Ode to a Pie (and a Thali).

I've been eating Pieminister pies for a few years now, in fact I even did a three month stint working on their stall at the fake beach in Bristol a couple of summers ago. I still have the T-shirt. I've just returned from their shop on Stokes Croft full of Chicken of Aragon. And the best bit is the ethics. It's all free range.

Another favourite is my nearest Thali Cafe in Montpelier. They've just opened a new one in Clifton and I think it'll be the first restaurant at the top of Hensman's hill to actually be successful. On my menu this weekend past was a note explaining that the chicken was free range and the fish sourced responsibly. Both places make fantastic food at incredibly reasonable prices (the pie mash and 'groovy' I just had was £5.50). At a point in time where we can't really afford to ignore the damage farming is doing to the environment, it gives me hope to see that change is possible. If they can do it, I don't see why everyone else can't. Let's take greater steps toward re-localising the food production and farming responsibly...

Have a look at the Thali Cafe's more eloquent explanation here.

Bradt's Travel Writing Competition - The Original and Still the Best.

Procrastination

To celebrate my 100th blog post I thought I'd write another. (That's a lie I'm on to about day 100 of procrastination...did you know that procrastination comes from the Latin...see). Listening to men talking about going into therapy on Radio 4 probably isn't helping. I'm still in my PJs. It's 11.30am. I don't have a job. I seem unable to force myself to get one, instead choosing to lie in bed two hours after I've woken, lucid dreaming about things getting in the way of my voting on May 6th and realising I've missed the boat. Along with all those other boats. I'll dream about arguing with my friends who are calling me slovenly. I scream at them that it isn't just me. It never is. The sun is shining. I am inside. Why am I inside. Why can't I be... Oh David Sedaris is on. I would like to meet him. I want to be like him.

Wake Up Henry.

It's Monday, the Bank Holiday is almost over. But just think, it'll only be a four-day working week, for those of you who work. For those that don't, this is what happens when you stay in bed for the best part of the day:



Have a good week everyone.

Katherine is Turned To Stone

Katherine is Turned To Stone
Originally uploaded by SoMiraculous

Something for the weekend, in celebration of the sun coming out.

A Day In The Life Of The Near-Unemployed.

I arrive at the place I volunteer to find the toilets have leaked. The rooms are filled with the smell of sewage and the building is evacuated. Outside, it's raining in the spit-in-your-face way rain does when it can't be arsed to do it properly. The wind blows my umbrella inside out enough times for me to fold it away. The sky's gray.
By the time I reach the Odeon I am considering jacking it all in and stuffing my face with KFC. Against all my ethical principles, probably.
Bravely, I march up the street and opt for a similarly gross option - a cheese & onion pasty from Greggs and an Easter cornflake cake.
I stop in front of Stanfords on Corn Street and gaze longingly at the sonic travel toothbrush then drop crumbs from the cornflake cake down my front. No one has seen, I brush myself down and head to the central library to look up some origami techniques.
In the toilet someone has written on the cubicle door:

'In answer to the question scratched in a desk in the reference section of the library: Can you write something about nothing? Yes.

Nothing is a state of mind. It is the alpha and omega of despair. It is the element of emptiness. It is the irony that holds the universe...'

Someone has written 'what a load of rubbish' next to it.

Downstairs, I sit down in the children's section by the window. An eighteen metre drill is boring a hole into the earth - it's amazing. If my friend Ruby and I had had one of those when we were little, perhaps we would have understood the impossibility of digging a hole in my back garden to get to Australia.

The Great Travel Literature Debate.

Today, one of my fellow STA travel intern applicants @paddy_doyle wrote a blog entry asking the question, is travel literature inspiring? His assertion was that it might be better to 'jump before you look.' My answer then is, why not do both?


I studied Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. In the final year I had the opportunity to take the module I had waited two years for, Travel Writing. My tutor was travel writer Joe Roberts, who I have an enormous amount of respect for. He, for want of a better word, 'nurtured' my writing skill and helped it become what it is today. For that I am grateful.


The module involved both reading travel literature and writing it. I went on a trip to Tipi Valley with my friend Katie Monks and wrote it up when we returned.


I read books about travellers, such as Chatwin, 'discovering' countries, writers like Yiyun Li and Jan Morris bringing their homelands to life and writers like Hemingway drinking their way through fictionalised versions of their experiences, in places seemingly more exotic than England (often only as far as France or Spain).


I poured over Gerald Durrell's childhood in Crete and swam alongside the fisherman in Hemingway's sea.


My bookshelf is almost entirely crammed with travel literature.


So then, the only way to find out if travel literature is inspiring, is to read it. If you only read two travel related books (one of these is a very thin volume, I promise), read The Songlines, by Bruce Chatwin, in which he discovered that the Aboriginal Australians could sing every feature on the landscape of Australia, like a map made of song - and Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises, a novel by Ernest Hemingway about Bull fighting and bad love in Spain as experienced by a very lovable alcoholic.


I don't think that travel writers and novelists do the travelling for you. Rather, they compliment what you already know, if you've seen it. And if you haven't been to the places they describe, they bring life to them, usually romanticising them almost imploring you to go there.


How many of us wanted to go to Kefalonia after reading Captain Corelli's Mandolin? I know I did.