Wednesday 25 May 2011

When Spring Comes Back to England

I don't think I could ever settle down abroad; I'd miss the seasons in England too much. My favourite season has to be spring, not just because of my obsession with blossom, but because of all the other beautiful countryside things that begin to wake up over April and May; hawthorn flowers, lady's smock, daisies, cuckoos, sky larks and the anticipation of warmth, and green life of summer to come. Here's a nice spring poem and spring pics, just because I love it.

(Alfred Noyes)
When Spring comes back to England
And crowns her brows with May,
Round the merry moonlit world
She goes the greenwood way:
She throws a rose to Italy,
A fleur-de-lys to France;
But round her regal morris-ring
The seas of England dance.

When Spring comes back to England
And dons her robe of green,
There's many a nation garlanded
But England is the Queen;
She's Queen, she's Queen of all the world
Beneath the laughing sky,
For the nations go a-Maying
When they hear the New Year cry -

"Come over the water to England,
My old love, my new love,
Come over the water to England,
In showers of flowery rain;
Come over the water to England,
April, my true love;
And tell the heart of England
The Spring is here again!"












England's Pastures Yellow

As I entered England on the train home this Easter, the rolling green scenery which had been flitting past for the last hour or so suddenly exploded into vibrant yellow as far as the eye could see. No, I wasn’t on LSD, I’d just forgotten how at this time of year the English fields erupt into waves of yellow flowers belonging to oilseed rape.
It’s exciting to see the landscape bursting into periodic swathes of yellow, in the same way that it’s exciting to wake up and see the fields covered in snow. Although it smells quite odd, oilseed rape has a stunning quality when combined en mass in vibrant rows upon rows that make the landscape look ever more like a patchwork quilt. Some people seem to think oilseed rape fields are unsightly and unnatural in appearance, but I can appreciate the beauty of oilseed rape fields in the same way as I can appreciate the beauty of a collection of wind turbines; for its sheer scale of visual impact.




     
            Living in the countryside myself, when I arrived home I was compelled to go out and walk around in it. I’m a very tactile person, and when I see something that interests me from afar I immediately have the desire to touch and absorb it, so after digging out my old bike from my parent’s shed I went off and explored the lanes to play in the oilseed rape. Yes, I’m twenty-one, and I don’t care if that’s normal behaviour or not.

Diamond in the Roath

Every  Saturday morning in Cardiff, there’s a little food market held in a car park in Roath just off City Road. How I didn’t know about this in the four years I’ve lived in Cardiff is a mystery, but one that I’m glad I discovered.
 
            From award winning Indian cuisine to plant-pot-baked rosemary bread, the range of locally produced foods is impressively diverse. As Cardiff is proudly one of the most multicultural cities in the UK with over 100 ethnic groups, we’re lucky enough to have local foods that are just as multicultural.  After sitting down to a deliciously light, spiced Indian breakfast of various fried bajis and kebabs I bought some red onion chutney produced in Caerfilly and a load of sundried tomato bread.
There was also a little craft fair selling jewellery, knitted clothes, hand stitched bags and various other arty things. My housemate with the romantic obsession with Cardiff bought a water colour painting of Cardiff City Hall from a lady whose father was now too old to come to the fair, and she said now painted from his shed.
Whether you want to support local produce or discover how many different types of bread it turns out you can make, Roath Market is definitely worth pottering around.

Buffalo, Barn dancing and Boobies

When a friend of mine sent me a link to a video from currently under-the-radar band Young Rebel Set, it was love at first play. The link was to “If I Was”, which when listening to, is like stumbling upon a little box of undiscovered love notes; the contrast of the gritty northern voice of Matty Chipchase the lead singer, teamed with such sensitively innocent lyrics provides an irresistibly endearing combination – not to mention a beautifully urban folk-indie hybrid style that sounds like the love child of the Arctic Monkeys and the country side of Rod Stewart.

So when I had a scout for tickets to see if they were gigging any time soon, I was happy to see they were down to play Buffalo Bar in Cardiff, and after listening to their album a few times over we headed to the gig with high expectations. The support bands were OK, and we milled around sipping our 2-4-1 cocktails (which FYI are very good) absorbing the atmosphere and waiting for the main course.



As we were chatting, a grubby looking group of lads sauntered past swigging bottles of beer and accidentally bumped into a girl that was stumbling around drunk. They proceeded to get up on stage and stand behind their various instruments and announce that they were Young Rebel Set. They are an eclectic mix to say the least; the oldest looked in his early thirties and the youngest about fourteen, wearing anything within the spectrum of modern male fashion from denim and leathers to a waistcoat and flat cap. They could have been the selection from cross section of Weatherspoons that had accidentally stumbled into the wrong room.


But when they launched into their first song, any mismatches in their appearance were plastered over by the coherence with which they just work as band. In addition to the usual instrumental set up was a harmonica which just gave that extra folk touch. It really was as if a few guys in the pub had accidentally discovered that they all had these musical talents, and were suddenly thrown into song whilst they were still a bit drunk, which only added to the feeling that we were at a barn dance. The rest of the audience obviously felt the same as a few  arms were linked and a stamping spinning dance broke out, colliding with the dunk girl who was still stumbling over in her spilt beer as her friend danced so hard her boobs decided to come out over her strapless dress to say hello.


Incidentally, their debut album 'Curse Our Love' is out now, so go and have a gand, and if you get the chance to see them, don your best line dancing boots and go along for a foot stampin’ whilst it’s still relatively quiet, because these guys won’t be under-the-radar for long.

Wednesday 20 April 2011

UGGly Evolution

Over the past eight or so years, there has been a trend that has unfortunately infected nearly all niches of society in the UK and the Western world; from the subspecies of human (Homo sapien) commonly known as the ‘chav’ (Chaveri slobetta: behavioural traits of which include drinking on the streets, shouting loudly and smoking during pregnancy), to the southern based subspecies commonly known as the ‘rah’ Rahnus tofferani (mainly observed doused in St Tropez with bleached blonde hair dressed head to toe in Abercrombie and Fitch).
This trend is one in footwear, and when combined with any outfit immediately makes the individual appear slovenly, namely due to the irritating scuffing style of walking induced by such a clumsy shoe, but also due to their lack of shape or style in any form. Yes, you guessed it - the monstrosity that I refer to is UGG boot.
The origins of this viral trend are disputed, with both Australia and New Zealand surprisingly fighting for the title of ‘the country that created the UGG boot’, but wherever its evolutionary history lies: in my opinion the creator should have been locked away. Sheep skin boots have been documented in Australia from the 1920s, and by 1933 Australian based company Blue Mountains UGG Boots were knocking the UGG into production as were the Mortel Sheepskin Factory by 1958. In the 1960s the UGG became popular with the subspecies of human known as the ‘surfer’ (Surferannus dudentius) who used them to warm their tootsies after a session on the waves, and after spreading throughout mainland Australia, the UGG emigrated to America and was in production through UGG Holdings by 1979. By around 2003 the UGG had fully evolved into a generalist fashion trend, exploiting a range of human subspecies of all ages, races and backgrounds.
Unsurprisingly, the name ‘UGG’ originated from a comment made by the wife of the apparent creator of the boot - Frank Mortel, who upon seeing the first design of the boot called them ‘ugly’. Frank, for the sake of humanity, you should have listened to her.

UGG Australia add (apparently they need a naked girl to make them look attractive)


For those of you living under a rock, the classic design of the original UGG boot is a tan coloured shapeless boot made of sheep skin, with the fleece lining still intact, facing inwards. They appear to be a type of snow boot, but as they evolved from the Australasian continent which receives very little snow; this design is not adapted to its practical habitat, and is often worn in all weather. In my opinion there are only three scenarios in which it is acceptable to don the UGG (or any knock-off high street strain of the virus) – 1) when walking through conditions of deep snow or heavy ice; 2) when slobbing around the house as a substitute for slippers; 3) when in desperate need to immediately warm the feet in a situation such as after surfing.
Female (and male) Homo sapiens seem to be under the impression that wearing the UGG label is a free pass to the height of fashion, regardless of any extraneous factors relating to general appearance. Currently, the most common form of UGG exhibition is found on Rahnus tofferani, often observed combining the UGG with Jack Wills or Abercrombie and Fitch, pyjama type attire, giving the impression of just rolling out of bed. Females of this subspecies frequently wear the UGG with a short denim skirt and orange legs, with the hope of attracting a mate.
Usually there is a direct increase in the quality of an item with the amount of money you pay: if I splashed out on a beautiful Channel bag or Michael Korr’s watch, I’d be proud to flash it around day in day out; but in my opinion the UGG is an exception to this rule - just because they’re expensive doesn’t mean you look good in them.
But don’t get me wrong, I agree that thick winter boots can look extremely cute when paired with a decent chunky knit scarf or woollen jumper; looking to the winter trends of 2010 and further back, a nice fur boot (faux of course) can be the perfect accessory to an alpine inspired outfit, you only have to look at D&Gs winter collection from 2010 to appreciate the advantages of being cosy calve-down; but it is not the design of a winter boot which I have qualms with – it’s the mental attitude that seems to be associated with the UGG; “I’m wearing UGG boots, therefore I look good”.
Winter boots at D&Gs AW 2010 collection
I’m hoping that Darwin’s theory will apply to the UGG boot and it will be bred out by natural selection: perhaps UGG wearers will experience a higher chance of tripping and falling over their clumsy feet and so sustain head injuries beyond repair; perhaps they will have greater trouble in running when necessary and so get hit by cars and other fast moving objects  or perhaps they will get infections in their feet which are never exposed to fresh air and so die of gangrene – whichever way they may be competed out of existence by better designed foot wear, I hope that the generations of fashion trends to come will cause this viral abomination to become extinct. The UGG boot can UGG off.

Thursday 14 April 2011

Un día de campo en el sol



I have an irrationally deep love for cherry blossom. I know it’s slightly sad, but it actually makes me feel physically happy inside around this time of year when the flowers bloom on the trees around the town. I remember walking back from infant school on spring afternoons and jumping up to grab handfuls of the soft, pink clumps like snowballs of petals, putting it in my hair, in a vase, or any receptacle that I felt needed decorating with the stuff (which was most things).




Housemate enjoying wine and strawberries
I don’t care who I marry or where, as long as I can have my wedding photographs underneath a cherry blossom tree on a windy day. They are JUST SO PRETTY. I know that sentence is sickeningly girly, and I’m almost ashamed of the girlish glee with which I celebrate the coming of the cherry blossom - but not quite, because I just absolutely love it. So it gives me enormous pleasure to spend an April day in Bute Park in Cardiff having a picnic when the cherry blossom trees are displayed in all their glory. This weekend, my housemate and I packed a picnic in a recently acquired travelling case which we found at the car boot, laden with wine, strawberries, salad and various things to dip in other various yummy things and went and sat on a blanket in the park for the afternoon. At this point in time, if I were a SIM, my happiness bar would be full green. I don’t care if I looked pretentious with my premade olive and feta salad in a Tupperware box, sipping chilled iced wine from a glass trying to learn Spanish from a book whilst dressed in maxi skirt and dangly earrings – I was inextricably happy.

If you go down to Bessemmer Road today, you’re sure of a big surprise…



 Today I had a small, but enlightening adventure, which opened my eyes to the world of the car boot sale. My housemate and I awoke in the early hours of a Sunday morning (early hours being anything pre-8.00) to prepare for the trip, and as I haven’t frequented a car boot sale since I was small enough to not really remember it now; I was fairly excited at the prospect as I dressed for the morning ahead.By the power of Sat-Nav, we successfully navigated our way through Cardiff to Bessemmer Road in Canton (historically, the site of the largest and most significant trading market in the South Wales area) where we parked up and followed the steady stream of people and cars that were siphoning into a large fenced-off car park on an industrial estate.


 After stomachs were filled with a greasy bacon and egg bap from a burger van, we felt revived and energised enough to explore the maze of tables like bargain hungry Pacmen. The amount of trinkets, goods and junk available was more than Aladdin’s cave could pack in, with market stalls selling discounted cleaning products; families doing a spring clear-out; a middle-aged man getting rid of his 80s racing car calendar collection; to an old man with an array of war memorabilia and brass buttons – the car boot is truly as much of a modern day museum as any real one.
A grey haired butcher shouted out the prices of his thick steaks over a wireless microphone like a race-course commentator, a furniture salesmen gave us his business card after excitedly telling us about his various antique finds, we haggled over vintage leather bags, jewellery and clothes, and browsed the hand-written messages in beautiful italics in the front of children’s books from pre-1950.
 There was a completely eclectic mix of people of all ages and backgrounds coming together for the common purpose of bargain hunting; and I absolutely loved it. There was a middle aged blonde lady who, by the looks of it, was clearing out her wardrobe of Wallis and Monsoon (I’d like to think during a mid-life crisis in which she would then purchase a Harley Davidson and become a hell’s granny); there was an Islamic lady in a delicate lilac headscarf bartering for a floral table cloth; there was a huge gentle looking Welshman with hands like dustbin lids selling old books, pipes and paintings; there was a little Arabic girl stuffing pink sticky candy floss into her mouth as she trailed after her mother and then there was my housemate and I dressed in our Sunday best methodically and meticulously searching through the hoards.

The morning produced some true diamonds in the rough, and after a few hours of thorough investigation we bought between us: a large glass jug, a piece of Wedgewood pottery; a travelling case; two dresses; a skirt; a pair of high waist men’s jeans; two bags (one real suede, one real, thick leather); a belt; a tribal print scarf; a jewellery box; two bracelets; an iron; a BBC Spanish language book from 1978 and a real leather wallet – all for under £40.
I have to say I am now a true car boot convert. If you have the patience to spend a couple of hours to really delve deep, sleeves rolled up, into the boxes and rails; to hack the mysterious body odour that drifts by periodically; and to haggle your way to a bargain – then I strongly suggest greeting a Sunday morning early and getting down to your local car boot – you never know what you might find.

Capital Castle


The other day, I discovered that thanks to John Crichton-Stuart, the 5th Marquess of Bute, the people of Cardiff have the pleasure of free entry to Cardiff Castle all year round. In 1947, he handed over Cardiff Castle and all its parklands to the people of Cardiff for them to treasure and enjoy; and treasure and enjoy I have done. As of the 1st of April this year, you can pop down to the originally Roman Castle with proof that you’re a Cardiff resident (we used our water bill), have your photo taken, and be given your ‘Castle Key’ in the form of an ID card. This permits you to three years of as many days out to the castle as you like, saving you £11.00 a visit. Happy days.

Cardiff Castle in the cherry blossom season
            The huge wooden and iron gates at the castle entrance open out to a large square lawn, surrounded by high walls. On entry, you can grab a hand-held audio guide which gives you all the information you could want about each part of the castle, without having to be stuck with a large Japanese group and a tour guide. Within this square is the Castle Keep, from which you can climb the 100 plus steep steps to the top and see out across the whole of Cardiff, from the bay back to the black mountains. Being a fan of Cardiff myself, this is really quite a sight, but for my friend who’s love for Cardiff borders on romantic obsession: it was enough for him to have to fight his erection. Then there’s the Manor House where the Bute family members lived among other various inhabitants, which we wandered around admiring the architecture and interior design. For someone like me with an over active imagination, it’s easy to picture medieval festivals, family banquets and possibly a lot of violence taking place within the castle walls. The imposing Clock Tower decorated with various astrological and religious symbols, reflects the eclectic mix of influences from across the ages from Roman, to Norman to Victorian and can be seen from almost anywhere in the city centre. The castle also catered for my obsession with museums, with its own military museum which tells the stories of Welsh soldiers throughout the ages, with original uniforms, letters from home, flags, weapons and a stuffed goat (the mascot of the Welsh army).
Without sounding like a tourist rep; on a sunny day it really is (as they say in Cardiff) a lush day out. Cheers John Crichton-Stuart, the 5th Marquess of Bute.

Various creatures painted on the walls of the Banquet Hall

Longing for Laura

Late last year I was fortunate enough to experience first-hand the enchanting voice of Laura Marling live on stage.  ‘Girl crush’ doesn’t even begin to cover it; this woman is simply one of the loveliest human beings ever created. After first hearing her sing New Romantic live with Jules Holland in 2007 I was immediately compelled to buy her album Alas I Cannot Swim and this year I Speak Because I Can which I have since happily listened to on repeat too many times to count. She is the most captivating creature I’ve ever come across, from her enigmatically melancholic lyrics; to her cigarette-laced, beautifully velvet voice; to her thoughtful eyes hidden beneath her mess of baby blonde hair.
It transpired that I had to see her alone after confusion with friends’ tickets, so when it came to the day of the gig I was a little apprehensive about spending an evening leaning on a wall trying not to look like a loner with no one to comment on the performance to. But after a pint of cider and a sprightly folk/jazz support band called The Pins had passed an hour or so of my time, Laura came to the stage, and any fears of feeling like an awkward lemon melted away. She apologised for her croaky voice which she said was the result of a nasty bug, and warned us all that her show may not be up to scratch - but although when speaking she sounded like she’d just had her tonsils out; as soon as she began to sing it was clear that she was as stunning as ever, and the hoarse edge to her voice only enhanced the performance.

As she sang, a girl next to me swayed in her boyfriend’s arms with a gentle smile of ecstasy on her face and her eyes closed; this reflected the feeling in the room pretty well, as Laura plucked and strummed away and sang us all into a state of elation. Songs were broken up by interludes in which she chatted to us with quick wit and humble comments, a particularly endearing question was “What is a good traditional Welsh dish that I can try and take home for my Mum?”. If you are ever lucky enough to be in a town where she is playing, get to the gig, because even if you have to stand awkwardly alone; she is absolutely worth it.