High towers, square angles, a tall keep; what had been effective against previous generations of assailants were now a liability. Large guns could attack from a greater distance, out of range of the castle's own weapons. The high crenelations that had once provided a height advantage now made for especially large targets. Tall towers could be knocked down fairly easily, presenting the defenders with an additional danger of falling stone. Thin, walk-along ramparts offered no room to maneuver cannon, and so the garrison inside had to rely on antiquated crossbows and scattershot, underpowered muskets. Despite being somewhat "modernized," the Irish stewards hadn't really addressed any of these issues. Cahir was, in the 17th century, a dinosaur.<br />
The motley group of conscripts who were defending Cahir had never seen cannon, and were terrified of what might happen to them if Cromwell did attack. They gave up quickly and the Governor of Cahir turned over the fort to the English without a fight. It's lucky for us castle enthusiasts. Other Irish forts didn't fare nearly as well.<br />
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In all, some one hundred fortresses were destroyed by Cromwell during his campaigns. He blew them up for harboring Royalists or ordered them "dismantled" so that they couldn't be used by the opposition. Some see Cromwell's reign as the true end-point for the medieval castle in Ireland and Britain - the older style fortresses were simply out of date.<br />
Cahir is now - as it has been since it surrendered - a very peaceable place. It's hard to call it <i>peaceful</i>, because of the traffic that booms through town and over the castle bridges, but the setting is pleasant and the walls are sunny. Ducks and swans paddle in the river-bend, a small farmers market was happening when we visited. Cahir town is a pretty, colorful collection of old houses and pubs. One can't help but think that the town is better off for having given up - they still have a castle, at least.</div>
Merlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107394248553508646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-42513386347925430362012-11-11T15:02:00.000-08:002012-11-11T15:02:46.723-08:00The Belvelly Smoke House<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"We make smoke, that's what we do." Frank Hederman had just walked in to greet us at Belvelly Smoke House, his smoke house and the oldest - and only - natural smoke house in Ireland. He couldn't have come a moment sooner, as we'd just had a rushed interaction with one of his colleagues who, outfitted in gloves, white coat and hair net, had opened the door to the cold smoker, pointed in, closed it and unceremoniously given us a taste of their smoked salmon. It had taken us quite a while to find the place and we were a little crestfallen about the blink-and-you'll-miss-it tour. So, like I said, Frank couldn't have shown up at a better time. With him, we lingered at the door of the smoking room.<br />
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A batch of smoked salmon had just been brought out and, with us out of his hair, the white coated gentleman of few words was going about the business of checking for stray bones and sealing the gorgeous orange slabs in plastic. Now hanging in the smoker were sides of haddock. On shelves beside them were all sorts of other treats, which Frank introduced to us one by one. "We smoke butter, sun-blanched tomatoes, garlic." He took one of the heads in his hand and showed us its slightly bronzed color. Mussels, hundreds of them, covered long trays. "The way they hold flavor..." he gushed. They even smoke oats for a man who makes oatcakes. "We're like Tabasco or Lee & Perrins," he said comparing his smoke to a condiment. "Just adding a little bit of flavor."<br />
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The difference here is that they're not bottling the smoke, they're letting it waft over salmon, haddock, whole mackerel, silver eel (Frank's favorite) and all those other non-fishy delights. And even if he is kind of "in the business of making smoke," what Frank Hederman's renowned for is his smoked salmon. So, maybe the Tabasco reference is more apt because of the unique mastery of that little bit of flavor. There's hot sauce and then there's tabasco. There's smoked salmon and then there's Frank Hederman's smoked salmon. After you've tasted it, it's hard not to feel like all the other smoked salmon you've had has been too salty, too oily, too strong, too smokey, "messed with too much" to borrow a phrase from <a href="http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.ie/2012/11/gypsy-kitchens-baking-with-gertie.html" target="_blank">Gertie</a>. There's a reason gourmet shops in London, fine dining institutions and even the caterers of Queen Elizabeth's birthday party, all call on Frank for his salmon. It's sorta perfect. <br />
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"Salmon gets you access," Frank said with a wry smile after a string of
stories about boating with the Kennedys, staying in a London penthouse on the dime of Russian restauranteurs, inking a
deal with gourmet markets in Dubai. At a pub, I may have joked, "are
you blowing smoke?" In his smokehouse, after tasting the product, it
was pretty clear that he wasn't. The stuff is that good. The anecdotes were regaled with a normal-guy-in-extraordinary-situations candor. I mean, as 'normal' a guy as any minor celebrity who was profiled in the New York Times as the Steinway of smoked salmon. ("Mr. Hederman smokes fish, which is a little like saying Steinway makes pianos") Frank's been at this for 25 years, honing the craft/perfecting the science/mastering the art/making a name for himself and his product.<br />
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It starts with the fish, of course, farmed in Clare County, on the western coast of Ireland. Sometimes he uses wild salmon, but the sustainability of the organically farmed fish is appealing and the quality more consistent. Of course, they've been treated like gold. Only the best. Then, within 24 hours of being fished out of the water, they're in Belvelly Smoke House, near the southern coast, being filleted, salt cured and hung up in the cold smoke room. "Did you
notice how it wasn't oily at all?" Oh, did I. Hanging keeps the fish from developing an over-smoked crust and from sitting in its fat. Suspended, the salmon bathes in smoke piped in from the next door
burning chamber. Instead of oak, Frank uses beech, a wood with less
tannins for a much more subtle flavor. The beech chips come from the
UK, all a specific size for precise burning speed. Then, anywhere up to
20 hours later, the famous salmon is done.<br />
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Belvelly Smoke House is tucked at the end of a gravel drive away, just a few feet away from an old stone arched bridge and a ruined castle tower. It doesn't get more Irish than this. Frank lives in the house right beside it with his wife and children - he swears he can't even smell the smoke anymore. It's a small batch operation, a careful, thoughtful business that turns out a luxury product at its most delicious. We had our Irish-smoked Irish salmon this afternoon for lunch, at a picnic table on the side of the road, on crackers with English mustard and an avocado from who knows where. We were sure to cut it just like Frank told us to, not at an angle or by skimming off the top, but in a slice straight down top to bottom. "That way you get all the layers of flavor." My jacket still smells like beech smoke.</div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444594851304953597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2675174180164753706.post-41541398634530444982012-11-10T09:32:00.002-08:002012-11-10T09:32:57.842-08:00Gypsy Kitchens: Baking with Gertie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Gertie is responsible for bringing lasagna to Dungarvan," Pat told us proudly, but she's really famous for her scones. In a local pub, we were told we just had to try them. "You're staying at Kilcannon House? You have to have Gertie's scones." Pat and Gertie Ormond had a cafe in town for years, one which churned out hundreds of scones and breads per day along with full breakfasts and lunches. That sort of thing can get exhausting and, unfortunately, none of their three children had an interest in carrying on the family business. So, now, it's the guests at their in-house B&B, Kilcannon, who get the honor of enjoying Gertie's cooking. And, in our case, a cookery class with the master herself.<br />
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Baking with Gertie wasn't as much instructional as it was experiential and recipes were certainly not the focal point of the session. In fact, the first lesson we learned was that there doesn't need to be anxiety about the exactness of baking or bread making. There's always this feeling that 'baking' is more precise, scientific, mathematical than 'cooking,' and that a close focus and carefulness are key. Gertie's school of thought was much different. Sure, she knew all the measurements by heart, but questions about if a spoonful should be 'heaping' or 'leveled' or a 'handful' was the right size were always shrugged off with a "that's perfect!" If we get our hands in there, she stressed, we'll <i>feel</i> that it's right. Her process was one based on physical memory and an interaction with the ingredients.<br />
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Really, we were moving too quickly to take full head of every step of the process(es). You see, in about an hour and a half, we made two types of scones and two types of soda bread simultaneously. One of us worked on one while the other was given a task for the other and all the while, Gertie moved between us taking our hands to help or taking over altogether. It was more Show than Tell, more Feel than Measure. She wasn't trying to teach us how to make scones or soda bread, but really how to bake. Like pushing someone on a bike and then letting go, she was gave us the feeling of doing it, of hitting the sweet spot and trusted that we'll be able to get back there on our own.<br />
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This isn't to say that there was anything absent-minded or lackadaisical about baking with Gertie. There was a process and a science, just one that had less to do with measurements and more to do with the chemistry of it all. There was never a direction without an explanation, which is a hallmark of good teaching. You've gotta understand to remember. She stressed never letting your dough sit too long after adding baking soda, because of the chemical reactions. Also, adding too much baking soda to white soda bread will make its color brown, because it burns. A left hand was submerged in the dry mix before buttermilk was added with the right, that way we could feel our way to the perfect amount of liquid. Something that was of the utmost important was air, "letting lots of air in." The white flour was sifted three times to get as much air in as possible. <br />
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Ingredients were combined with a soft touch for more air. Instead of breaking the tabs of butter up inside the dry mixture or folding the raisins or cheese in, we were told to put both hands down deep into the bowl and bring the mixture up and out, letting it all sift through our fingertips. It was a motion akin to tossing spaghetti, intermingling ingredients instead of mushing them together. Another trick of the trade was to be careful about adding too much flour. "That's what makes scones too hard." This meant minimal handling of the dough once it was plopped down on a floured surface. Messing with the dough too much also hardens it<br />
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Gertie's methods ensured that the scones wouldn't be hard and the soda bread wouldn't be dense. What's funny is that we always thought hard and dense were words that were supposed to be associated with scones and soda bread. It was a little like going to France after a lifetime of eating croissants and having someone tell you that they shouldn't be moist or doughy. Because it's only the real deal croissants that are crusty and flaky. The ones you don't come across all that often. At the end of our whirlwind baking session, we had a dozen cheese scones, a dozen raisin ones, a loaf of white soda bread and a load of brown. Every morsel was fluffy, airy, pillowy.<br />
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Pat came in just as we were setting ourselves down beside the heaps of warm baked goods and afrench press of coffee. "Did a little cooking?" he asked, bemused. "She does this every morning," he said rolling his eyes and slacking his jaw, an expression of bystander fatigue and marvel. And, indeed, as we said our goodbye the next morning, with a dozen or so scones and a loaf of bread still left over, Gertie went into the cupboard and got her handy 3 gallon container of cream flour. "The kids are coming over for lunch, so I've got to get started!"<br />
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<b>Tricks of the Trade</b><br />
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Sift your white flour three times for airiness<br />
Once the baking soda is added, don't let sit too long<br />
If you're white soda bread isn't perfectly white, there was too much soda in it<br />
Never add egg-wash to the sides of your scone or pastry, it will weigh it down from fluffing up<br />
Or just skip the egg wash altogether. "I wouldn't crack an egg for it. It's only worth it if you have some egg left over or if you really want to impress someone. " - Gertie<br />
Cut the X into the top of a round loaf with a scissor. A knife will tear the dough.<br />
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<b>Gertie's Top Five Baking Tips (which could also be general advice for life)</b><br />
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Lots of air<br />
Don't mess with it too much<br />
If you feel it, you'll know<br />
Gotta get your hands dirty <br />
Show it who's boss/Handle it gently (whichever is applicable. choose wisely)<br />
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Merlin and Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11254659435101044471noreply@blogger.com2