Going backwards; or up the creek without a paddle

There is something magical about canoeing; the gentle plap-plap over the waves, the swirl of the water under the paddles, and the light fizzing around like pop on a hot day. Leaning over to look in to the deep blue-turquoise water is as close to heaven as I can get. So this is why on Thursday after an obligatory trip to Pomena for some cash, I popped in to our local Little Heaven and asked for paddles. The sensible one had gone to get water and put her money in the apartment; mine would have just got saltily damp in the event of an emergency landing. My water would have just got wet.

More of that later.

So we had a vessel each (I don't do sharing), appropriate clothing, everything stowed in the wrong place (me), and were ready for launch. We shoved the first one into the water, then the other...luckily one had a leading rein so we could stop it making a bid for freedom. Being chivalrous, I assisted the careful one to clamber elegantly aboard, and off she went proudly displaying walking boots as figurehead. Astonishingly I got myself settled without mishap.

Although having my rucksack - containing phone and bottle of water - utterly out of reach was annoying.

Off we went, boldly striking out into the blue. There was no longer a gale blowing but the stiff breeze was still making paddling a challenge. My shoulders were pre-emptively groaning in anticipation of the next morning's physical effort. The athletic one was already miles away and heading for open sea; I was happy to let the wind guide me and I gently drifted to the other side of the lake. The goal was to get to Veliki Most and possibly to moor up for a swim.

The Big lake for the most part is more like canoeing on the open sea, though we had already noted that there was unlikely to be a contretemps between us and a high-speed catamaran. My 40-something birthday canoeing trip to Lopud for tea and a bun had obviously stayed in our memories... But this was a far more peaceful experience; paddle, stop, paddle, drift, stop, paddle, ooo swat wasp. I was getting a little thirsty but the bridge was coming into view.

I have wanted to paddle under the perfectly elegant bridge for a while. It marks the change from Big Lake into Solinski Kanal and the direction of water flowing underneath changes depending on the tide. In this case, we shot through without need for a paddle. You emerge into the calmest aquamarine pool of perfection - it is this colour simply because it's sandy underneath and not too deep. The long nosed fish which I have just failed to identify were happy to mill around beneath me.

The highlight of the trip was the flash of copper and deep iridescent blue...a busy kingfisher was taking advantage of the stillness and was catching his lunch. He flitted between the foliage and disappeared into the undergrowth. Stunning and a moment to cherish forever.

The moment of calm turned into something else as suddenly the wasps decided that they wanted to come canoeing too. Whether it was the warmth, lack of wind, or moisture on my skin, there was an increasing annoyance of them. And it got worse. I was following the speedy one to the channel's barrier and there looked to be a sensible spot to pull up and retrieve my water - which as you recall was inaccessible, stowed in the back of my vessel.

Never before have I had such a tussle of wasp v dehydration. I was in a swarm. I grabbed my water bottle, not caring if anything was re-waterproofed and leapt back in to the canoe in a complete cloud of the evil ones. Inevitably I was stung. Shaking, I paddled away as fast as possible, eager to escape back on to the water. It wasn't the most pleasant of experiences but it could have been worse.

We headed back through the channel and under the bridge. We waved to the people above us as they were the lovely couple who would be sharing a taxi to Sobra the following morning. As quickly as they appeared, the wasps ceased to trouble us - they must dislike the wide open deep water. We paddled back towards home, and hysterically disembarked. There was much slipping on the rocks, and a paddle splooshed into the sea. Oh. There was no quick way to retrieve it and it just floated there, taunting us. Out of reach.

We stood there, doubled up laughing, unable to move . Finally I yanked on one of the dry canoes as it was in the way, having forgotten that it was tied to one of ours, safely bobbing about. Dithering, some wise-spark yelled to get my shoes back on. In this way I could negotiate the rocks to retrieve the still-in-the-sea one's figurehead boots. Ah yes. She was getting impatient with my continuing hysterical giggles. We hauled one of the canoes ashore, and fished out the errant paddle. Finally everything was out, and bags were safe and dry.

Unlike my bum. I think at this point it resembled a prune. A salted one, with an extra sprinkling of salt.

We retired to our favourite bar, hot, sweaty, wet and the older man laughed at my mokra guzica... With this hilarity in mind, I had to attend my company's annual meeting. So it was a very swift beer before heading back to make myself respectable and serious. Work over, I rejoined the sunny one, and was more than ready for the goat pekar. Kakve dan je bio!!

Writing. Beer. Perfection

It is a truth universally acknowledged that being in possession of a regular income is a 'good thing'. Since February I have enjoyed a full time job with all the benefits that brings. Like being able to afford cocktails, cars, dinner out, or even the odd vacation. Contrary to popular belief when you spend two-thirds of your time working from your place abroad, it doesn't always mean that you are on the beach.

Oh. Well not all the time. Sometimes you have to do your chores like a normal person.

Anyway after a relentless few months of 40 hours per week, I was exhausted. Taking a few days off was probably best for all concerned. My 4 weeks in the UK were pretty bloody awful and I needed space. But where to go in late September? I live part of my time in one of the most beautiful parts of the world, so it is tempting just to stay put. However island life remains in my blood, so I booked a week in a green and blue paradise. I have been to Mljet before; it had been late Summer and comically bad weather meant I got stranded.

What could go wrong, I thought, as the Split summer seemed to drag on endlessly?

A drunken evening meant that the Quiet One finally caved, and booked return flights to Split. She'd never actually seen my Varoš eyrie and hasn't had a holiday in about a million years (she never mentions that). Although I don't mind spending time alone, where I had booked for my week of quiet was truly special and it needed sharing. She would appreciate it, and I really want her to rediscover the writing mojo.

So a few weeks later and here we are sat by the stunning lakes of Mljet's National Park. Writing. Beer. Perfection.

Writing. Beer. Perfection.

My holiday had already started with a perfect weekend; sun, sea, strolls in the forest park. Saturday lunch time had been an exquisite meal of light salads in my local restaurant. The semifreddo which arrived gratis was clearly calorie-free. It was inevitable given my general levels of tiredness that some timings would go to pot. I thought the Essex one would arrive midnight on Sunday. Turns out she was leaving at midday Sunday, arriving at 4pm.

Ooops. The Melting One arrived off the aeroplane dressed for autumn. Split was 20 degrees warmer than in the UK.

Some other friends from the UK were here and given the balmy evening we dressed up and hit the bars. Espresso martinis, plum liqueurs, laughter, and a very cute gentleman made the Sunday evening fly by. The early wake up was interesting, as was the holiday packing and repacking. Did anyone remind me that I had left watermelon in the fridge? The forecast was showing promises of inclemency, but Monday morning continued with the sweltering theme. We dashed sweatily to the 7.40am catamaran, and enjoyed the aircon. Ok, to be fair I enjoyed the heat and vroominess of its rather large engines as we scooted across the perfect blue.

Tiny golden Korcula made me nostalgic, and the ominously cloud-topped majestic mountains of Peljesac left me speechless.

We arrived on Mljet and had no idea where we were going. Crying with laughter, she resembled the newly appointed, overtly English detective from Death in Paradise; complete with posh little wheeled suitcase and a lost, sweaty look. We did the only thing possible, we stopped at the first bar, had a beer and checked the map. I contacted the AirBnB people to confirm where they were in the park. We continued to marvel at the astonishing high definition colour, and noted the big white clouds coming from the north.

Hm.

We set up off the road and turned off to enter the national park. There were steep steps, a crazy paving path, and the first major incline caused minor consternation. The wheelie case got an entire quarriful of pebbles in its wheels and protested as much as the Visiting one. Once on tarmac, we proceeded a-pace and found the Mali Raj konobar in Babina Kuce. Our little place was obviously up more stairs, and our hosts were happy to see us. We abandoned our stuff - including the sulking dusty wheelie case - in favour of a slab of plum-cake and some refreshing mountain tea.

We both changed into something more summery and set off for a gentle walk into Pomena, ostensibly for something to eat. By the time we got into the village, we realised that the clouds had really meant business. We scuttled into the Studenac for supplies and Bura blew us back home.

Looks like the Mljet weather has struck again!

Thermals, options...and friends

Don't get me wrong, I love it here in Split. Every summer weekend is a joy of friends, beautiful weather, lunch by the sea and living a good life. In the winter, cosy homes and glorious food warms the body and soul. And people. The amazing inhabitants I meet and admire most here are young people building lives, facing the challenging process of settling with their families.

And those people on the other end of the spectrum, the mature retired singles and couples are also entering into a new life. They have their own reasons for being here and they are happy in this overwhelmingly friendly community.

Advent and Events in December

Home Sweet Home

They say that Advent is a time of planning, preparation and waiting. In my case I don't think I've ever done so much of all three. Much of early December was spent working. Yes I know. This is something that I've been plotting for some time and finally reached fruition this month. More of that anon. However having some extra cash coming in meant that I could be a better friend and aunty, and get to the UK over the festive period. So my trip to Split expanded to include London and Wiltshire.

Despite my earlier decision to spend longer on Šipan, the plan was never to stay on the island over Christmas and New Year. I think that would have been an isolation too far. If circumstances had been different...still, there is no use crying over broken hearts. And my lovely friend in Split would have been rightly cross with me. As it happened another friend there was going to be away so I could happily and warmly take my laptop and work in her cosy apartment.

I was excited to reach Split because as usual I had no idea what to expect. An early start on a cold, dark ferry meant that my hugely heavy rucksack and I arrived there in bright early afternoon sunshine. The winter market on the Riva was alive to the sound of music and excited conversation. Festive aromas of frying fritule and kuhano vino filled the fresh air...I felt drunk just on the atmosphere. Wanting to dump my bags, I headed up to Maria's first but soon realised I had the wrong keys. Or the right keys for the wrong lock. Resisting an eye roll at my uselessness, I went to see my redoubtable friend to get help. Once in I was happy to relax into the swing of Split life.

I went back to hers picking up ham, cheese and wine on the way. Situation normal. And took my homemade sloe vodka with me. As we sat in the kitchen chatting about everything and nothing, it was like I'd never been away. The children were doing homework, the dog was trying to get on my lap, and we made no plans at all. There was loads of Christmas things to be done; cakes, decorations, food shopping, some exciting exam (not mine!) paperwork... so no planning really needed. Ahem.

I arrived on 16 December and that first week was spent industriously writing several January blogs so I could relax into the new year. The weather continued to be sunny so I did lots of running around Marjan park. And discovered punč - fruit tea enhanced with golden rum. There had been an announcement that our favourite bar was closing on 25th December. This place had contributed so many memories earlier in the year, so it seemed fitting to celebrate their end with the last karaoke session. Catching up with familiar faces was fabulous. It did mean that as of 23rd of December I was officially on holiday! After a working interlude, Split was back to the whirl of singing, dancing, lung and liver bashing, and general hedonism. And an Elvis impersonator, not to mention a Bulgarian clown who is also a sushi chef.

I'm not a big one for Christmas but this year's was the most perfect I've had. We baked Christmas tree cakes, decorated the actual tree, lit advent candles...and drank plenty of kuhano vino. Our shopping was completed on Christmas Eve. We had plenty of coffee breaks to enjoy the sun whilst shopping. If I had been in the UK I would probably have had a nervous breakdown. But the shopping centres were quiet and relaxed, so she and I only had to contend with my general dislike of shops. Fortunately we have very little money so apart from presents for her children, there was nothing we could buy anyway. Food is a different matter... Our trip to the butchers was characteristically unorthodox.

On 23rd Dec it was karaoke night with a Christmas hat competition. I placed faith in my good friend that something would present itself regarding headwear. Given I'd totally failed to get my hair done as is usual when I'm here, I wasn't looking my best. Still, it was glorious sunshine and we shone with the usual contrary glow of happy friends. We were heading to the afternoon Hvar catamaran to deliver a chocolate cake*, when I saw the perfect hat.

Only the images can do this justice. These conical Christmas trees were tarted up with white fur and fairy lights and turned heads everywhere. Strolling up Marmontova later on where polite Split goes to show off, we styled it out. It's fair to say our arrival was NOT low key. We dived into the hot smoky melee and sang and laughed the night away. Under Chatham House rules, I can reveal nothing about my friend. However at 3 my feet decided they fancied a dance and so I found myself in Klub Central. Though my hat chose to stay at To Je To. Apparently this club is where all the cool kids go; there were dancers in cages, fire jugglers and hot half naked ladies on stage. Perhaps I just dreamt it.

Strolling home later, I bumped into my friend. Given there is a tradition of raiding the bakery in the early hours, we headed up the road to Varoš. The butcher was standing outside his shop taking in the morning air, and he watched with interest as we cackled noisily up the street. She decided then was the perfect time to order beef for Christmas Day pasticada. He is a sweet guy and I decided his morning could be improved by asking to kiss his cheek. He seemed keen. He blushed. With promises to pick up his meat later we continued to wobble up the hill. For hot jammy bread.

Hot jammy bread at 5am is the best.

Christmas Eve is traditionally a fishy sort of day. There is a communal lunch in Split where they make a cauldron of bakalar and serve everyone. Those that haven't been out the night before had finished every last morsel so we arrived too late. Never mind. We went on a wander around the bright sunny city taking in the sights, scents, sounds...ah the sounds. The gentlemen struck up hymns to Dalmacija just off the main square. Tearful and transported, we gathered for a moment in time. Just being. We carried on with festive meeting and greeting as people just enjoyed their holiday. We picked up our last ingredients for the following day.

So I'd be less tired for Christmas Day I decided a nap was in order. My hat was still in the bar so I called time on its shenanigans and went home via the sunset. By 8am I was back at her's where we prepared potatoes for njoki, a platter for breakfast and made sure everything was perfect. For once that week I had an early night and was back in bed for midnight. Enjoying yourself is exhausting!

Christmas Day. It had its family dramas. Don't they always? I even spoke with my mum where I arranged my trip to Warminster. I finally had a rough plan for the UK. By midday we'd eaten and were out taking in the sunshine on the Riva. The day passed by in a haze of food, good wine, and friends. The greatest gifts you can possibly get.

As this day was the final night of To Je To, the plan was to help them clear stock. 50 kunas all you could drink. They wanted nothing left by the end of the night. So letting her have a nap, I popped down there for 9 to see what was happening. It was full of the regulars and we passed a lovely evening. There was gin and lemonade, vodka and vodka, and finally vodka and red stuff. I have no idea. By 3am a cheer went up at the bar. We were dry. What to do now? The owner had a craving for Mexican food so opened the restaurant opposite to refry beans. Guys brought their guitars, and I sat and pondered the meaning of life. The sheer weird fun of it all - what a start to Boxing Day. After an impromptu party we parted, wishing everyone a happy Christmas.



*everything from oranges, suitcases, 'things' in Croatia get delivered by bus or boat. You give it to a man, they pop it on, then your friend or contact goes to pick it up when the transport arrives. Simple. Imagine National Express doing this!

Lecce - and the return to Šipan

I hadn't really considered the reputation of Bari before deciding on a day and night there, but it certainly struck me as cleaner and more tidy than Naples or Rome. People tell me that it should have been filthy, scary and a place to avoid. Which is why I'd seriously consider going back there for another visit. I've now experienced many Italian port cities and this one, along with Ancona is probably my joint favourite. Bari's old city is a warren of tiny streets, with people living their lives outside on them; from noisy shop keepers conversations and football exclamations, to hushed musical Italian gossiping and lovers' seafront murmurings. The golden buildings were colourfully adorned with painted Madonnas, bright plastic flowers, and clean washing. The low stone archways between buildings framed the scenery like monochrome rainbows, picture perfect and a photographer's dream.

As I headed out of the old town into the new on my way to the train station, the atmosphere changed and suddenly I was in a shopper's paradise. I sat in an ice-cream bar waiting for a morning coffee but I didn't feel at ease. After the natural beauties of Macedonia and the uncertain dirtiness of Albania, the likes of Prada, Gucci, and other labels didn't sit right with my jeans and rucksack so I got up and headed through town to find something more suitable. The little portable espresso bar in the public park was perfect - 2 euros for a chocolate bun and an excellent caffe latte was just the job. I was inevitably joined by a gentleman who was compelled to tell me about his marital difficulties. In Italian. It's not my strongest language to be honest. I was torn between annoyance at having my musings interrupted, and compassion at his loneliness, after all, making time for people has been my biggest lesson of this year.

After an uneventful ticket purchase, a quick trip to a supermarket for sundries, and clambering on the right train, I was smoothly making my way to Lecce. It's a sign of how immured I've become to travelling under difficult circumstances. As much as I love Croatia, train travel in other parts of Europe is something I've missed - efficient, cheap, clean, convenient, comfortable. Balkan buses are certainly cheap and relatively efficient, but I'm a bit fed up of them and the roads. So I just sat back and admired the Italian scenery; dramatic clouds, blue seas, green olives and vines, and towns with romantic names. Brindisi, I am determined to return to you....not to mention Monopolis!

I arrived in Lecce just under two hours later, calm and unruffled, with back symptoms under control. I can definitely recommend the loos at the station and after a quick tidy up, I was strolling into the quiet town. The weather was stunning and there was a photograph around every corner. Unexpectedly for an ordinary southern Italian city, it felt cosmopolitan and the population there is very diverse; I haven't seen ethic clothing like that since leaving east London. The supermarkets reflected the foods of the people and it made a change from the predominant Mediterranean flavours I've been used to. It helped that I was sharing a house with a young Argentinian and we compared travelling notes over a brew of yerba mate. I later shared my mushroom risotto!

Italy is very expensive after Albania etc, but despite this I quite enjoyed making myself at home there. I went to the hairdressers, indulged in a bit of clothes shopping, and wandered around many of the churches, parks, museum grounds and the incredible cemetery. The latter should be on everyone's list. It's like a mini-city of tiny desirable properties; it makes London's Bishop's Avenue look a bit cheap. I particularly loved the Egyptian temple with the sphinxes. I probably should have gone further afield but I was happy just to relax in the town and catch up with my rest. Such a party animal! Sadly, the contacts that I had in Lecce didn't materialise so there was no socialising.

I was happy to experience yet more interesting weather conditions but it was polite in comparison to Albania. The sky threatened to really throw a tantrum but just ended with a some rain and a dramatic double rainbow. The following days were generally settled and I was happy to compare yet another Roman theatre. I wasn't planning a Roman architectural trip but it had been a delight to find these classical gems in each town - what a wonderful part of the world this is!

My break now thoroughly wound down, with nothing unexpected on the horizon, I was gladly thinking about heading back to paradise. The journey was a dream. It was almost too easy getting back; train was on time, pizza and beer demolished and a slow stroll along the sea to the port. Although the Jadrolinjia office in Bari port decided to give me last minor panic by remaining determinedly closed come check in time. I had clearly missed the memo about needing to take a bus a few kilometres down the road to another terminal. A kind lady there took my money for a private cabin and I have never been so relieved about having guaranteed access to a private space the size of a wardrobe, in the bowels of a ferry. I was waved through passport control quickly.

As soon I was on the ferry, I couldn't believe the contrast with the Durres-Bari experience. That same ship happened to be moored nearby, and I looked at it and the same harbour-side in disbelief, remembering the chaotic scenes of immigration. The Dubrovnik was an ordinary car ferry but somehow it felt civilised - probably something to do with groups of ladies sipping wine in the bar, and signs pointing to a 'children's snug', and the excellent looking restaurant. Oh, and the fact I was clutching a key to my own private bunk. I ignored all of these social gatherings, and I was undressed, in bed and asleep before we even disembarked at 10pm.

I've already said that I was in tears on reaching my favourite port of Dubrovik café but it honestly felt like I'd returned home. The friendly welcome from passport control, the flirty Croatian exchange with a local taxi driver, and the sight of the little Postira - not to mention the fact that I was looking respectable, showered, refreshed and no longer tired and in pain. It was an epic trip and it had turned out to be a lot more arduous than I expected, but as usual difficult trips leave more of a mark and it was definitely one to remember.

Of Bakes and Cakes

For the past two weeks I've had visitors and it's been marvellous fun. For the most part their holiday involved exploring my island home by foot, bike and canoe, with the odd emergency use of the tiny bus, as well as relaxing on the beach and messing around in the sea. My brother had built himself a fishing rod, Roo had a million questions, and the Contrary Ladies Trio had plenty of conversation about life, love and poetry. Inevitably there was a lot of wine, rum and beer at various stages of the visit...not to mention a bit of dancing. They also seemed to appreciate the sunny weather after the summer back in the UK. I hear it's quite bad.

Domino's? No

As regular readers will know, the contrary team and various associates can sleep, dream, and conjecture about food for hours. Kim and I trod-water for about an hour just talking cake - my perfect idea of aqua-aerobics. And we had an officially qualified chef to bamboozle with recipe jiggling and fridge specials. My brother is a massive foodie and enjoyed working with the many wonderful ingredients available but there were times when he just wanted to nap, so left me in charge. He did teach me some cheffy things like what a  beurre rouge was, and the posh term for cubes of tomato.

No I can't remember what it was. And in return he made me promise to write the recipe for the Dalmatian inspired meat and polenta bake which he had four helpings of. So here goes:


Clare's Dalmatian Bake (serves 4 - 6)

First check the fridge for random items of interest and make adjustments. Sniff the open bottle of chilled red wine and taste a glassful just to make sure it's ok. Take half a large onion and chop finely. Fry off in local olive oil with plenty of garlic and some cubes of smoked cooking prsut. Add 500g of pork/beef mixed mince and brown off thoroughly. Add a glug of the wine, plenty of pepper, a bay leaf or 3 (if you have any left over from the experimental burning bay leaves to see what happens trick) plenty of Dalmatian mixed herbs, and a tin of chopped tomatoes,a rinse of the tin with water, a squeeze of tomato puree and a beef stock cube. Mix thoroughly and let it bubble until it is thick, tasty and making everyone's mouth water.

In the meantime, take the 8 pale green peppers that you were actually going to stuff with the mince mixture. Realise one of them is dodgy, 2 are too small, and the other one went in a salad so decide to chargrill them instead. Heat the grill. Deseed, rinse and dry, and cut into quarters. Place on a tray skin-side up and drizzle with olive oil and place under the heat. Shut the oven door and proceed to forget about them until smoke is pouring out. Turn them over. Once they are fairly black but deliciously soft, leave to cool slightly and gently peel off the crispy skin.

Preheat the oven to 200 degrees.

Polenta is still a bit of an alchemical process - I blame the wine, bay leaves and golden colour. I googled it wanting the ultimate recipe and found a hysterically precious blog on the perfect polenta. Apparently forget everything you ever believed about it being a quick dish and start making it the night before.

Oh.

I poured about 250g of sunny loveliness into a pan, added an amount of cold water and milk, with a sprig of rosemary, salt, and more bay leaves. Stir and abandon til it starts to get warm and demanding. Stir more. Boil the kettle and add more hot water as and when it looks a bit firm. Eventually - about 35 mins -  it is a smooth, thick paste. Taste, add more seasoning, a load of grated cheese and some crème fraiche and Dijon mustard. Stir and it should be the consistency of a good soft mash. Remove rosemary and bay if you remember.

Then panic that your glass dish is too large and ask the opinion of the chef. His sceptical face says it all. Panic some more and have a glass of wine.

Pour the meat into the tray and spread out - it was about 2 inches deep in the end. Spread out the peppers across the meat. Top with the polenta mix and spread out evenly. Top with more cheese, breadcrumbs, paprika and pop in in the oven until the polenta is soufflé-like and ragu underneath bubbly. If you can wrest some basil from the naughty cricket, tear some leaves over it as you bring to the table; serve with a salad you forgot to make, what's left of the red wine.

It's pretty good.

The other recipe I tried today was very successful. My cake making is definitely improving but only because I'm not limiting myself to the usual butter, sugar, flour and eggs with which my gran used to miraculously conjure into fluffy sponges. Mine are always disastrously greasy and crunchy .

Mediterranean Upside Down Fruit Cake

Whisk - and I mean really whisk - together 3 eggs and 100g of sugar until they are foamy and creamy. Use a machine if you have to, or just enjoy the hard work. Once you are sure, keep beating and start adding 70ml olive oil as if you were making mayo, one dribble at a time so it turns glossy, whilst remaining aerated. The recipe I adapted suggests using a light olive oil but I prefer the rich fruity flavour of the extra virgin single press local stuff. I want my sponge impolite and gutsy. Add 90g of flour, a teaspoon of baking powder, and a good pinch of ground sea salt. Fold in until smooth. In future, I would also add a dash of almond essence to this.

Slice a ripe peach and arrange on the base of your oiled baking dish. Sprinkle over a sachet of vanilla sugar. Again, I would add flaked toasted almonds for extra crunch. Pour over the batter and place in the pre heated to 160 degree oven. Bake for about 50mins - a skewer will come out clean. Turn out so the peaches decorate the top. The texture is incredibly light, moist yet robust.

Who's coming here next?!

Chunky Dunking vs Skinny Dipping

So, having lived a young life of being a "super modelesque" type build, putting on weight was a hardship I never thought would effect me so much. From silly contraception to amazing food, my body disappeared from its Marilyn Monroe figure to a more Nigella curvaceous beauty.

I started to become slightly unhappy. Instead of doing something physical and diet wise about it, I found myself looking at yet another devilishly delectable dish to feast my eyes and feelings on! Oh, yeah then I became pregnant! That was an invitation to eat what you want right?

Oops apparently not! So a size 16 and I have now a babe in arms!

I know a size 16, that's not so bad right? But when you have spent your life with lavish compliments and desire, to now almost disappearing out of sight from the roving eyes of anyone, and the compliments of "oh my god your body" with the undertones of desirous torment, now to the "oh my god your body" with bitter tone of disgust.

I became a shell, I hid behind leggings and baggy tops, I ignored my appearance in the windows, in mirrors and even shadows. I ignored the further weight gain! My weight ballooned, now a size 22 I stopped swimming... I love swimming. Diving was my thing; I would elegantly run, touch the side and disappear into an abyss of heaven beneath the surface. Now if I dived, it felt like a watering hole for an elephant, who could no longer dive from fear of the water disappearing and leaving the hole of a pool behind.

It wasn't until my sister in-law came to see me having started a diet and a regime of exercise with a
fellow friend, did I see an amazing difference in her confidence, appearance and general well being she oozed goddess qualities, those that I missed and suddenly had a craving for!

I soon began a slow process of bringing exercise back into my life, I avoided swimming: A. I was huge and again watering hole didn't seem appealing, B. I was terrified and C. I had began to accept that this weight was only going to disappear if I helped it.

So a little regime of weigh-in each week with an aqua fit class and Pilates, soon turned into to an addiction of boxing, 20-20-20 (20 minutes aerobics, 20 minutes strength and 20 minutes cardio) twice a week as well as a swim, yes, a swim.

In 10 months I had lost 3 stone! 8lb off the weight of my five year old.

I had slowly gone from a size 22 to a size 14. My mission isn't complete yet, but it sure as hell feels great to be able to stop in a window and admire myself, hear my inner self desire me! So when a holiday was booked to see my sister in-law in Croatia, I reluctantly went bikini shopping! I found out I had also dropped three breast cups; my Goodness Gracious girls had now become, Fabulous!

The moment of truth came when "we" (my girls and me) made our first debut as what can only be described as heavens door, a greenish blue hue of transparent heaven. The sky shone below as the water shined above, an almost upside down world in this Adriatic sea.

The other women here were immaculately presented for the roving eyes of men; and young boys, as we were to find out, after my 5 year old had his first look at nudist bathing! I felt awful!! But persevered I did! And two weeks of bathing and diving, I had a risen as my own version of a bronzed goddess, my own desirable. The last night there and of course my little one suggested "lets all get in naked!" So we did. All that remained on my body was my knickers! My "ladies" bobbed ceremoniously together, free from restriction!

I was "skinny dipping". The natural beauty of being in this heaven like pool, to lie back and feel the stars wash over you in the darkness touched me. I was becoming me, again. I had lost myself but, with my own perseverance I was finding me, as always!

Gorging on Colour

You may be pleased to know that there wil be no nostalgiafest today. For reasons known only to my parents, they decided to give the Samaria Gorge a miss. Given my brother was only 6 and the gorge 16km long, perhaps they were wiser than I knew. Anyway years later their idiot daughter found herself getting up at 4.30 to go for a gentle stroll in the mountains. Not just that but persuading a pre teen and a mad saffa to do similar. 

I don't often see sun rise and here it is a visual delight, a light show to rival any I've seen; the black-white limestone screen of mountains with a rainbow projection. As we hit the Askifou plateau we had reached the yellow/green stage and the cornfields waved in coloured empathy. As the coach doors opened it seemed that the fragrance also coloured the air. Mint green as invigorating as the breeze. 

We needed to go higher and the greens turned to blue; likewise mint turned to pine. We had clearly reached the Cretan alps. The White Mountains stretched high above us, dizzying in aspect, but our path led down. The entrance to the gorge gaped and we disappeared one by one, carefully, slowly, into the resinous gloom.   

The going was hard underfoot but looking up was breathtaking. Between the black green Calabrian pines and bright blue, the sheer sharp white mountains soared.

Still, down we went and the trees oddly started to thin until the rocks showed through, a dry, dessicated white. In parody of the tumbling froth, the stones sat in mid movement on the river bed. Many hands had created works of art from these pebbles, piling them up from large to small. Even the tree branches were covered in pebble 'moss'. It seemed that these sculptures were the only way to reduce the magnificence of the mountains to human scale.

Further down the gorge and we found the rainbow's end. The endlessly high walls were golden; liquid gold flowed over the pebble nuggets. Criss-crossing the pure stuff, the burbling echoed our giggles. By the eighth kilometre the laughing was more hysterical but, still, we laughed. The prize was the iron gates, where the ravine was a mere three metres wide. The rickety wooden path bridge carried us through the gap.

However, despite all that had gone before, the best was yet to come. The geological story that the rocks were telling us, and everyone who listens, is endless. They relate the power of the earth, the compressing heat, the lives of the fossilising creatures within - everything both in its place and transforming into something else. Like the piled pebbles and wobbly people, balance is sweet. 

And so, what about the end of our journey? We had traversed the longest gorge in Europe, lost most of our dignity and anticipated the muscle pains. But I salute the sanity of my parents for allowing me to find this gorge, myself, the hard way. 

Holiday Pinks

It's that time of year again; when London and I spend time apart to 'find ourselves' or 'take a break' for the good of my health and sanity. Recent trips away have revolved around significant birthdays - not the one on Decenber though, that was just bloody minded contrariness - so it was nice just to book and not worry about being another year closer to mandatory tummy control bikini bottoms. 

Crete was the choice of the youngest travelling companion. A dour doom merchant of drama queen proportions.  Or a pre teen Yorkshire Saffa ... Middle name 'caaaan I have a saaaaandwich?'. For as long as I've known him he has been obsessed with Greek gods so I was determined to bring him to the place where history, myth, civilisation combined to change my life at the same age. 

It was also my first time on a plane, first time not on a windy tent holiday and the first time I experienced the sea as a gentle warm blue bath. It was also where I had my first holiday romance. So it was a pretty momentous holiday by anyone's standards. 

My dad had worked some legalistic miracle for the hotel owner - or indeed had his own romance - but we somehow got invited to a family christening way up in the fragrant spiky island interior. This solemn ceremony in a tiny ancient chapel led to an explosively festive affair which carried on way into the night. A group of kids welcomed me and my younger brother, as we giggled at the ridiculous dancing adults. Music filled the air as thickly as the scents of the rosemary roasting lamb over the fire. 

In this atmosphere the beautiful young man and I kissed, and we held hands for the rest of the evening. When ever we saw one another in the hotel kitchen we would smile shyly and I imagined a life in permanent sunshine with him. At 12 the hopeless dreamer could hopelessly dream. 

So when I heard the voices and traditional music last night - as well as seeing grown adults dancing with red faces, I was transported to another time and place. Where holidays experienced as a child were actually life changing and inspirational. 

Still, even now, the child in me imagines the sea and rocky inlets sheltering ancient traders and fishermen, the purple mountain crags jangled with goats bells...whilst the lithe young men practice bull fighting and the bare breasted women waved snakes. 

I don't know what this young chap will take away from this holiday. Already his swimming confidence has grown, apparently the food is divine, and today he will walk the longest gorge in Europe. But nothing is more important than the opportunity to learn, travel and be inspired.