Rumbling in La Rambla

A Saturday morning in Barcelona. Early spring sunshine has brought out the crowds in the Placa de Catalunya and there are long queues for the tourist buses. So we (Mrs Rumbling Nappa and I) decide to walk a bit. Up the Passeig de Gracia to Gaudi's extraordinary Casa Batllo and then through quiet commercial and residential streets, heading for the mind-blowing La Sagrada Familia (above).

Our perfect Gaudi-filled morning is briefly interrupted by an errant cup of milky coffee which appears to have been thrown absent-mindedly from a window above us. It has plastered our clothing and has stained the Rumbling Nappa's new pair of trousers in a way that might suggest rampant incontinence. Fortunately help is at hand. A kindly local steps out of a doorway and offers assistance. The gentleman ushers us into the foyer of the building and produces bottled water and paper napkins. He even helps with the removal of some of the stains on our backs and clothing before hurrying off, having asked us to ensure that the soiled napkins and empty water bottle are placed in the recycling bins outside the building.

Having cleaned ourselves up it is onward to La Sagrada where we rejoin the tourist hordes. Then we return by metro to our hotel on La Rambla, stopping briefly to inspect the extraodinary street theatre that is an essential part of that world-famous street.

Hair washed and trousers changed it is back on the tourist trail. Indeed it is mid-afternoon before the Rambling Nappa reaches for his wallet (securely chained to his belt as a precaution against pickpockets), only to find that his wad of euro notes (some two hundred pounds in value) has been carefully extracted.

It takes a while to figure out how the money had been removed from inside the wallet. The moral of the story is that if you visit Barcelona, just be on your guard if you are splashed by an errant cup of coffee. The kindly gentleman helping you to clear up the mess might just be working to a different agenda.

Enduropale 2011

Like P. G. Wodehouse, who was a resident after World War II, I very much like Le Touquet Paris Plage, the chic and slightly quirky French seaside resort south of Boulogne. Unlike their British counterparts the Le Touquet authorities do everything imaginable to try and keep the resort active throughout the year. Their Christmas lights and decorations are exceptionally good; fireworks on the seafront greet the New Year, and every week there are cultural and sporting events to keep residents and visitors occupied.

This weekend, the last in January, is both one of the coldest and one of the busiest of the entire year. Over 300,000 visitors are expected for the 6th "Enduro" motorcycle event. The concept for this huge gathering that uses the beach and extensive sand dunes as a race circuit was the brainchild of Thierry Sabine who in 1975 worked in Le Touquet's town hall. Sabine later co-founded the International Paris-Dakar Rally before being killed in a tragic helicopter accident in 1986.

For Enduropale 2011 over one hundred competitors will race for the "jeunesse" category (13-17 year-olds); seven hundred quadbikes have a separate contest; and one thousand motorbikes from all over Europe (the maximum allowed) vie for the "Enduro" championship. The main track is over seventeen kilometres long and stretches from Le Touquet to the neighbouring town of Merlimont. It is literally bulldozed out of the sand and incorporates jumps and steep hill-climbs alongside long straight sections.

Additionally there are major corporate exhibitors and product demonstrations, including major displays by Pirelli and Ducati; there is a funfair and giant TV screens in the centre of town show the action from the track. The bars, shops, hotels and restaurants expect huge business.

Sad that Walton-on-the Naze hasn't quite got the vision!

Extreme Cooking 1: The Monster Egg

Although Christmas is officially over I am still eating far too much. The fridge abounds with left-over brussel sprouts, mince pies, Christmas pudding and fine cheeses. There’s still a decanter of port to be polished off and for some reason or other our cupboards abound with chocolate things and cheese nibbles.

Even so our eating habits don’t seem as extreme as those of our forebears. I have been browsing an ancient copy of Kettner’s Book of the Table which was published in the 1870s and feel that the time is right to recreate the Monster Egg:

Break a dozen or two of eggs, separating the whites and the yolks. Tie up the yolks in a pig’s bladder, boil them hard, and take them out again. In a still larger bladder place the whites; into the midst of this put the yolk; tie up the bladder tight; and boil the whole until the white hardens. Uncover the Monster Egg, and serve it on a bed of spinach...

In case one’s guests get over-curious you might suggest that it is a very small egg laid by a Madagascan aepyornis. This ostrich-like bird (now extinct) measured three metres in height and weighed in at half a ton. A single aepyornis egg would have been equivalent to more than twelve dozen hens’ eggs.

Ships of the Desert

Trust us to be jocked off our flight to Dubai last Thursday evening . Virgin Atlantic had decided to downsize their plane at the last minute and there were no other direct flights available with spare seats. Our quick weekend break to see the grandchildren and sort out some Christmas gifts looked as if it would be shortened by at least 24 hours.

After an abortive attempt to force our way on to an already overbooked Oman Air flight to Muscat, we found ourselves at 3.00am UK time waiting and waiting at Cairo airport for an Egypt Air connecting flight to Dubai. When at last the flight was called there was no 'boarding by seat numbers'. Instead someone blew on a referee's whistle and a stampede ensued - somewhat to the dismay of the various wheelchair passengers who had been left close to the departure doors.

Eventually (and only seven or so hours late) we made it to sun-soaked Dubai and witnessed Santa Claus riding on a camel. Indeed the Rumbling Nappa had to watch his footwork to avoid treading in some camel poo.

The poor camel population is having trouble in the Dubai desert. The problem is that too much litter is being left all over the place and there is nothing that a camel enjoys more than snuffling about in rubbish bins. Sadly something like 50 per cent of camel fatalities are now directly caused by garbage, particularly plastic carrier bags (which cause suffocation). Old tyres, tin cans and bottles also cause digestive problems for the poor creatures. Fortunately our hotel comes complete with a Gordon Ramsay restaurant so we shouldn't suffer too much.

Dog Soup

I am a bit mystified by Belgium and the Belgian people. It’s not that I’m totally dismissive of them (like Jeremy Clarkson), I simply cannot get my mind round them.

Why, for instance, do they have to speak in about six languages?

The man in the petrol station at Knokke-Heist last Friday morning greeted me with a torrent of Flemish, or it might have been Walloon, or Dutch even. I guessed that he was saying

“Brrr! Bloody chilly for the time of year, isn’t it? It’ll probably snow later. Is that pump number 4 you are paying for? That’ll be fifty euros. And can I interest you in our special offer on Belgian truffles?”

I replied confidently with a torrent of English.

“Yup, bloody cold. I hope you take Mastercard and, by the way, you can stuff the truffles”

Rather to my surprise the man was happy with this response and continued to address me at length in whatever language he was speaking.

Stopping later at a motorway service area I spotted Dag Soep chalked on a menu board. Visions of Bull Terrier Bisque (Korean-style) came instantly to mind and I decided not to risk it. Later I learned that this translates from whatever language as ‘Soup of the Day’, but I suspect that it would probably still consist of some form of canine consommé.

Another Belgian slogan on which I had to seek guidance was written large on hundreds of roadside posters. “I Love Bob” it reads and I reckon that the language is English. I later discovered that the “I Love Bob” campaign is a national drink-drive awareness thing – Bob being the person who sips tea and coffee while his mates get sloshed, and then drives everyone home. The Belgians also have a volunteer group whereby a bar can summon a man on a bike who will come round to the bar, take the car keys from the person who is too inebriated to drive, and chauffeur him home in his own car (free of charge). The choice of the English language for the Belgian national campaign was so that all the Belgians (the French speakers, Walloon speakers, Flemish speakers, etc.) could understand it.

Oh well, English may be the second language of Belgium, but I wish that the words “Thank You” didn’t translate into Flemish as “Dank U”. As is the case with the French word “Merci” it is generally understood to mean “Thank You, but No” as I discovered to my displeasure when a waitress offered to refill my wine glass. “Thank You” I replied smiling expectantly. But the waitress just walked away.

Anyhow the man at the petrol station was correct and it snowed and snowed that night. Saturday morning was spent shovelling the stuff off my car. It was cold enough to make me reconsider my concern about dog soup.

Money Trouble

Silly me. For years on end I have no cash problems at all, and then three times in a single day! The main problem was my not being fully appreciative of the fantastic four, Elizabeth Fry, Charles Darwin, Adam Smith and Sir John Houblon. In my shopkeeping days I knew the fantastic four by heart, but then they were the George Stephenson, Charles Dickens, Michael Faraday and Sir Christopher Wren.

First off was a dirty look from the checkout girl at Morrisons. “This five pound note doesn’t look right” she said looking suspiciously at the picture of the George Stephenson. But she relented and tucked the offending fiver (withdrawn from circulation in November 2003) into her till.

Minutes later the wife and I were in the supermarket car park. She kindly went off to return the trolley and retrieve my pound coin. “This one’s dodgy” she said, examining the edge of the coin and taking a bite at the metal. “Definitely a forgery” she continued.

Back at home I retreated to the local cafe with the Daily Telegraph for a remedial cup of tea and a sandwich. “Can’t take that!” announced the lady at the till (rather loudly) as she examined the ten pound note I had proffered. “It’s an Elgar”. Regretfully I remembered that the ten pound note featuring Sir Edward Elgar was withdrawn in June of this year and only Adam Smith counts for real. Ouch!

Anyway I am now a wiser man. I’ve even learned to identify Sir John Houblon (above), the first governor of the Bank of England. Not that I ever get to see fifty pound notes (on which his portrait appears) in real life.

All noise but no fragrance

This week my political canvassing activities have stepped up a gear and, having experienced a mass-canvas in Waterlooville (where a dozen or more clipboard people assemble at a given point and doorstep an entire neighbourhood), I am now allowed to go flying solo. Me and my clipboard are given designated streets to canvas without the backup of the more experienced old timers.

As I go from door to door I seem to be gathering a whole gallery full of English peculiars. The worrying sign outside one house that reads 'Forget about the dog, BEWARE OF THE OWNER'; la dame en deshabille; the howling of assorted birds and animals when the doorbell is rung; a curious old lady who, when I asked how she was likely to vote, told me that she would vote for the party with the highest morals and which was closest to Jesus: "You know who I mean!" she said, fixing me with an ice-cold stare. I nodded sagely and marked her as "Undecided".

The odd thing about canvassing is how affable people are when you go knocking on their doors on dark, rainy evenings. Certainly there are some who simply refuse to answer. You know that they are there, you can see the glow of a television, the car still warm in the driveway, but no-one answers my call. But most households do respond and, even if they have different political views, they listen politely to my rumblings and appear to pay polite attention. I'm sure that, as an angry old door-slammer, I have something to learn from this. Next time someone knocks at my house I'll pay a lot of attention and even give the canvasser marks for style, content and artistic impression.

All this aside, I noted in today's newspaper the story about the prisoner in a Swedish jail who uses flatulence as a means of protesting about his prison sentence. When reprimanded about his unsavoury habit, he replied that it was "all noise but no fragrance". A bit like politics I suppose.