Kings and Queens

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Day 1 on the road in Portugal took us to Villa Vicosa, the home of the Dukes of Braganza. And then here to the old city of Evora for our first taste of staying in a pousada. You can imagine the setting of these grand old convents and monasteries on the best hills with a smart interior designer coming in and having carte blanche to redecorate. It’s very comfortable except some of the staff may once have been gardeners for all they care about serving breakfast with a smile in the cloisters. 

I cracked my head on my cell door as I was leaving this morning but I think I’ve managed to staunch the blood flow now. I don’t dare touch the sticky lump though.  Edmundo is in good form and our happy American driver Greg is a walking encyclopaedia and eager to share all about his adopted country. I’ve given up on trying to absorb who begot whom and whose brother killed the other to put his nephew on the throne. This is a holiday!

The food is remarkable. The selection of cold antipasti at dinner last night looks so simple but tastes out of this world – olive oil, garlic and coriander is used a lot. Our grilled grouper with a side plate of rice and clams (think wet risotto) was sensational. It took Edmundo to go choose the caramelised prune (think thick caramel!) to go with the decaffeinated espresso. We had to walk home uphill over the cobblestones and do a quick circuit of the town at midnight or else I could never have slept.

Delicious Plain Portuguese Food

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Can you smell it?
I don’t know what herbs other than nutmeg and coriander might be making this broth so sweet. Lean lamb, loosely hanging from small pieces of shank or rib bones melts in my mouth. As with so many of these simple Portuguese dishes, potatoes, garlic and bread are an integral part of the recipe.
Pork and clams that are so affordable for hard-working families also seem to feature in many recipes in casserole, soup, and deep fried variations. There’s plenty of olive oil in everything but my constitution can’t come at the wonderfully smelling ‘deep fried’ offerings. I leave that to Greg. A bite of his rabbit at dinner last night was delicious!

First Night in Lisbon

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Clams in a white wine, garlic, parsley, lemon and mustard broth isn’t a bad start to a simple evening meal, is it?


Greg, the hospitable Discover Portugal travel agent knows Diego, the owner of the Cantinao de Bem Estar (A little corner of well being) restaurant in a narrow cobbled street running up the hill behind our hotel. The line is long, but, wink-wink, we’re in like Flynn. Diego is all bluster; short and corpulent; and given to crankiness, but treats us like royalty as he squeezes us (and Greg) into a corner table.
The restaurant is over-lit and very crowded; just a ‘hole in the wall’ restaurant for locals; but isn’t that what we always hope to find in a new city? Where’s my spoon to drink the clam broth? Nah, I have to leave some room for the whole grilled bream. The salted and charred crispy skin is better than any salted pork crackling I’ve ever tasted. And no reflux! We must bring Edmundo and the Turners back here when they arrive.
We go off to a birthday party in a swish neighbourhood dwelling, the home of Greg’s friends Spanish Julio and English Samuel.
The guests are slightly younger than I, and as many ladies who have a penchant for ladies, as there are others. I behave as a perfect 66 year-old gentleman with youthful exuberance, and wouldn’t dream of reminding the 44 year-old English host of his momentary lapse of etiquette in offering ‘more’ wine, would I? Talking to the girls, I don’t have too much to offer on the singing styles of Beyonce and Madonna, and don’t share the enthusiasm of the nearing-50 year-old, exotic lady from Mozambique for Tina Turner’s 70 year-old legs!
I get home at 1.30 am for a sleep of the Just. I left Sydney more than 48 hours ago and really need it.

Don’t Eat the Peanuts, (or the Rice Crackers)!

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I walked through the temperature cameras on arrival at Changi Airport in Singapore yesterday without being pulled over by one of the ominous-looking mask-wearing operators. So i hadn’t displayed signs of swine flu a day and a half ago.
On waking this morning though, the temperature cameras would be ringing off their hooks from the heat emanating from my body. Is it the overheated room here in my hotel in Lisbon? Or are perhaps the blankets are not wool? Or, God Forbid, have I been exposed to Swine Flu or any other catalogue of deadly germs from eating the Japanese rice crackers with my local beer while sitting, dazed and alone in a non-smoking bar waiting for my room to be ready yesterday?
Picking at a couple of rice crackers while watching the activity in the busy square outside, I thought I was experiencing a Portuguese twist when one tasted a bit orange and chewy. How quaint! But I finally broke from my daze, wanting another sip of my beer, thinking ‘how can a rice cracker, however flavoursome, still be in my mouth?’
Some low-life had deposited his discarded Juicy Fruit chewing gum not under the table top, but in the bowl of rice crackers! Aaarghh!
Now, as I fight to obliterate the thought (and taste) of that moment of discovery, I know the fear not only of swine flu but of unwanted pregnancy and any number of other dreaded afflictions brought on by momentary lapses in judgment or dazed distraction.

The Fruits of My Labour

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Flying is a labour . . . and not a labour of love . . . well, most of the time.

The “getting to somewhere” is a sufferance but it has an attractive side-benefit – airline frequent flyer points. After endless hours of flying back and forth to Europe over the years amassing Miles & More points, I am finally enjoying the side benefits with a first class ticket on Singapore Airlines today.

Keep your britches on. I’m not luxuriating in the famous Singapore Airlines rose-petal strewn Suites on the new Airbus A380, but I am the only passenger who turned left on entering through the front door of the Boeing 747 in Sydney this morning. Before I”m even seated, I find myself having to choose between the Dom or the Krug. (Of course, I would not be so crass and sinful by first tasting one and then preferring the other.) I’m usually a Bloody Mary man on a morning flight but I haveto forego that pleasure today. A whole cabin to me with Singapore Girl Jennifer to dance attendance – It’s lonely at the “pointy-end”!
Another beautiful side benefit of being in a first class cabin, alone, on a day flight is the ability to keep the blinds up. I hate trying to read in dark cabins when it”s daylight outside, and when I might want to glance out briefly to take in scenes like the strikingly coloured wastes with touches of green and awash with running rivers after all the drought-breaking rains we’ve had.
I don’t mind it being daytime and climbing into the pyjamas that Jennifer brings me for my flight comfort before take-off. I don’t recall my mother ever telling me anything much of a ‘personal’ nature, but I do being told not to wear my underpants to bed. “you need to breathe ‘down there’”. I’ve loved ‘free-balling’ ever since, and get into my black Givenchy pyjamas with the fine, canary yellow stripe down the sleeves and legs in a jiffy while Jennifer waits with a hanger for my hastily discarded trousers and shirt.
My sister Annie won”t be happy if she doesn”t know what I had to eat on the flight. Suffice to say, breakfast is breakfast, except this morning, the freshly prepared stack of hot scrambled egg and thick slices of smoked salmon were delicious. Lunch was more adventurous with strips of salty emu prosciutto on the mushroom soup, and some small apple eggplants with chunky pieces of duck in a very flavoursome but mild curry.

Jennifer brings me the best selection of Travel magazines. (Lufthansa will have none tonight.) I see, (without the need for overhead light!), so many places I have yet to visit. I just don’t have enough nimble years left in me. With the remnants of my sore back that had me seriously worried about getting away this week, I’m feeling a change coming over me as to where I want to go. Like having to give up beach destinations holidays years ago when skin cancers became prevalent, I don’t think I want to risk climbing over too many more ruins now that my knees and musculature are giving warning signs.
Stay-put holidays like the Palazzo Sasso in Ravello for Pam’s birthday last year are looking more attractive. The latest Conde Naste Traveller magazine’s ‘Hot List’ of hotels has me jumping and ready for more of Italy, Provence and Croatia and perhaps a return to Turkey and Syria would give me the ‘exotic’ I seek. I read about Cappadocia today and it”s still up there on my list – and for some reason, I know that Singapore Airlines always has frequent flyer seats available for Istanbul!
But more importantly for now, I am ready for the Portugal adventure commencing with a few days in Lisbon and then Edmundo joining me to drive with Greg to the north with overnight stays in converted old convents and monasteries – the Pousadas. Before joining the Turners on the Crystal Serenity for a Mediterranean cruise, we will visit the famous shrine of Fatima. I”m building up for a story of a different kind for the Fatima experience.

India – What is India?

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S

omerset Musgrave has ensconced himself in the Writer’s Wing of the Oriental on the river in Bangkok for a few days to gather his wits and hopefully write something about his recent 65th birthday celebrations in India.

But, unlike Somerset, this particular Musgrave has writer’s block of the worst order. Would a foot massage be a possible remedy for my malaise? That is exactly what I do, and after ninety minutes of pampering, with my feet soaking in a tub of hot paraffin; a pot of hot ginger tea at my side; hands free, I begin to make notes!

Let me put it this way.

I invited thirty five family and friends to accompany me to the India I’d come to love during the four years I was travelling there for my job in the Eighties. I wanted everybody to enjoy more than the usual touristic experiences of Delhi, Agra and Rajasthan.

I had my own ideas of course but it was my old Amex colleague Tony Singh and his friends, Nimi and Pawan who pulled ‘rabbits out of the hat’ with the events they conjured up.

 

CLICK HERE to read how we venture below the surface in Delhi, Agra, Jaipur and Udaipur while celebrating my 65th birthday over ten magical days in September 2007.
 


 

In Jaipur, our special event was an Indian Wedding for friends Lee and Annabel in the old fort of Kanota. The Fort was transformed into a fairyland for the evening, complete with a procession of elephants, camels, and horses; a blaring brass band and more threaded strands of marigolds and rose petals than you’ve seen in your whole life.

 

My Sister and Me

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The picture of Annie on the front page of this story reminds me of an old black and white photograph of her as a three year old sitting cross-legged on the back lawn of our house in bayside Redcliffe.

Growing up, I remember kids from the Far West Children’s Homes coming to Redcliffe for their first-ever view of the sea. And now, sixty years later, Annie is going to sea for the first time, just as excited and wide-eyed, with Trevor and me. What better first time ‘going to sea’ experience than on this Gourmet Food and Wine

Expedition on the 100 metre ocean-going mega yacht “Orion” around the Tasmanian West Coast and up to Sydney?

Click on this link to open the Story

The White Party – Agra 2007

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2007 – The occasion is my 65th Birthday in Agra, India
 

 

The Taj Mahal stands to celebrate the matchless love Emperor Shah Jahan had for his Queen Mumtaz. The famous Bengali poet, Tagore, describing Shah Jahans grief on Mumtaz death, wrote Running tears turned his garment white and the rest of the court followed suit. As did we!

We alight from our white-draped rickshaws walking through white-uniformed horse guards with spears and up a path lit by hundreds of white candles. We lounge on white bolsters under a new moon with plenty of cold Kingfisher and platters of prawn, chicken and beef kebabs from the kitchen of Sheratons famous Bukhara Restaurant watching Alan Guignon performing a recitation of Tagore’s poem.
 

Dress Rehearsal in white Lucknow Cotton costume for my sister-in-law Jenny in her role as Mumtaz

 

Alan as Emperor Shah Jahan performing Tagore's poem

 

Our evening beside the Taj Mahal is devoted to “amoré”.  The famous Bengali poet, Tagore, describing Shah Jahan’s grief on Mumtaz’ death, wrote “Running tears turned his garment white” and the rest of the court followed suit. As did we!

 

Musgraves - Brother Mark and Sister Anne on the right; Cousin Jennifer with her husband David on the left

 

Michael with his nephew Paul

 

As a footnote:
Little did the 35 guests realise that two hours before they arrived, that this magical setting, now ablaze in white and light, was a car-park for a carpet factory!

Amazing how the Event Planner, Nimi, managed the transformation installing the white stage, the white sets, the white reclining lounges, lighting and sound system in just two hours.

PICASA PHOTO ALBUM
Click on photo below to open and view

Guests at "The Musgrave Party" – India, September, 2007

My first visit to the Pyramids – 1990

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Pyramids of Giza – at the edge of suburban sprawl of Giza outside Cairo in 1990

 

A

s I prepare to depart on a trip to Egypt and a cruise on the Nile next week, I look back on my first and only visit to Cairo – in 1990 on a business trip. I took an afternoon off to do the ‘tourist thing’, and took a drive out to see the Sphinx and the Pyramids just outside Cairo. To my surprise, I didn’t approach them across miles of cinnamon-dusted desert like in the postcards. Driving along the main street of suburban Giza, a bustling built-up suburb with buildings, streetlights, cars and markets, there they were! The top of the great Pyramid appeared like the Castle at the end of Main Street in Disneyland.

Watch this space for the stories for my upcoming trip.

I recall similar disappointment years ago when I first saw St Peter’s in Rome. The wide sweep of the Square just ‘appeared’ at the end of a row of drab buildings along a long, narrow street. Also one Sunday afternoon in London I lost my way in the city and turned out of busy traffic onto the approach of a bridge. Stopped at traffic lights, I looked up to see the battlements of Tower Bridge in close-up with no magical stretch of river to set the scene. Postcards conveniently remove the blight from many of the world’s famous landmarks.

 

Michael at the Sphinx and Pyramids in 1990

 

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