Falling Sky

Sun, Sea, Sand & Schwarzwälder-Kirschtorte

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside, and while Edinburgh is theoretically a seaside city, it really doesn't feel like it (even if I can now see the Firth of Forth from my new desk at work - so near, yet so far!) so it's been nice to swan off to the two very different coastal towns this month.  First up, Gullane.  What, where, why?  Well, it's a town on the coast to the east of Edinburgh that's surrounded by golf courses, made up of pretty houses, cute little shops, a few non-golfy green spaces and, past a maze of dunes, a gorgeous beach of proper sand.  Being the middle of March on the east coast of Scotland, it wasn't sunbathing weather, with some distinctly blustery gales roaring across the coast, whipping the sand dunes into an abrasive frenzy - incredibly refreshing, but not everyones idea of a good time.  FWOOSH!

It's the kind of town we've been meaning to go to for years, yet never had a reason that really pushed us out of our weekend cosiness to actually make an effort.  Until, that is, we saw Falko on Rachel Allen's Bake the other week, making a baumkuchen - a German cake made on a spit.  Curiousity suitably piqued and wondering whether this could actually be an option for our wedding cake, we finally arranged to travel out to Gullane where Falko has a cafe & bakery.  He also has one in Bruntsfield, about 15 minutes from us, but that's always busy, filled with yummy mummies and 4x4 strollers, just a little bit too noisy for my gentle noggin, so we'd been looking forward to seeing what the other place was like.

I'm pleased to say it's far superior, as long as you can find an empty table - on a Saturday morning the place was as heaving as a polite cafe can be.  Too early for lunch, too late for breakfast, just in time for elevenses, we settled down to tea and cake (the former served with the best milk jug ever), but even that required some serious decision-making. The Lass went for this slice of chocolatey/fruity goodness, while I had the above, a Black Forest Gateau (that's Schwarzwälder-Kirschtorte to you, sonny) that had more flavour in one small forkful than in an entire frozen-food-section-bought BFG.  This is cake done proper, a sensual treat to be savoured.

Mono, originally uploaded by beast love.

One week later and I was off to the seaside again, two train journeys across the length of Blighty to the south coast and Brighton.  It's somewhere I've never been before, except in a genetic level (well, my parents met there back in the day) but as the best man for the wedding lives there and I've not seen him for years, it seemed about right I pop down there and say hello.  Rather conveniently, one of my favourite noisy bands - the Japanese instrumental four-piece Mono, expert merchants of quietLOUDquietLOUD - were swinging through the city at the same time, so Friday night was spent having my ears soothed and battered by them.  Superb, as always, and although it was a tremendous volume it didn't lead to ringing bells for the rest of the weekend.  Thankfully they're not a very visual band and I was happy to just close my eyes for much of the show and just let the sound wash over me - with eyes closed, the music seemed that much larger, immense, coming from all sides rather than just the stage - since I was quite far back and there were people there with big hair.  That or they'd brought along a mop with them to the gig and were holding it at head height, which is certainly possible.  The venue, Digital, was fine enough, an impressive light show diminished by the ever-present illuminated name of the venue right there on the stage, and while there was audience jibba-jabba during the songs it wasn't too bad (though quite why the two people nearby who attempted to continue their conversation during the loud bits by shouting had even bothered to attend, I can't imagine).

I found Brighton to be a curious place to be.  It's definitely well worth a visit but despite the coastal location and remarkable music scene I can't imagine ever having the desire to live there (unlike Gullane, which we would happily up sticks for).  It's a town (okay, it's got city status, but certainly doesn't feel like one) with street after street of wonderful individual shops. The few I actually went to featured Moomins (Pussy home boutique), bogglingly luxurious chocolate (the painfully-named Choccywoccydoodah) and an absolutely superb tailors (Gresham Blake), but you could write hundreds of posts on the variety of shops.  I certainly plan on going back there in the future with the Burd, since it felt strange being on holiday, if only for a weekend, without her, as though the experience was the lesser for not being shared.  Soppy auld sod?  Guess so.  Strolling along the seafront was nice, looking out at the above wreckage of the West Pier, and though the pebbly beach couldn't compare to Gullane it certainly had more sunbathers (and no skin-lashing winds) even on a March morning.  I was particularly impressed by the Earth & Stars, as right-on a pub as you could hope for with solar panels, organic ales and an excellent Sunday roast menu (the normal menu's not too shabby either), certainly one to come back to.

Still, there were elements of Brighton that didn't chime with me, though I suspect that says more about me than the town itself.  It feels like a very self-indulgent sort of place, where the pursuit of pleasure seems to be the only raison d'etre (though even if it is, is that so bad?), like Blackpool but less red-top, more Guardian.  There are strong echoes of the trendier districts of London throughout - no wonder, being just an hour from the capital by train - and in overhearing conversations I couldn't help but be reminded of Nathan Barley.  I felt old there, not physically but mentally, as though I disapproved of something but couldn't figure out what, though seeing people spending large amounts of money on looking as counter-culture as possible rankled, as did the many Pete Docherty dressalikes.  The influence of the pleasure-seeking Prince Regent on Brighton was examined with relish by Jonathan Meades on Abroad Again In Britain a few years back and I'd say he's right on the ball.  Like I say, it's a fascinating place to visit, but live there?  I'm just too much of a misery.

Wild Things, You Make My Heart Sings

Between Brighton, birthday and a book with my name in it, there's a very proper post coming verrry soon.  Until then, here's a trailer for the film adaptation of Maurice Sendak's glorious Where The Wild Things Are.  You can watch it streamed below, or in full Quicktime loveliness here.  Promising, very promising.

Initially spotted at WWTDD, of all places.

UPDATE (10:15) - Talking of films, for anyone wanting free preview tickets to the even-more-eagerly-awaited Coraline, LOOKEE YONDER.

Jon Has A New Toy

9 seconds of lifetime you'll never get back.

1767 Hours To Go

Ding dong update! After months of being way off in the vague foggy distance, the wedding is hurtling into sight with boggling velocity. As you'll have already seen, the rings have been acquired. So too have my wedding boots, a glorious pair of stompers made in Northamptonshire. I'm currently trying to find the right shirt for the occasion - while I'd like to go for a long-sleeved (for once) I'm worried that I'll end up overheating, especially if it ends up being a warm day. Being the cold-blooded creature I am, I overheat easily, even more so when remotely nervous or anxious, emotions that aren't exactly alien to wedding days (or any other large social gathering). Worse, I'm convinced my neck expands when wearing a tie, which has often led to job interviews being even more uncomfortable than they would normally be. It's not the tie itself but the sensation of that top button closed, triggers some weird kind of external gag reflex, freak that I am. So while I actually wouldn't mind wearing a tie this once, common sense dictates I'll be tieless rather than choking and rasping my way through the vows, turning a remarkable shade of mauve in the process.

Oh aye, the vows. We've started working on them this week, but it's going to take time to perfect. The joy of a Humanist ceremony is the carte blanche it gives you, but that very lack of a restrictive template can initially be daunting - where do you begin? Thankfully our minister supplied us with a whole wodge of suggestions and inspirations, from single sentences to transcripts of entire ceremonies. Burd & I had a good evening at the Cambridge yesterday, chowing down on their hearty burgers while going through page after page, going AWW at the genuinely nice stuff, then WHAT THE HELL? at references to infidelity (why the deuce would you refer to that on your wedding day?) mere aspirations (bollocks to saying you'll try to bring laughter-think positive! You will!) and lines that read more like staid academic discussions than heartfelt declarations of love, something of which the Sharing The Future guide is often guilty of. Different strokes for different folks, of course, but that's not for us. Quite what IS for us, well, you'll just have to wait and see.

Coming up next? I'm off to see my best man in Brighton later this month for a weekend of rock & rock, while the playlist gets nailed down further (that'll be worth a post in it's own right), various aspects of the food & drink are coming together nicely that I'm really looking forward to writing about. It's all still daunting and incredibly mind-boggling, but in the nicest, giddiest way.

AKA Lenten, Crow, Crust, Sugar, Sap and Chaste

The things you learn. From Spaceweather:

Tonight's full Moon has a special name--the Worm Moon. It signals the coming of northern spring, a thawing of the soil, and the first stirrings of earthworms in long-dormant gardens. Step outside tonight and behold the wakening landscape. "Worm moonlight" is prettier than it sounds.

From Farmers' Almanac:

As the temperature begins to warm and the ground begins to thaw, earthworm casts appear, heralding the return of the robins. The more northern tribes knew this Moon as the Full Crow Moon, when the cawing of crows signaled the end of winter; or the Full Crust Moon, because the snow cover becomes crusted from thawing by day and freezing at night. The Full Sap Moon, marking the time of tapping maple trees, is another variation. To the settlers, it was also known as the Lenten Moon, and was considered to be the last full Moon of winter.

Happy worm moon! Tell your family, impress your friends!

Time lapse image from NASA APOD by Antonio Cidadao

Get Up!

Get on Up!

Spotted, appropriately enough, at Enrico 'Pixar story artist' Casarosa's blog.

Baa Ram Brew, Baa Ram Brew

After plenty of jibba-jabba about food lately, it's time to turn back to the pleasures of the demon drink. No, fear not, I haven't started delving into the world of home-brewing (we all know how that can turn out), I still prefer to let the experts produce my alcoholic beverages of choice. One of the joys of living in the UK is the wealth of real ales brewed in every region, and ever since I moved to Scotland I've been enjoying beers produced all over the nation, from Valhalla Brewery on Unst to the Borders-based Broughton Ales and oh-so-many inbetween. There's plenty of pubs that make room for guest real ales, while you can find them bottled in delicatessens, off-licences of good repute and supermarkets. Whisky may get all the international publicity when it comes to Scottish drinks, but some of the very best beers in the British Isles are to be found up here.

Given the generally high standard of Scottish beers (Tennants notwithstanding) it's always a pleasure when someone comes along with a beer that stands out from the crowd. The first time I tried Black Isle Brewery's delicious Heather Honey Ale was one such occasion, as was the moment at last year's Enjoy The Taste Of Scotland when I tried a beer from a brewery I'd never heard of before and my eyes boggled (more so than usual) at the excellence. The beer was Paradox, the brewery was Brewdog, a microbrewery based in Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, that have quickly built up a reputation for distinctive bottled beers with a strong, eye-catching design and, one suspects, a good eye for stirring up a bit of controversy when it suits. Still, eyebrow-raising and snazzy graphics don't count for shit if the beer isn't up to scratch, but since being bowled over by the potent whisky echoes of Paradox I've tried a few of their brews and they've all been top-notch. No wonder that Brewdog have since become one of my favourite breweries, though I've often been frustrated by their unavailability at my usual beer-buying shops - still, from a purely business point-of-view, it probably makes sense to focus efforts on Sainsburys and Tesco rather than, say, Peckhams. Be nice if they could stretch out to Waitrose though...

Anyway, I was asked a few weeks back by their PR peeps Dada if I'd like to try out a new beer of Brewdog's. What do you think? Lo and behold, a nice big box turns up containing a dozen of 330ml bottles of Zeitgeist. A black lager (pretty rare - the only one I'd tried before was Samuel Adams' in America and there's none normally to be seen in the shops, though Leffe Brun is similar), the bottle labels are distinctively designed, curiously lacking in any Brewdog branding itself. Even more so than previous Brewdog beers, the design stands out a mile from other beers, centred around screenprinted artwork by Heather Brennan. The text that natters about refusing the slaughterhouse of conformity feels a bit toothless and irrelevant, especially as it tells you chuff-all about the drink itself. You could argue it's making a positive selling point out of being a type of beer that isn't well known, that isn't going to be everyone's cup of tea (so to speak), but can you still speak of non-conformity and punk rock when your wares are selling in Tesco? I dunno. Still, it beats the crap out of "if Carling made..." and the bottles sure look pretty all lined up like so. But enough of the cover, let's get to the contents.

Like I said, it's a black lager, coming in at 4.9%. According to the press release printed here, "before the advent of modern pale malting technology, all lagers were black." Intriguing, but is it actually any good? Oh yes.  Any suspicions of gimmickry are swept away at the first taste. At room temperature it's not far from the deep rich flavour of a stout, though still that bit lighter. I drink it slowly, initial impressions of dark chocolate, treacle and porter, gulping the glugs back to savour the lingering aftertaste like liquorice, marmite on toast. Nice, distinctive, rich, far better than anything labelled lager is supposed to be.

Chilled it slips down quickly - there's less depth to the taste which makes it smoother, easier to knock back. The cold gives it a refreshing edge that dampens down the aforementioned stoutiness, yet it still has more flavor than the usual chilled lager. I'd particularly love to sink a few cold bottles of this at a gig, far superior to the bland offerings of Carling, Stella, Miller or Budweiser that seem to have the monopoly of music venues. Given Brewdog's punk love, I can't think of any better circumstance for a chilled Zeitgeist than in some small sweaty subterranean venue, ears getting bashed to shit by feedback & shrieks.

Anyway, until Brewdog start sponsoring a Torche/Melt Banana/Mastodon tour (a boy can dream...) my personal preference for this particular bevvy must be room-temperature. It allows the flavours to come through clearly and be savoured, not necked back like your average lager that practically bypasses your taste buds en route from bottle to throat. It's a cracking drink, just right for times when you'd like the flavour of a heavy beer without the weight that comes with it. And at 4.9% it won't overwhelm the way a couple of Paradox's would, well suited for a session with friends, enjoying at home or at the pub (if they'd only stock it). Given the remarkably low price for a box of 12 direct from Brewdog I'd certainly recommend it to any beer afficionados that like a walk on the dark side.

(Cheers to Toni Morrison and Craig McGill at Dada for spreading the good word and even better beer!)

Walking Home: LIVEBLOG!

It's half 3 in the afternoon, early finish and I'm walking past Arthur's Seat, even more impressive than usual in stark high contrast sunshine. Its volcanic past doesn't seem so far away, great layers of rock rupturing out in craggy waves of once-molten stone. The sun shines right into my eyes while Marnie Stern's Ruler hollers joyfully into my ears.

Now at the Meadows, sun a bit lower, Boxer Rebellion in my ears, students playing football, tennis, jogging all around. Shadows of bare trees stretch across the grass where the march began all those years ago. Tempted by the promise of quality nosh at the Victor Hugo deli, but there's fresh Jon-made cookies waiting at home (post to follow!) so I walk on by. The crocus flowers on the bank of the path look dazed, just bloomed into Spring then shocked by a 2 day midweek frost. A crane looms motionless over Quartermile's muddle of old stone and new metal, and my fingers start to numb from the cold.

Onto Bruntsfield Links, past the golf course now, the green undulating like a gentle sea. Even in this chill there's a golfer out. A pack of young children in flourescent yellow jackets are herded along by red jacketed ladies. Now past a small film crew, probably students, there's an empty pushchair involved.

Bruntsfield now, more noshy/beery temptation resisted, this time from Peckhams. Seriously regret the lack of sunglasses as I almost get run over by a cyclist with the sun behind him. At Merchiston Park someone's made a symbol of a circle with an arrow pointing out on the pavement out of flour. No further clues appear.

Harrison Park in my sights now. Turning a corner I smell a man's leather jacket before I see him. Francoiz Breut in my ears, shadows stretched to breaking point. Past the Orwell Hotel, seems to be as dead as its namesake, nothing but a car park now. A lovely old black Beetle rattles past, the sunlight on yellow crocuses making them glow golden, tree shadows lunge across the park like skeletal fingers.

The front door beckons. I use the iPod to illuminate the door locks lost in tenement shadows. The kettle goes on, then cookies, fingers defrosting, the router turned on, wi-fi connection made, I press Publish and these words fly up into the sky.

(Links added later - there's only so much one can do mobile)