Shutdown in Washington DC

Today the streets of Washington DC are quiet. Temporary metal fences have been pulled across the entrances to museums and monuments and hastily laminated signs hang at an angle: “Because of the federal government shutdown, this facility is closed.” With all but the most essential US government staff sent home, attractions across the city (and the country) have had to close their doors to visitors.

The majority of Washington’s museums are operated by the Smithsonian Institution, a government-run organisation. On a normal day this is good news – it means the museums are free. But today it is bad news – because every last one of them is closed. Want to visit the National Museum of American History? You can’t. Want to see the Declaration of Independence? Tough. Want to pay your respects to World War II veterans? Sorry.

Today, walking along the Mall, heart of the world’s largest museum complex, is like exploring a film set. Apart from the odd lone jogger, there isn’t a person in sight. Leaves tumble along empty pavements and even the refreshment kiosks are closed.

I head instead to 9^th Street and take a seat at the counter of Lincoln’s Waffle Shop. The FordTheater across the street (where Lincoln was shot) has closed its doors and disappointed tourists who haven’t yet heard the news wander up and then away again. People stop to take pictures of the signs on their mobile phones. Even the waffle house is quieter than normal; though on the upside, with the markets running scared those waffles are slightly cheaper than they were a few days ago.

But all is not lost. The solution for visitors lies just a few steps away, at the International SpyMuseum, and in the Newseum. These privately operated museums continue to open as normal and there are plenty of them to explore. Visitors can also still enjoy the exteriors of the city’s buildings – the White House, the Capitol, the Washington Memorial. The architecture of these attractions is perhaps their most impressive feature anyway – and that is one thing that cannot be shutdown. 

New Miner's Route at Wieliczka Salt Mine

“Room for one more” I am told as I am gently nudged into what looks to me like an already-full-to-capacity lift. The doors are pulled across behind me with much scraping of metal and we move up – by about five metres.

This will happen twice more before we can finally descend the 57 metres into Wieliczka salt mine. This is so that we can load more people into the lift’s other levels, packing us in quite literally on top of each other. It is hot, cramped and uncomfortable – I feel like I am getting an insight into the life of a miner already, just a few minutes into my three-hour tour.

This is the new Miner’s Route, and it starts with this descent by lift down the oldest existing mine shaft to be found here, the Regis shaft. The lift is not completely enclosed and so I watch the shaft’s walls rushing past as we descend at a speed of four metres a second. By the time we reach the bottom, just 15 seconds later, I am completely disorientated – and very glad of our guide.

He leads us along tunnels only just tall enough to avoid bashing our hard hats on the ceilings and points out the wooden beams holding it all in place. At various points on the walls and particularly in the joints of the wood we see cauliflower-like deposits of salt – it feels like salt is seeping out of every one of the earth’s pores here.

But the most remarkable thing is the size of the tunnel network. Just 1% of the mine is open to visitors and yet we walk for hours, clambering up ladders and marching down endless flights of stairs. There is chamber after chamber to explore. We see the remnants of the so-called “Hungarian dog” transport system, a simple wooden cart pulled along runners in the ground, and are taught everything from how to measure the methane levels in the air to how to use a pickaxe to dislodge salt from the walls.

We really start to feel like the novice miners we have been cast as, trudging along in our grey boiler suits, and I must be doing something right because I am picked out to navigate our way back to the lift. I am handed a map of the mine and that feeling of disorientation immediately returns, there are tunnels in every direction, looping off and circling back on several different levels. I turn the map this way and that and eventually identify a couple of landmarks. A few minutes later we arrive at our final destination – a modern lift back up and out into the sunlight.

We have reached a depth of 101 metres but there are still hundreds of metres below us, not to mention another 240-odd kilometres of tunnels we haven’t even set foot in. This is a truly vast mine. We may have hacked off a chunk of it with a pickaxe on this tour, but we have barely scratched the surface.

Wieliczka Salt Mine is located just outside Krakow, in the south of Poland. The Miner’s Route tour costs 76 zloty (about £15)

The Edinburgh Festival

Colourful flyers are being thrust at me from all directions. My phone is beeping with a reminder that it is time to see a show (what I have no idea). I have a sandwich in one hand, a bottle of water in the other and frankly, my feet hurt. I am standing – not even walking now – on the Royal Mile and I am going to have to admit that I am lost. This is the Edinburgh Festival and it has completely overwhelmed me.

I am not easily overwhelmed. I deal well with the frenetic, am not afraid of choice and tend to operate at a pace few others can keep up with. But it turns out that the festival is not something to “keep up with”. Grand plans to see everything, stick to a schedule, attend every recommended show, all go out of the window as soon as you step out of your hotel – and don’t even think about picking up that phonebook-thick programme.  

There is just so, so much of it. Because this is not just one festival, but a collection of several. My main focus is the Festival Fringe but zoning in on this does not narrow things down – because the Fringe is the largest arts festival in the world. There is music, comedy, theatre, cabaret, dance and everything in between. There are hundreds of venues, thousands of performers and what feels like millions of spectators.

Time to calm down. I step off the street into a basement where a comedy show is promising free cake. And suddenly I get it – I need to let the festival take control. So that’s exactly what I do. I stay on for the next show, partly because it is half price as I’m already here, and partly because it sounds fun. I duck into random shows when it starts to rain, choose what to see based on being in the right place at the right time, and start talking to those flyer distributors. 

It is fabulous. I discover that the Book Festival on Charlotte Square is an excellent retreat from the melee and has great coffee. I sit knee to knee with strangers to hear Ben Champion’s hilarious Autocorrect song and am challenged to confront society’s prejudice of those with so-called “special needs” at Rai Lina’s Thpethial. I even find a love of Scottish folk music – complete with bagpipes, fiddle, guitar, flute and traditional dance – at Breabach’s fantastic Assembly Rooms show. 

No, I didn’t see everything I thought I would. And no, I didn’t end up seeing anything I actually took a flyer for. But I did see a man squeeze himself through a tennis racket – and I did have a fabulous time. I will definitely be back next year.

STAY:

Tune has small but perfectly formed budget rooms with double beds, power showers and fast wifi. Located opposite Haymarket station it is on a direct line into Waverley station and is just 20 minutes walk from the Royal Mile and Princes Street.

New and improved: Kensington Palace reopens

Kensington Palace used to hide behind hedges and trees, tucking itself away as if embarrassed to be hogging so much valuable central-London parkland. But not any more. As of today (March 26,2012) the palace reopens to the public after a £12 million renovation, proudly announcing itself with a grand new entrance. There’s no missing this royal home now, its 17th-century, red-brick frontage is clearly visible across sharply cut lawns and wide expanses of welcoming pathway.

And it’s all change inside too. The palace is now divided into four separate “routes”, each one focused on a different part of the building’s royal history.
Take the King’s route and you’ll find yourself climbing the magnificent Kings staircase to enter the state apartments. Many of the rooms seen here were used for entertaining, and performance company Coney – who have been integral to the palace’s redevelopment – have designed a game for visitors to see if they can make their way through court and reach the King. This taps into the social climbing scene of Georgian London and is designed to help visitors to understand the stories the Palace has been the backdrop to over the years – although it is rendered somewhat unnecessary by the sheer grandeur of the rooms themselves, which had me goggle-eyed as I craned by neck to view the intricate ceilings.

The Queen’s route features even more of Coney’s interactive, installation-style interpretation and at times this feels a little laboured. Again the rooms themselves have much of interest to offer, and the interactive approach can become a little tiresome. There are whispering columns all over the place and visitors simply seeking a seat can find themselves jumping up again in surprise as disembodied voices take their ear.

Some of the additions are poignant though, with the dining room a particularly emotive spot. Here Coney have introduced 18 little wooden chairs, each one representing one of Queen Anne’s lost children. It is difficult to see this forest of tiny seats and not feel the impact of this one family’s neverending loss and it is this personal approach to the royal family that is sure to have visitors enthralled.

Each of the four routes leads back to the Hub, where you’ll find a luminous lace sculpture by Loop.pH, which for me was reminiscent of the redesigned Kings Cross. This does not detract from its beauty though and it’s easy to see how this web of light has improved this incredibly dark central space.

From here the Victoria route leads into the Victoria Revealed exhibition which continues the palace’s new personal theme by attempting to uncover the life of Victoria and show her as being more than the large, scowling woman so many people think of her as. Each room has a theme and the one dedicated to her relationship with Albert is particularly moving, with quotes from love letters they wrote emblazoned on everything from the walls to the carpet. Her stunning ivory wedding dress is on display here too – the first time it has been for over a decade.

Further rooms show her childhood toys, her attitude to her work and the impact of her grief when her mother and Albert died in quick succession. Artefacts on display include a teething ring from the royal nursery, sketches Victoria and Albert made of each other during their first year of marriage and Victoria’s set of watercolours, all of which add up to create a picture of the monarch’s daily life.

Perhaps the most striking room however remains the Red Saloon, where the 18-year-old Queen held her very first Privy Council. The room has been painstakingly and beautifully restored and evocative details such as moving shadows on the walls and yet more quotes scrawled on the (reproduction) table bring the gravity of this location home.

The final route is, inevitably, Diana, and leads into a display of five of her dresses, three of which have never been displayed in the UK before. It is a small collection but anyone interested in fashion will appreciate the importance and elegance of these dresses, and fans of the Princess are sure to flock here for a close-up look at some of her most well-known outfits. The fact that this area is self-contained also means that there’s no need to wait until the end of the tour if this is really what you’ve come to see.

And that is the beauty of the Palace’s new design. Not only is the whole place more immediately welcoming thanks to its new entrance, it is also much more visitor friendly as you explore. Whoever you are interested in and whichever period in history you most want to explore there is something for you here. Just be careful where you sit!

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VITAL STATS
Adult tickets cost £14.50 or £13.50 when booked in advance online. Children under 16 can visit for free. The gift shop and café can be visited without paying the entrance fee.

Real wizardry: the new Harry Potter London attraction

“You may never look at Quidditch the same way again.” This is Daniel Radcliffe’s (aka Harry Potter’s) parting shot as he and his on-screen classmates Rupert Grint (Ron Weasley) and Emma Watson (Hermione Granger) introduce visitors to the Making of Harry Potter studio tour.

This brand-new attraction in the outer reaches of London’s northwest claims to uncover the secrets of the most commercially successful film series ever produced. Nothing on display here has been specially created for the tour – a Universal theme park this is not.

But just because you won’t find thrill rides here doesn’t mean that there’s nothing thrilling to see – and the start of the tour has that air of theatricality we have all come to expect from the theme parks. After the short introductory film the cinema screen disappears to reveal the door to Hogwarts’ Great Hall and passing through these famous doors is genuinely dramatic. The set was one of the first to be completed, as well as one of the largest, and the actors hadn’t seen it until they began filming – meaning that Radcliffe’s jaw-drop expression in the Philosopher’s Stone is as real the solid York stone on the floor beneath your feet.

Around the hall you’ll find robes belonging to characters from each of the four houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin) and Harry Potter’s first ever set of robes are pointed out by staff and duly photographed by excitable fans. You can spend as much time in here as you like and any ardent fan is sure to find it hard to move on, imagining not only the scenes played out in here from the films but also the parties the cast and crew have held in here over the years.

It has to be said that the Great Hall is the high point of the tour, but that is not to suggest that the rest is not engaging – or, dare I say it, even magical. The sets on display include the Wesley’s “Burrow”, Dumbledore’s office, the Potions classroom and Hagrid’s hut, and you can see everything from the sorting hat to the door of Gringott’s vault. A display of wands shows clearly how each character was waving around an entirely different (and character-specific) wand and highlights the level of detail which runs throughout all of the films.

And that is what is most enthralling here. Seeing the sets and props of a much-loved film can often be something of a disappointment, as you discover unpainted plywood hiding in the corners and unfinished props meant to be seen only from one angle. But Harry Potter is different – everything created for these films was lovingly produced as if at any moment the whole place would come to life and a bunch of actual witches and wizards would require it all to be pressed into service. Some 17,000 wand boxes were individually crafted and handpainted for the scenes filmed in Ollivanders wand shop, yet only a couple were seen and even then only for a few seconds. They were then blown up by the special effects department (so can’t be seen here). In Dumbledore’s office there are 48 portraits on the walls, each one of which was painted twice, once with the character awake and once with them asleep, and switched over for night scenes accordingly.

Seeing the sets and props here means seeing them for longer than you will have done on-screen and this is one of the joys of a visit. In the Creature Shop you can see the Monster Book of Monsters snapping its fang-like teeth and wonder at the lifelike appearance of models of characters including Hagrid and Dobby the House Elf, while outside you can climb aboard the Knight Bus and sit in the flying Ford Anglia. In Diagon Alley you can gaze into the windows of Ollivanders and Wesleys Wizard Wheezes and through the magic of interactive touchscreens the interior sets area offers the chance to explore the Marauder’s Map.

Although at times the tour feels very museum-like, with displays featuring quotes from crew and information about production issues (such as the challenge of making the films before the books were even finished), this is also a family attraction and there is plenty for the kids to enjoy. At the Burrow a series of mounted wands can be used to control props inside the set so visitors can chop carrots or knit a scarf (although one of these was already broken when I visited), and there are passport stamps to collect and hidden snitches to find.

The tour’s most theme park-like component is the Disneyesque “Quidditch Photo Experience”, an opportunity to sit on a moving broomstick in Hogwarts robes and have your picture taken against a computer-generated backdrop. This is sure to attract those eager for a souvenir but at £12 a photo it smacks of money-making and, to me, felt like an unnecessary intrusion – especially when everything else here is marketed as “authentic”.

The tour ends on a high note though, with the final room being home to one of the film’s most impressive props – a model of Hogwarts castle. There is little that can prepare you for the truly stunning craftsmanship and the sheer amount of hard graft that has gone into creating this striking model and emotive piped-in music makes this an emotional experience for many a fan.

This is all the better to prepare you for the inevitable, the exit through the gift shop. But ignore the sweets that give little change from a tenner and Dumbledore’s £500 robes (yes, really) and spend your time in the wand room instead. Here you’ll find wand boxes printed with the names of every person involved in the films, from JK Rowling to the runner; a sight which really brings home just how much was involved in creating these much-loved films. And that’s the real magic.

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VITAL STATS
The Warner Bros. Studio Tour London – the Making of Harry Potter opens on March 31. Adult tickets cost £28, children’s tickets are £21 and under 5s go free. Audio guides cost £4.95 and are available in English and eight other languages. The nearest station is Watford Junction, from which shuttle buses depart every 30 minutes. Tickets cost £2 per person return.

Rain stops play

When travelling in the UK you expect to change course due to the weather. You pack umbrellas, waterproof trousers, endless coats. You plan for having to retreat indoors at short notice. And you simply assume that at some point it will rain.
Not so in Australia. Travelling here generally requires just a few casual outfits, a decent line in swimwear and lashings of sun cream. You expect to be warm, if not mind-bendingly hot, for the entirety of your trip, and my god, do you expect sunshine.

Yesterday at Uluru it was (at best) 20 degrees and raining. I left Sydney first thing on a flight that should have taken a little under three hours. Six and a half hours later, and after an aborted landing at Uluru and a brief diversion to Alice Springs where we sat on the tarmac and gazed glumly out of the windows, we finally landed at Ayers Rock airport.

I had missed my afternoon’s tour to Mount Connor, a place I will in all likelihood now never see. I had been basically in transit for three days. And I had a hangover. It is fair to say that my mood was not a sunny one.

But then I realised something. I was going to see Uluru in a light that people rarely do. Every picture I’ve ever seen of the sandstone monolith has shown it bathed in sunlight, and emanating the beautiful red glow we all think is a constant feature of the outback. But every so often – and just for a day or two – the rock is clad in swirling grey clouds. Yesterday Uluru appeared and disappeared on the horizon like a mysterious spaceship. I would look out of my hotel room window to see it brooding under a blanket of swirling mist, turn my attention away for a minute or two, and turn back to see just a corner of the rock peering out moodily from behind a darkening fug. I also saw rain like I’ve never experienced anywhere else, pouring out of the sky like marbles and thundering onto every surface with a noise I kept thinking must surely be thunder. I felt marooned in my hotel room and went to bed so early it was practically still light.

But I am lucky – I can come back. My itinerary has been changed and today I fly up to Darwin. Yes, it means I’ll take 12 flights in as many days and yes, I’m exhausted and just a little fed up. But so many of the people who will share my flight out of here today have missed what they thought they came to see. They may appreciate having seen an iconic place in a different light, but they are more likely desperately disappointed that the sunset was obscured by apocalyptic rain, the usually dazzling night sky blotted out by endless cloud cover.

We have seen, yet again, that mother nature is always and unfailingly in control. Travel plans will shift thanks to unexpected rain, an ill wind or sudden changes in temperature, the weather will unpick the very best laid plans – and even in Australia you might just need an umbrella.

Bistro du Vin comes to the West End

Is there anything in life better than a well-cooked steak? For me it is the pinnacle of foodie achievement and I make it my business to check out the choice cuts on each and every menu I find myself in possession of.

Which brings me to Bistro du Vin, Soho. The latest outpost from the popular Hotel du Vin group is only the second to open in London (the first was in Clerkenwell) and is a welcome addition to the West End’s food scene for anyone who enjoys fine but unfussy food washed down with something grape.

The atmosphere here is buzzy and unpretentious with the sort of décor I like to think of as stylish-rustic: plenty of wood paneling, neutral coffee-palette tones and simple modern lighting. Service is informal; you won’t find hushed tones and nose-in-the-air waiters here, instead you’ll get attentive, friendly staff and help with the book-length wine list.

Having visited the du Vins numerous times I knew I wanted steak and built my dinner around this, asking sommelier Romain for something to match the fillet. He suggested the Domaine de Fondrèche Fayard 2009, a meaty blend of Grenache, syrah, Mourvèdre and Carignan, which went tooth-smackingly well with the beef and is something I would almost certainly not have chosen myself (I’m a new world aficionado, it has to be said).

I started with the artisan cheese and charcuterie plate which was almost impossible to resist after a quick nose around the Cave au Fromage: a climate-controlled cheese room stacked with more varieties of artisan cheese than your average delicatessen. Served on a wooden board this was the perfect, light choice for pre-steak sustenance, leaving me ready for the hunk of beef to follow.

As ever, the steak was cooked to perfection and as juicy and melt-in-the-mouth as rare fillet should be. The chips were just the right side of salty and the sides I ordered rendered unnecessary by the sheer size of the portions.

I had just enough room to finish with more cheese, allowing me the chance to try even more varieties from the fabulous cave.

Enfield riots: the aftermath

Last night, Enfield was trending on Twitter.

As people across the globe wondered why and struggled to place us on a map, I sat in my living room, just metres away from hundreds of criminals smashing up my home town and attacking the police sent to protect it. I slept to the sound of helicopter rotors and riot van sirens.

This morning I woke to a sinking feeling and an itch to get out there and survey the damage as yet more sirens blared. This is what I saw.

Heavy traffic on Windmill Hill and Chase Side as Church Street remains closed to all vehicles

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At least seven riot vans remain in Enfield town and Church Street is closed to cars and pedestrians. One policeman said: "we can't let you through. There's broken glass and blood all along here."

This is as close as onlookers can get to the now infamous HMV store on Church Street, epicentre of last night's looting.

Most shops and businesses on Church Street are closed today. One onlooker said: "it's eerie. Like a film set."

But some businesses remain open, including local cafe Papadelli and KFC. Many are full of local people discussing the riots in disbelief. Most just want to go about their daily business, but can't.

Local residents congregate around the police lines and there's a palpable sense of shock. "Nothing like this ever happens here", said one long-time Enfield resident. Behind us a gate slammed shut. Everybody jumped.

The Post Office is closed, along with most businesses between Nationwide and Barclays bank on Church Street. Local people gather nearby with envelopes and paperwork. "I can't get to the bank" one elderly lady said to me in exasperation.

The burnt out car on Little Park Gardens is still attracting attention but is a lone testament to the destruction. No other non-police cars appear to have been damaged.

A burnt-out wheelie bin in the marketplace. No other fire damage is evident in town.

The shopping precinct will be closed all day. One angry would-be shopper said: "that's £1.20 in parking wasted then." Information is evidently still limited if people think they can shop here today.

Despite widely reported rumours Nando's was not damaged. One local teen said: "I knew they wouldn't have hit Nandos. Everybody needs Nandos, man."

Enfield is largely closed for business. One four-year-old said: "it's sad today, mummy, isn't it."

The jewellers which bore the brunt of the looting last night and the neighbouring betting shop are a sorry sight today.

Local department store Pearsons has one shattered window, but the displays inside are untouched. A damaged police car remains parked outside. Opposite, and to one local teen's relief: "Macdonald's is alright. They didn't get Macdonalds."

The job for Enfield's police is very different today from yesterday. This officer is being asked if the shops behind him are open. There's a real lack of understanding about the situation from some people.

The Kings Head in Enfield's marketplace is open for business, but was deserted apart from one lone drinker at the bar.

Meanwhile, across the street, people gather in the window seats of pub The George to keep an eye on what's going on in town. Nothing much is, but the sense of community is strong. People are keen to talk to one another today and I have numerous unprovoked conversations.

Trains from Enfield Town station are said to be running to a normal schedule, although earlier this morning no services were running, forcing local commuters to use Enfield Chase station (which is unaffected) instead.

Colman Parade was particularly badly hit last night and some businesses remain closed today. This chemist was particularly badly damaged, as the owner remained inside.

Bar Ten on Silver Street (which is currently closed to all vehicles) is optimistic that tomorrow will be a better day. But with no repairs to broken windows currently underway, will it be any different from today?

The car park on Church Lane was looted for bricks last night and the abandoned weapons now litter the street.

Walls around town were broken down for bricks to use as weapons. One local resident said, with audible lump in throat: "it's all smashed up."

At least seven riot vans remain in Enfield this lunchtime and, at my guess, at least 100 police. Mostly they are giving directions and information to confused residents and visitors. But what will they be doing later? As the day goes on, this is a question running through many minds. Is it over yet?

A real sea change

I've always been scared of the sea. Not of flying over it, dipping a sandy flip flop in it or looking wistfully at it from restaurant terraces you understand, but being in it. Specifically being in it and in among all those slippery sea creatures and terrifying dark shapes which always turn out to be clumps of seaweed and not the imagined jellyfish/shark/seasnake.

Lunch at the Wishing Arch, near Portrush

So it may surprise you to learn that I loved sea kayaking. For the past two days I've been bobbing about on the ever-cold Atlantic Oceans off the coast of Northern Ireland in a plastic boat and when asked that immortal question journalists always get asked by the people hosting them – namely "did you enjoy it?" – for once I didn't have to smile painfully and lie.

Of course I do a lot of things for work that I wouldn't elect to do on my own travels – ice climbing, cycling, surfing in February – and, being someone who hates getting cold, wet and unattractive, often find my positive journalist self struggling against my lily-livered would-rather-curl-up-with-a-book self. But today was different. Today I discovered a love of the sea.

This is largely because, as it turns out, travelling by kayak is without doubt the best way to see the coast. And what a coast it is. The UK should be scream-from-the-rooftops proud of its diverse, endlessly fascinating and stunningly beautiful coastline. We have glorious sweeps of white sandy beach which are devoid of all human life (except possibly a guy with a kagoule and a metal detector). We have craggy inlets, cathedral-like caves and interesting geological oddities. We have castles perched on clifftops, harbours which have barely changed in centuries and salty stories aplenty about all of them. And yet we don't spend much time looking at it.

I for one have spent far more time looking away from our coastline and out to sea than I have turned around and looking at the cliffs, caves and beaches themselves. A sea kayak lets you do just that: its low clearance means you can glide over submerged rocks and sand banks a regular boat would run aground on; its diminutive size means you can squeeze into caves and along channels no other vessel could; and its solidness allows you to explore dangerous areas swimmers could never safely venture.

And boy did we venture. Over the past two days I've seen the secret escape channel from 13th-century Dunluce Castle, discovered that a simple rock can be all the colours of the rainbow in Dunkerry Cave, watched gannets dive and cormorants nest from just feet away and played hide and seek with a seal. I've seen the postcard-famous Giants Causeway from an angle most people never do, drifted under Carrick A Rede rope bridge as people walked gingerly above and been carried towards the shore by the too-dangerous-to-surf waves at White Park Bay. I've discovered a new way to travel – and it's fabulous.

Yes, my muscles ache more than a pint of the black stuff could make me forget. Yes, I got soaked through to my underwear, sat in a puddle of seawater and am still finding sea salt crystals in everything. And yes, the rain eventually did roll in. But I enjoyed every sodden minute of it – and for the first time in my life, I'm actually keen to get out on the water again. Even if there are slippery sea creatures involved.

Living like a local in Amsterdam

There's something about staying in an apartment that trumps a hotel every time. Like staying with a friend, or even living for a short while in a foreign city, booking a short-stay apartment allows you to feel like you belong. You step out of your own front door and it's as if you live there. There may be no fancy lobby or on-site swimming pool but what you lose in facilities you more than make up for in personality. Because apartments, although sparsely decorated, are never as homogeneous as hotel rooms. There's a kitchen, not a minibar; neighbours instead of a concierge and, in the case of this Amsterdam apartment, a fascinatingly vertiginous spiral staircase instead of a featureless lift.
 
Booked through Short Stay Apartments Amsterdam, our apartment at 36 Brouwersstraat in Amsterdam's funky Jordaan district was perfect for a short stay in the city. Had we wanted to cook we could have (it had not only a stove and microwave but also a dishwasher and proper coffeemaker) and the lounge area was spacious enough to loll around in on lazy afternoons - and far enough from the separate bedroom to feel like a proper living room. We found ourselves discussing where our stuff would go if we moved in, entertaining furniture fantasies and visualising dinner parties, and revelled in having a place to retreat to when the sightseeing got too much.

The location was perfect for us - near enough to a selection of inviting restaurants and bars, but far enough from the crazed bustle of the old centre. We could walk everywhere and were right in the heart of the action without having to be kept awake by it come nightfall. The bells of Posthoornkerk
marked the hours (which only became annoying when those hours were the early morning ones) and our view over the Brouwers canal meant minutes were whiled away watching boats float by and bikes meander past.

My only complaint about the apartment would be that the bathroom was small and not well-designed (the cord from tap to shower snaking across the bathtub was pretty poor), but this seemed a small price to pay for a home away from home in the heart of Amsterdam. Next time we visit, we won't be booking a hotel.

The Middle East for beginners

Unfortunately, all my knowledge about the Middle East has previously come from the news. Contentious cultural clashes in both the UK and across the Middle East, convoluted political relations between “us” and “them” and, most prolific of all, the threat of a conflict we are told is constantly looming.

But, of course, none of this even begins to help those of us living in Britain to get any grasp at all on a region made up of 20 or so different countries (depending on your definition of “Middle East”), each one with its own, often ancient, set of cultural values. For that, you have to visit.

I have just returned from my first trip to the Middle East, spending four days in Oman as part of the British Guild of Travel Writers’ AGM. It didn’t begin well – an overnight flight on which I didn’t sleep, a hotel which turned out to be almost two hours’ drive from capital city Muscat in the middle of (seemingly) nowhere, and far too many hours on a succession of coaches which dropped us off for five minutes here, ten minutes there.

Fortunately, one of those five-minute stop-offs was at the impressive Sultan’s Palace, the 1970s-style home of the Sultan of Oman, reached via a short walk along a wide avenue of impeccably gleaming white marble. From here we could see the beautiful old Portuguese forts bathed in yellow light on the hilltops surrounding us, while en route we had a 30-second leap from the coach to grab a picture of the skyline as a whole and a short pause at the souk to take in the frankincense scent and be tempted by pashminas and purses.

Slightly more time was spent at the Grand Mosque, Muscat’s crowning glory and a building more than worthy of this much-overused adjective. Covering my head with a scarf before being allowed to enter purely because I’m female did feel slightly wrong and I’m not sure any of us women were too pleased to see the stark contrast between the relatively plain women’s prayer hall and the riot of colour and overtly expensive furnishings that was the men’s, but all this was quickly forgotten as we soaked up the feel of this vast marble structure and gazed at the ten-tonne Swarovski crystal and gold chandelier. It really was impressive.

Perhaps more impressive was the chat with our guide, a Christian from the Ivory Coast, who told us how welcome he felt in Oman, and how free he was to worship his own faith. An interesting contrast would be to ask a Muslim resident of the UK how welcome they feel here – I wonder if the response would be as positive.

After two slightly fraught days of coach hopping in Muscat, the general feeling on leaving the Millennium hotel in Musannah on Thursday morning was one of relief. To be embarking on the very last long bus journey was to feel the weights lifted and a nap and another flight later a smaller group of ten of us arrived in Musandam, excited to be seeing another part of the country.

Musandam is separated from the rest of Oman by the United Arab Emirates and occupies the very tip of the Arabian Peninsula. Flying in, we could already appreciate the impressive geographical situation of the capital Khasab as sheer limestone cliffs closed in from either side and we landed amid towering peaks.

The main attraction here is the coastline, an intensely rugged landscape formed not by glaciation but by the movement of the Arabian tectonic plate under the Eurasian. We couldn’t wait to get out on the water to see it.

Happily this did not involve a long bus journey and by early afternoon we were bobbing towards the Khor Ash Sham on our beautifully painted dhow. Musandam Sea Adventure run trips from Khasab into the khor (similar to a fjord) to view the towering limestone cliffs and abundant local wildlife. Here the limestone is a mass of horizontal strata, packed together in their differing shades like the pages of a well-thumbed book. The lines run at angles, as if the cliffs have slumped to one side, and as the sun moves overhead a rainbow of colours running the gamut from ochre to russet can be seen in them.

If I sound like I’m romanticising, please indulge me. After hours of motorway driving and cramped legroom the chance to sprawl about on cushions as nature glides by in all its glory is akin to paradise. We all had soppy grins on our faces after the first few minutes and they were made all the wider when the local dolphin pod appeared to put on a show.

But not everyone has found this landscape so appealing. When a communication cable from India to Britain was laid through here in the 1860s and a telegraph station was built in the middle of the khor the men who manned it referred to being stationed here as “going round the bend”. This may or may not have led to the meaning of this phrase today but it is easy to see why being posted here would not have been top of anyone’s wish list.

After a scramble about on Telegraph Island we headed back to Khasab at some speed, told by our friendly guide Abdul that we had somewhere else to go. We weren’t expecting to see anything else and as we drove back into town many of us were yawning from the sea air. That is, before Abdul told us we were attending a wedding.

Nervous of how acceptable this would be, I felt unsure stepping from the minibus but Abdul sprang ahead through the crowd calling to us all to follow. We stood in the middle of a spectacle I never would have hoped to see, let alone be a part of, as people offered us drinks and children giggled delightedly as we smiled at them. The local men, most dressed in dishdasha (the long white robe which is the country’s traditional dress) formed two rows either side of a line of drummers, banging wooden sticks together in a manner bizarrely reminiscent of Morris dancing. Others stood around the edge filming on bang-up-to-date video cameras and mobile phones while a group of three men fired rifles into the air off to one side.

The women gathered in the house behind us, not mixing with the men at all. Fascinated by each other, we stared at them as they gazed back at us and after a few minutes Abdul told us we were invited in to sit with them (just the women). What followed was one of the most heartening experiences of my travelling life – they brought out fruit, drinks, a vast rice dish topped with goat. Despite the language barrier we communicated our names, made each other almost weep with laughter and were introduced to the mother of the groom. We shook hands with women wearing batoola (a metallic mask which covers part of the face), had sweets literally rained down upon us and chatted to an animated young girl who spoke good English about white wedding dresses – something both our cultures share.

I’ve been to dozens of different countries and have never had the good fortune to meet such welcoming, friendly people. Our experience in that lively house in Khasab couldn’t have been further from the images most often beamed from this region into our living rooms via the news. If only we could send every prejudiced Brit to follow in our footsteps – an encounter with these wonderful people could surely change the minds of even the staunchest bigot.

The best hotel in England?

In even the most beautiful, PR-slick of hotels, when you’re paying for nada and the drinks are free, it’s usually easy to find fault. Because, it would seem, most hoteliers don’t actually stay in their properties and, consequently, they forget to check that everything actually works. I’ve stayed in £300-a-night hotels where the socket for the kettle is in a place it’s impossible to access, where the bath takes (literally) an hour to fill, and where the TV doesn’t even have channel five, let alone digital.

Well, at Bovey Castle, the fault was obvious: the shelf in the shower was a full eighth of an inch too slanted so that the bottles of shower gel and shampoo slid…I can’t even keep up the pretence. My room (number 18) here is so obviously perfect that I literally can’t find a thing to complain about – which is, I hate to admit, a rare thing. Ummmmm… the maid who came to do the turndown service didn’t seem happy… it hardly seems important.

The room I’ve been given is amazing. Honestly. King bed, vast terrace with expansive views of Dartmoor, underfloor heating in the bathroom, double sinks, free-standing bath, a TV large enough for a cinema screening, a shower for two which could actually hold a barn dance, enough cupboard space to satisfy Cheryl Cole – there’s even a window seat for heaven’s sake. The toiletries are Elemis and the cups are Villeroy and Bosch. There’s a real fireplace and the décor is a pleasing shade of natural green, accentuated by oak furnishings. The swimming pool downstairs has kid-free hours, the spa offers signature rituals which involve hot stones and the restaurant has a plum soufflé to bring even the fussiest of guests begging back for more.

During the day, visitors can play 18 holes of immaculate golf on the octogenarian parkland course, practise their swing into the cricket nets, play tennis on the all-weather courts, take a guided walk on Dartmoor or learn the art of falconry with the wonderfully nonchalant Martin Whitley who brings out bird after bird of terrifying proportion and yet makes guests feel strangely at ease with these glorious yet deadly creatures.

I travel a lot and like to think I’ve seen it all, yet I can scarcely find words to convey how much I think of Bovey Castle. It’s British in the very best of ways, bringing patriotism out in the most traitorous of Englishmen. The Edwardian restaurant has a piano player outside to welcome you with tinkling ivories but maintains an informal, friendly atmosphere – it’s got a no denim policy but when I visit there are children in combats. There are formal-seeming lounges with puffed up sofas without the attitude to match for morning coffee and afternoon tea and the bistro serves up casual lunches to all and sundry with impeccable service but no airs and graces. There’s valet parking and porter service without the slavering, tip-expectant drool and a restaurant which pours the wine without the obsequious side order.

It’s wonderful – the kind of place you discuss bringing your partner back to and actually mean it, the sort of hotel you wish you’d chosen for your honeymoon. I can honestly say I’ve stayed at nowhere better and, believe me, that’s saying something.

A sauna and a sunset

I can’t decide if I like Broome or not. On the one hand it’s swelteringly humid and ridiculously spread out; but on the other (cocktail-holding) hand it does have some fabulous hotels – and I’m staying in one of them.

The grand dame of Broome accommodation is Cable Beach Club, a stunning resort within beachtowel swinging distance of the famous Cable Beach sands. The rooms and bungalows are dotted around what feels like a botanical gardens, all draping trees and exotic plants, and there are humpbacked wooden bridges over little lagoons to lead you from pool to spa, room to restaurant. It’s a wonderful place to spend the day and I’ve very much enjoyed taking in the last sunshine I’m likely to see for some weeks by the (adults only, hurrah) pool.

Unfortunately though, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind for my time here, nice as it is. I wanted to get to know the town better and maybe even get out into the surrounding bush but, as everyone keeps telling me, this is a bad time of year to be here. It comes as quite a shock after several weeks of high-season sunshine and busy resorts to suddenly find myself in low season, surrounded by closed up shops and restaurants and unable to join a tour because nothing is running. It’s like months have passed without my noticing. Numerous places are shut until next year, the hotels are quiet and the streets are near-deserted as everyone escapes indoors to avoid the unrelenting sauna-like heat.

So I’ve had to join them. I did venture into Chinatown where the touristy shops were open for business and the café terraces were full but now I don’t have a car it’s very difficult to get anywhere much else. I shared a taxi from the airport with a local guy who told me not to walk around alone at night and having been on the streets during the day it’s not hard to see why this is the local advice, so my evenings have been spent hotel-bound.

Fortunately this hotel has one of the town’s best restaurants, at least as far as setting is concerned. My dinner tonight was at the Sunset Grill, so-named because the terrace looks out towards Cable Beach and those famous ball-dropping sunsets. The food wasn’t the best I’ve had but the view certainly was and as I tucked into steak and local shiraz, I was able to watch the blazing sun disappear into the Indian Ocean. I may not have quite got to grips with Broome but could anywhere else have provided a better end to my Aussie adventure than that?

Snorkelling for beginners

I’ve always had what I consider to be a healthy respect for the sea. Others may call it a fear but I prefer to think of it as self-preservation. After all, why would you want to mess with something which can so easily kill you?

Just last week a British backpacker was swept out to sea on the south coast by a rip tide, never to be seen again. And yesterday the news featured a surfer who had lost her arm to a shark. Here the sea isn’t just a little bit scary, it’s bloody terrifying.

So it was with some trepidation that I arrived in Coral Bay on Friday. The coast from here north towards Exmouth is one of the few places in the world where the reef comes right up to the beach – and so snorkeling is practically compulsory. I had carried my trusty snorkel all the way from England pretty much for these next few days on Ningaloo Reef, and there was no way I wasn’t going to use it.

Thing is, there are signs everywhere (and I mean everywhere) telling you that snorkeling here is dangerous. There are offshore currents, rip tides, large waves, tiger sharks, sharp corals… I could go on. The advice from every corner is not to snorkel alone and never to attempt it if you’re not sure it’s safe. Of course I’m travelling solo and haven’t a clue about things like wave patterns and wind strength. I’m like a statistic just waiting to happen – last time I was here I freaked out my boyfriend by swimming too far out and of course, this time there was noone to stand on the beach scanning the horizon for me when I didn’t come back to shore.

But dammit, this is a sight worth a little risk to see. Ningaloo Reef is truly spectacular – miles and miles of multi-coloured ancient coral harbouring thousands of tropical fish, turtles, rays, and yep, sharks, all just a couple of minutes swim time from the sand. I saw more types of coral than I knew existed just on that first swim and spent many happy minutes mindlessly following shoals of shimmering fish around the reef. Of course every couple of minutes I’d have a little panic and stick my head up to check land was still ahoy but I’m writing this so you already know that I didn’t get eaten by a shark/taken to Indonesia by a freak wave/speared by a stingray – and it was fabulous.

The next day was even better. Cape Range national park reaches south from Exmouth, a string of jaw-dropping beaches with sand so white it almost looks like snow and water so turquoise you take your sunglasses off because you can’t believe it really is that colour. I swam at the aptly named Turquoise Bay, perhaps the most idyllic spot I’ve ever had the luck to visit and saw what felt like thousands of fish from tiny to half my size and even a sting ray. I won’t pretend my mind didn’t float straight to images of Steve Irwin but I didn’t panic this time and by the time I got back to the car several hours appeared to have passed.

Yesterday was my final day on the reef so I took a trip with Ningaloo Ecology Tours on a glass-bottomed boat so I could get further out and see the really impressive corals. And my god, but they were impressive. Huge lumps called bombies came so close to the boat I would have feared we’d hit them if it wasn’t for the self-assured skipper Alek, and we saw every tiny detail of these centuries-old living marvels. There were literally thousands of fish – striped ones, iridescent ones, electric blue ones, silver ones, all with names instantly forgotten because I was too wowed to get out my notebook.

It was amazing but even better was the snorkel we did here. All fear now gone I was one of the first in the water, battling the strengthening waves as the wind got up to swim within a couple of inches of every type of coral you can imagine and follow fish from one crevice to the next. The fish out here were bigger and the reef stretched for seemingly miles away from me in every direction. I swam until my flippers pinched and my skin shriveled but not once did I even think about those ever-present sharks. Until, that is, it came time to head back to the boat. Many of my fellow snorkelers were Aussies and, of course, they all had that typically laissez faire attitude to all things deadly. Floating just a few metres from the boat, one of them, Will, looked at me excitedly and said “wow, did you see that reef shark?” Despite the blazing sun and snorkel mask I, no doubt, went white and replied “No, where was it?” “Right underneath you mate”, he replied “it was huge”. He held his hands about four feet apart and grinned before he was off again. I like to think I acted cool, and I was actually sorry not to see it, but I also reckon not many people have climbed back on that boat quite as quickly.

On our way back to shore Alek told us what he wouldn’t elaborate on earlier – that there’s a resident tiger shark out here which is such a frequent visitor locals have named her. I couldn’t tell you what because Alek went on to tell us how it grabbed his flipper once last June and that it’s almost as long as the boat – a part of the story that had me gratefully packing my snorkel away.

This happy story occupied my mind for the journey back to the beach but just as we were about to lay anchor, Alek spotted a turtle and swung the boat around after it. Being mating season, the females are desperately hiding from the randy males at this time of year and so are much harder to spot – so this was lucky indeed. As we scanned the water for more turtle heads popping up, a vast loggerhead floated sedately underneath the boat. He was only there for a second or two but my mind was well and truly off that shark story. Well, at least until the next time I decide to go for a swim.

The best "job" in the world

Travel writers don’t get a lot of sympathy. People think all we do is swan around from one exotic location to another, pausing every so often to meet some fascinating local figure or other or possibly, just occasionally, bang away at a laptop for a while. Of course this isn’t really the case and so, in the interests of ever finding a kind ear to moan into again about the downsides, I am almost regretting writing this post before I even start.

Because I’ve just had the most amazing day and I know that if I tell the world about it my chances of ever making anyone understand that travel writing is not an easy profession may well be scuppered.

It started in Kalbarri, a dreamy little coastal town where nobody seemed to wear proper shoes and everybody appeared to be permanently in a good mood. My “hotel” was actually an apartment big enough to move into, the sun had popped back up again after its dazzling closing show the night before and I had an appointment to get to – with a pelican.

Every morning for the past 40 years the Kalbarri community has fed a bucket of fish to the local pelicans. Far bigger than any pelicans I’d seen before, these huge birds were much more graceful than you would imagine as they came gliding in to land on the grass. I got picked out to grasp a greasy fish by its tail and fling it into the pack of excitedly waiting birds, and the whole experience had a real theatre about it – the pelicans fighting over the fish with a bunch of seagulls who cheekily tried to muscle in.

I was sorry to leave Kalbarri but called in at the inland gorges on my way out of town and was confronted with scenery straight out of an “Outback experience” promotional video. The gorges are part of a wildly scenic area of dramatic red-rock formations which stretches all the way along this coast and they were spectacular – one of those sights you find yourself staring at mouth slightly open, camera hanging obsolete around your neck because you know you’ll never capture it.

From here it was – yet another – long drive. My destination for the day was Monkey Mia, about 150km off the highway in the Shark Bay world heritage area, and a five-hour drive from Kalbarri. Fortunately there’s plenty to see along the way, including a beach made up entirely of tiny compacted shells, several bays with sand so white and sea so aqua you start drifting across the road for staring at them, and the lifeform credited with putting enough oxygen into the earth’s atmosphere for us to start evolving. The stromatolites at Hamelin Bay may look just like any other collection of rocks but looking out to sea here is like looking at the earth millions of years before we were even a twinkle in its eye and it’s hard not to be a little bit moved by that.

I arrived into Monkey Mia feeling hot and tired but it’s the kind of place that makes you instantly forget about all that. Stuck out on its own on the sheltered side of the eastern Peron peninsula it’s basically just a sweeping sandy beach with a simple resort ranged along it. My room was literally beach-towel-throwing distance from the sand, with nothing to impede my view of the turquoise, almost-waveless water and the marine life within it. Before I’d even brought my suitcase in from the car I’d seen two dolphins bobbing along the shoreline – more than enough reason to see me immediately bikini-clad and heading for the water.

After a few minutes I heard a commotion just along the beach and looked up to see people with cameras pointing at the water. Despite seeing some dolphins already, I couldn’t believe that it could be anything more exciting than a fish or a seabird but I started to float towards them nonetheless. Convinced it was nothing too exciting I took my time moving along the beach until I glimpsed a telltale flash of grey – it was a dolphin they were looking at and I couldn’t believe they weren’t all in the water themselves.
Before I knew it the dolphins were just three or four metres away from me and as I stood there in the shallows two of them broke off and swam past me, one on either side. I was literally speechless (a rare thing) and just stood there gawping as a nearby family screeched with delight. Over the next few minutes we all bobbed about in the water, watching the dolphins swimming around us and chatting like old friends over our shared experience. Then we saw a turtle, a pelican landed on the water in front of us and an emu wandered along the beach behind. It was absolutely, completely amazing. And yes, it was technically part of my job.

So go ahead, tell me travel writing is more like being on holiday than having a job. Just for today, I’ll agree with you