All posts by karen

These Recent Things (Cats, Cruise Ships & Cars)


I should have written sooner. All those days blurring busily into weeks, months. Today I’ve found, in between baking an apple cake and prepping for the Renaissance Photography Prize portfolio reviews, a pocket of time that would have otherwise been filled.

Right now I should have been in Tel Aviv launching an exhibition, giving portfolio reviews, hunting down cakes of excellence. But, flights cancelled, exhibition postponed, I’ve found myself at home with time, and sunshine, and an abundance of autumn fruit.


I’ve been busy, I’ve been away, I’ve been to Scotland, and Amsterdam, I’ve driven half way across Rwanda and back. I’ve seen giraffes, and baboons, and cats (no big cats) and funny little birds that roll over as they fly, offering glitzy glimpses of their colourfully feathered undercarriages. I even found myself accidently on a cruise ship (never again).

I’m not sure that, however I try, I can really remember what I’ve been up to, let alone tell you in any detail, but that’s what photographs are for, right? Right.


I’ve done some good eating out – Crown & Punchbowl, Kimchee, Dishoom, Bills in Victoria (because of the great company and velvet corner nest), and eating in – when I had the pleasure of welcoming chef Anita Kerai into my kitchen. She arrived with boxes full of food and spices, and a big grin on her face. Within minutes she’d begun, cooking up a Gujarati feast in my Fenland kitchen, completely relaxed in this stranger’s home. After a day of cooking and learning it was time to eat. We sat down, friends over a feast of delicious food, and Anita shared with me the story of how she became a chef (and I shared that story over here on Surf4).

Adam and I sprinted at Brands Hatch at the Lotus Festival alongside Lotus Cup Europe and all sorts of other wondrous racing. I love Brands Hatch. I was 8th out of 11, which isn’t particularly exciting, but I did knock just over 3 seconds off my time from the previous year, so that was good.

Then we went to Rockingham for a two hour track evening with Alan and that was great fun.


Shutter Hub continued to fundraise for the GIRL TOWN exhibition, dozens of people came forward to share their messages of support (read them here), and Laura’s brilliant article  ‘Celebrating the Culture of the Female in the 21st Century’ got featured on the World Photography Organisation blog, and in Amber Magazine.

We made the selection of work for our forthcoming ‘Artificial Things’ exhibition with Cambridge University which opens on the 3rd November, and we’ve begun work on the accompanying events – come and join us for drinks and talks on 30th November if you can. We’ve also started work on plans for an exhibition in Fleet Street, London early next year, so I’ll let you know about that sometime soon too.

I was very happy to be asked by the FORMAT team to join them at Unseen Amsterdam and give portfolio reviews last month. Unseen is heralded as one of the best photography festivals in the world, I’d never been before and I was excited to have a doubly good reason to go. And I love the Netherlands.

I left my car at the station and got the train to Stansted, plane to Schiphol, train to Amsterdam, and arrived in time to meet my friend Dagmar for Vlaamse Frieten and good chats.

I’d picked a central spot to stay, although Unseen was over at Westergasfabriek (near where I once ate a gold and silver clay covered purple potato), I wanted to be able to enjoy more of the city for my few days. The Nova Hotel (with a bit of a  Hoxton-Shoreditch vibe to the rooms, but more space) was just minutes away from Dam Square and gave me good reason to walk – apart from when I overslept, of course.

Rushing to the reviews in the morning my driver couldn’t see the map, or where he was going. He fumbled and swerved, searching for his glasses. ‘On your head,’ I told him, wishing I’d been up in time to walk.

De Bakkerswinkel was the most lovely venue for the portfolio reviews. Perhaps we could have done with brighter lighting, but the calming atmosphere and fascinating space made for a really relaxed and engaging day. I gave eight reviews in all. I felt inspired, alert and tired, all in one big bundle. I walked back across the city, stopped off to buy orange juice, grapes, salad and a big bar of Tonys Chocolonely, and then headed back to my hotel room where I sat at the table and enjoyed my picnic. It was great!

In the morning I went back over to Unseen – I saw friends and photography, I saw a pig being spit roasted in the street, and a pigeon smiled at me from a bush. Walking back to the station in the sun I met the most magnificent cat sitting outside a bakery sniffing the breeze.

That’s what I call a successful trip.

No sooner was I home than I was rushing off to Rwanda, but that’s another story, a long story, with baboons and hippos, tree tomatoes and passionfruit juice, and a crappy death trap of a hire vehicle. (Thanks Europcar!)

In stark contrast to driving freely across a African National Park, I found myself, last week, accidentally aboard a cruise ship with no hot drinks, shrieking waiters, and a Swarovski crystal staircase worth a couple of hundred-thousand Euros. Nuts. (Literally – in a cake, that the waiter said was nut free. And that’s another story, a boring one about antihistamines, swelling and excuses. Yawn.)


The MSC Preziosa was a frenzy of bloggers rushing everywhere from the restaurants to the pools, taking pictures of half-naked old men (it was an accident, I deleted it) and photographing things they couldn’t have, like cups of tea, apparently only reserved for passengers, not guests.

I’d stayed the night before in a pretty awful hotel. Always wanting to look on the bright side I made a list of good things about the place. 1. It was called The Dolphin  and 2. It looked like a prison.


What next, hey?

North Coast 500 – Scottish Highlands Road Trip


The drive up to Scotland didn’t seem too long. We saw two camels at Scotch Corner and stopped off at the Falkirk wheel for a cup of tea, before arriving, early evening in Perth – a city of grand buildings with a stunning bridge running over a wide river. A place steeped in history, where you can stay in a castle if you want to, or not. Our hotel was opposite a funeral parlour and smelt like the dentists.

We explored a little, noted that the things I am interested in probably aren’t in any tourist guides – climbing frames that look like insects and the fanciest glitziest mirrored foyer at Morrison’s supermarket. We walked down the road and eyed up blocks of flats sporting a beautiful pebble dash and pink paint combo. Some of the buildings were incredible, some of the buildings were incredible and derelict. The Waverley Hotel had been taken over by pigeons, wafting in and out of their broken glassed net-curtained windows.

We ate in the hotel restaurant, a tartan carpeted conservatory extension to the front of the building. I felt like I might be by the sea, and also quite elderly. I was reminded of the time I stayed in Eastbourne – I breakfasted with a bunch of lovely ladies who didn’t want to see me sitting alone. I joined them and accidentally ate rather a lot of prunes.

I slept for a few minutes at a time, managing to hook the open end of the pillowcase around my wrist so that the weight of my hand would pull the pillow down tight over my head and protect my ears from the drone of vehicles and traffic-light racers outside.

Breakfast was black pudding, potato cake, poached egg and mushrooms. We didn’t want beans. ‘Musical fruit!’ the waiter exclaimed before taking our order to the kitchen. The Grampian Hotel has a charm of it’s own.

From Perth, we drove, through the Cairngorms – heather, ferns, rosebay willow herb, rock, trees, so many trees – to Inverness, and on towards Wick.

 As we headed further north I noted, less trees, more sheep. We stopped off at a small cemetery atop a hill overlooking the sea. We climbed steps, hauled over a stone wall, to explore, to feel the breeze.

In Wick, on the shortest street in the world (reason enough to go there for me) we checked in to Mackays Hotel. In our room, a tipple of sherry and a Werthers Original each. Winning. Also, relief, a welcoming bed. The view of the bay from the window was almost timeless.

Again, we wandered and explored. Hand painted signs in shop windows advertised ‘Superdry’ and ‘White Stuff’. Another, framed brightly in orange, read ‘YOUTHS’ in bold letters.

We ate in the hotel restaurant, No.1 Bistro.Presumptuous name!’ I thought, but then I got eating and decided they were probably right.

Orkney handdived scallops, black pudding risotto (peppery, creamy and rich, with shredded apple), Monkfish and Serrano ham ballotine, venison with golden beetroots, tiny wild mushrooms, pink tinted potatoes and a creamy parsnip sauce (deliciously earthy and foraged flavours), a pre-dessert (why did I not know about pre-desserts before? Who has been hiding this from me?) of chocolate sponge with Wick strawberries and white chocolate mousse, soufflé with gin gel and raspberry puree, petit fours, a cup of tea… rejoice, and breath!

We slept well, ate breakfast, and drove to John O’Groats to watch people queue for photos in front of the sign. We didn’t get a Starbucks, but (sadly) we could have done. I watched little birds (twites, I think) hop in an out of crab baskets, whilst Adam tried to lure a lone seagull.

Heading west we stopped at Canisbay Church. There were lots of photos of the Queen Mum in the entrance porch and some fascinating monuments. I fell in a hole.


On to Dunnet Head, the most northerly point of the mainland. Beside the lighthouse lay  minor fortifications – a Second World War radar station and observation post, and a bunker used during the Cold War. My kind of place, I love a bunker.


We continued driving, slowing to watch sheep crossing the road, and stopping to observe Dounreay Nuclear Facility. The tourist guide called the site ‘impressive’ but I’m not so sure, maybe it was in the 1950s, when it was built, but ‘frightening’ seems a more accurate word for me. The last reactor was decommissioned in the 90s but the site is still full of dangerous nuclear materials, and so is the shoreline and seabed nearby after over 20 years of leaking radioactive fuel fragments. The beach is closed off. I’m fascinated by radioactivity, but not impressed. We drove on.


So many sheep, then cows – proper highland cattle standing beside the road looking glorious. Adam videoed their long hair wisping in the wind. One of them looked like Donald Trump and was chewing on an old plant pot.

Each and every turn we made opened up a new and stunning view as we drove east, stopping in Durness to admire Britains largest sea cave entrance at Smoo Cave (and a pigeons nest) and then heading inland along some of the most incredible open and empty roads, to Overscaig House Hotel on Loch Shin.


I wasn’t sure what to expect, I was concerned I would feel uncomfortable in this remote and isolated place, with no phone signal to call for help. I needn’t have worried. It was like being welcomed into a distant relative’s home. Patterned carpets, coloured bathroom suites, cushions and quirky ornaments. I’d normally be put off by this, but the personalities just won me over, I felt so at home.

We ate in the dining room, walls covered with every tartan you could imagine, a hearty dinner of Aberdeen Angus ribeye with vegetables and chips. One of the best steaks I’ve ever had.

Silent, comfortable sleep. Weighty feather duvet dreams.

We ate breakfast (sultana and cinnamon loaf with banana and maple syrup) overlooking the loch. Magnificent. 150 metres deep at its deepest point. Can you imagine?

We could just work out the shape of a tiny cottage on the other side of the loch. With a telescope we could see much more detail, it was something like looking through a keyhole into the past. A memory of a house. A ghost of a home.

Only accessible by boat and last inhabited in 1953 by an old lady who’d spent her life there. The story goes that when she was expecting a baby she had to climb down a ladder onto a boat that took her across the loch. Her husband then strapped her to the ladder, strapped the ladder to a donkey, and took her 14 miles up the road to the hospital in Lairg.

As we left Overscaig House Hotel it was cool and still. I was interested to know what it was like to be bitten by a midge. ‘You won’t get bitten by just one!’ the owner chuckled. He was right. I first felt a sting like a pin prick on my lip, then my cheek, then my eyebrow. For something so small they were fierce. I recalled the time I let an owl bite my hand to see what it felt like and wondered why I had to have all these ‘experiences’.

To Ullapool, in the rain, for lunch at the Ceilidh Place and then on to the magnificent Corrieshalloch Gorge – a slot gorge cut by glacial melt water between 2.6million and 11,500 years ago and fed by water from the river Droma. (Apparently the name Corrieshalloch means ‘ugly hollow’.)


We sped down a steep trail, through midges and mizzle, to the gorge, spotting a fly agaric mushroom on the way. First time I’ve ever seen one. It was too far from the path for me to lick.

Turning right, then left, then right again, we reached the twenty-five metre long suspension bridge swaying away with tourists who’d ignored the ‘6 people maximum’ sign in favour of a group photo.

Further along on the other side we reached the cantilevered viewing platform which jutted out over the vast drop. It was a phenomenal view, such a height that it was hard to tell the distance. I felt slightly uncomfortable, vulnerable even – mostly because an old lady with a stick was barging me and there wasn’t much space to manoeuvre, but also because of the immense scale and the splendour of nature.

The Gairloch Hotel had plenty of empty rooms to go with it’s plethora of bad reviews but we checked in any way. Adam said the best thing about the place was the revolving doors.

The old lift had been given an ‘update’. Now fully carpeted and resembling a coffin, it shunted it’s way up and down slowly. The loose carpets ruffled in waves as we creaked our way to the room. Every step causing wood to squeak and graunch against more wood.

Our room was in the roof. I moved the bed out of the eaves, so that I could actually get into it and, from the tiny tiny window, we took it in turns to watch the storm move in, waves crashing.

There was no wifi so we watched  the sticky old CRT tele that, when it could get a signal, squashed the widescreen picture into it’s square screen (I kept thinking everyone was Celine Dion), and tried to ignore the mould, and the hairs.


If you want to feel like you’ve been institutionalised half a century ago, this is the place for you. Adam’s verdict – a horrible, potentially dangerous, misery hole.

The non-edible  breakfast was accompanied by ‘traditional tea’ – pre-made brown stuff stewed in an insulated flask jug. We left as quickly as we could.


What an absolute relief it was to come across All The Goodness, a coffee and bake house between Ardelve and Dornie, on the edge of three lochs, and overlooking Eilean Donan Castle. Elderflower shortbread and a roasted strawberry bun, chai latte and a flat white. We consumed with joyous gratitude.

It began to rain. Fuelled on cake and faith in humanity restored, we drove on, through the Trossachs and Loch Lomond National Park to the Four Seasons Hotel in Crief.


We stayed in a chalet on the hillside, overlooking the loch. By day, the drone of jet skis on the water, by night, pitch black with the gentle rustling of trees and something scurrying in the roof.

We slept well, waking to natures gift of mouse droppings in the morning. All I could think was that I wished I’d put my toothbrush away the night before.


And then it was time to begin our final journey home. We stopped off in Ayrshire, tried to get a glimpse of the old Loudoun Castle, but couldn’t see a thing. My great aunt lived there once (before there was a fire and a theme park) and although I’m not madly interested in family history, we do have her cauldrons and I like to place objects in spaces.

We stopped off at the golf club and I chatted to a lovely man called Frank, he reminded me of my late grandad, the gentle accent. He said Countess Sheila had married a New York policeman and moved to the US, and he sent us up to the kirk to look for Loudoun graves before we headed towards the motorways and the ‘real’ world again.

We didn’t go to any Whisky distilleries, we didn’t play any golf. We didn’t try on kilts or tam-o-shanters. We didn’t drink Irn Bru or play the bagpipes. And I didn’t say ‘Och aye the noo’ to anyone (apart from Adam).

___________________________________________________________________________

We were guests of Mackays Hotel and dinner at No.1 Bistro was complimentary (and very delicious).

Gairloch Hotel kindly refunded our stay and assured us that they were undertaking a programme of improvement and fixing the carpet that week.

As always,  my opinions are my own.

 

Old Holland – Beemster, Edam & Zandvoort

Catching an Easyjet flight is a bit like playing Russian roulette. I would have normally still been in bed, but instead I was on a plane full of mouthy drunk men who at the slightest bit of turbulence yelled, almost simultaneously, ‘Whoa f*cking hell, don’t like that much!’ as I sat, head pushed as far into the tatty inflight magazine as I could manage.

I stepped off the plane, bacon sandwich remnants covering my clothes (not mine, the man next to me really enjoyed his breakfast) and headed across Schiphol airport to meet Mara.

We got a car to Amsterdam, and once we’d met up with our travel gang, we drove 20 minutes to the north of the city to the peaceful and flat waterlands.

At Broek in Waterland we boarded an eco-friendly boat and took the water way to Theetuin Overleek tea gardens. It was something of a fairy tale. We stroked giant white rabbits and collected our picnic baskets. Blankets over laps, we sipped homemade lemonade as the ‘whisper boat’ broke gently through still waters, risen above the land along dykes and canals, passing wooden houses and tranquil meadows.

I saw a cat chase a duck into the water, many chickens, and a funeral.


Leaving the boat behind, we travelled North to the dairy farm of Jan Uitentuis in Beemster Polder, where the flat land lies low, 3.5 metres below sea level.

Welcomed to the family farm we set to work making cheese. Mara and I teamed up, cheese team, cheese dream team, and sorted the curds and whey. The waste whey goes to feed the calves, rennet from calves stomachs is used to make the cheese, I am not sure about this circle of life.

Outside I befriended the farm dog, a chunky boxer staff cross, and we went to meet the cows. I managed to chase some chickens and spotted a cat, before feeding bread to the most lovely Hampshire Down sheep. Interesting fact: you can’t fit a lamb in your pocket, even if it is stretchy fabric.

Lambless, we headed over to Fort Resort Beemster. Built in 1912, once a fortress and now a wellness centre, it’s a fascinating UNESCO world heritage site.

We sat down for dinner, the long table stretched the length of the room and raw crystal lights hung like stalactites from the ceiling. Plates of veal, quail, calves cheek, and more veal, fed us all with flavours of the region. The dessert was a delicious blueberry mousse with blackberry puree and ice cream. So nice I ate two, thanks Mel!

It was quite late when we got to Edam, to the beautiful L’Auberge Damhotel. We checked in to rooms, wandering along the hallways as keys were handed out. My room was in the roof. A huge chandelier hung from the low ceiling over the bed, bigger than the bed. I wondered if I’d survive the night.

On the way down, catching a glimpse of Jessica’s room, I commented, ‘Oh, your room is very nice, mine is much more plain.’
‘This is plain,’ she said.
‘No it’s not!’
‘Yes it is, it’s plain,’ she said adamantly, as I looked on at the gilt framed paintings and dark velvet furnishings.
‘But you’ve got a f*cking piano in there!’

The light was fading, but the air was warm, we wandered the streets, nosing through windows into perfect homes. It was like something you would dream up if you were trying to create the most idyllic Dutch town.

I slept well, waking to find myself wedged deep in the gap between the two single beds that were making a double. Reluctantly I prised myself from the bed nest and joined the others for breakfast before heading out into the sunshine for a tour of Edam.

Edam, a 14th and 15th century fortress town, was once one of the country’s most important commercial centres with thriving shipbuilding, timber and cheese trading industries. Wood and cheese, two of my favourite things.

We talked about cheese, we looked at cheese, walking down cobbled streets, along the canals of Edam. A lady was loading things into her car, in the back window fluttered a large moth. ‘House mother,’ she told us. I died slightly at the beauty of the words.

Through the perfect streets, passed the most incredible buildings, trying to take everything in – architectural details, beautiful colours, door knockers with painted eyes, windows with lives going on behind them – brunches, newspapers, coffees.

We turned the corner into Edam’s 15th Century shipyard, Scheepswerf Groot. It was dark, the air thick with the taste of old oil. Chains and pulleys, the bones of ancient boats, carcasses, stacked against the wall.


‘Where are we?’ asked Moran. ‘Edam.’ I said. ‘Yes, but what is this place?’ her big brown eyes wide and confused. On the radio came Starship’s ‘We built this city’, the mood lifted, we sang along until the radio was switched off.

Back across Holland, in no time at all, we were at Beach Club Tien for lunch. Zandvoort, also known as Amsterdam Beach (because it’s so close to the city, believe it or not), has all the things you could want – pale sands, blue skies, seagulls stealing lunches from children, and a race track.

We hired bikes and peddled over to Circuit Zandvoort. I wobbled along, holding on tightly, sure my front wheel was buckled and it was nothing to do with my lack of balance. It was a beautiful sunny day, there was a 24 hour cycling event going on, and we were allowed to join in for a lap, and… circuit director Edwin gave me a lift round in his car.

Busy wondering what it would be like to drive there myself (and take it out of first gear) I realised it was time for me to head off. I needed to get back to the airport, to get home, to drive my own car round Silverstone in the morning.

The flight back to London was full of women and smelt of perfume. What a difference a day makes!


With the greatest thanks to the wonderful people of  iAmsterdam for inviting me to join them on such an excellent adventure. 

These Recent Things (Belfast, Edinburgh, Holland & Home)

It’s Sunday afternoon, the sun is shining, there’s a gentle breeze swaying the lavender from side to side outside the window as chubby bees hang on to it  tightly, and we’re going to have pizza for dinner. It’s a good day.

Last week I had to help little Patty Slipper leave for chicken heaven (she was always on borrowed time, having been so badly treated before she came here), and yesterday our youngest hen, Baby Ruth Sultana died. We’ve known Ruth since she was born, although it didn’t make us close – she’s always been a bit suspicious of us and last summer she moved out for a couple of months.

A few weeks ago Patty Slipper started to get ill, and Ruth was egg bound with a prolapse the size of my fist (I don’t have small hands). I had to give her hot baths and a minor operation. It was not something for the faint hearted.

In a situation of true pharmacy shame I had found myself, wearing socks and Birkenstocks, picking up antibiotics (for me, I had an infected biopsy wound), piles cream (for Ruth) and oral thrush treatment (for Patty Slipper) and then limping off in an embarrassed hurry.

I really did try to help them. Patty soldiered on for a while, and Ruth appeared to make a full recovery, but neither of them made it in the end. We are now down to just three chickens, the garden seems empty, the sparrows and starlings are taking over.

I’ve had a few weeks at home, it’s been nice to spend the time here and appreciate it all over again. Yesterday we took a trip up the river on a friend’s boat, and walked back, picking wild plums and blackberries on the way.

I am planning some trips though, of course. I’ve been lucky enough to be invited to work on a book called When The Last Lion Roars with award winning writer Sara Evans.

It’s exciting, but not as straight forward as it sounds. We need help with funding the trip (everything is voluntary) so we’ve set up this crowdfunder page in the hope that people will help us. Yes, that is a subtle hint!

You can read more about the project here, and, if you’d like to, you can donate here. If you can spare a couple of quid towards making this happen, we’d be so grateful. (Aside from our gratitude, you’ll get an invite to the VIP book launch party and thanked online and in the book.)

In other big-cat news, Tutti Biscotti is settling in well, sleeping in baskets and letting me stroke her tummy whilst she lies about like a soft grey slug.

I wrote a few things – The Meaning Behind the Flowers you Gave for Surf4, and At Home with Blue and White  over on the Huffington Post.

I photographed chocolate for Cocoa Mester, ate great street food at FoodPark Night Market, and shared some more of my Foodie Finds over on Surf4 here, and here.

I also had an operation. I didn’t really mention it because I didn’t really need to. It had no real impact on anyone else (apart from the person who messaged me to complain that I’d not been supporting them by liking their Instagram posts!) but here’s a photo of my congratulatory survival sandwiches anyway.

At the beginning of June I went on a smashing trip with Visit Holland. I hung out with wonderful people, visited incredible exhibitions, ate great food and just had the most excellent time. (Upon returning, my new friend ‘Pat the Canadian’ introduced me to one of her friends on Facebook and they said I was just like Jack Duckworth from Corrie!) I had such a good time, I had to write about it in two parts. You can, if you wish, read part one here, and part two here.

I love the Netherlands so much that a few weeks later I went back with more wonderful people (whose names all begin with M, I just realised. Manon, Mel, Moran, Mara… mmmm!) We visited Edam and Zandvoort, we rode bikes and made our own cheese. I will share much more detail with you soon, I couldn’t not.

I took a short trip to Northern Ireland to give portfolio reviews at Belfast Photo Festival. I got a taxi from the airport, it was rainy and the taxi driver said f*ck a lot. My clichéd prophecies were fulfilled.

We went to Lewis Bush’s fascinating talk on number stations (and yodelling) at Belfast Exposed. We went to the opening of Juno Calypso’s exhibition at Golden Thread Gallery (I made friends with Juno by awkwardly slurping orange juice at her). We went to Bullitt Hotel for the festival launch party, before finding our way back to our Airbnb – a 1980s local authorities flat with a flimsy front door and sticky floors, next to the main road to Shankill.

I saw some wonderful work at the portfolio review. I got given a beautiful neon yellow Caran D’Ache pen by one of the photographers. The panel discussion was super (I loved hearing the hilarious stories behind Hello Mr). We ate great pizza in Little Wing, and good eggs benedict for breakfast at Bullitt Hotel. Kristen Gaylord of MoMA gave the most brilliant talk and I love her. Then someone who I don’t know came and thanked me for the work I do with Shutter Hub and gave me his book!

It was a pretty epic, tiring, inspiring couple of days. I discussed it on the flight home with Sean Bean’s personal assistant, who I sat next to, she was off to her nan’s birthday party.

Work also led me to Brighton, so I stayed the weekend with my dear friend Emma. We ate eggs benedict in the sun and got a day saver bus pass. We bussed it down to Rottingdean, walked along the seafront through the ‘danger zone’ and got spritzed with seawater from crashing waves. We stopped for a Solero and then powered on through Brighton Marina and into town, to catch another bus, up to the South Downs for a ginger beer and a packet of crisps. It was great.

Adam and I sprinted at Silverstone Stowe in June with Lotus Cup UK  Speed and the MG Car Club. I was 6th of 9 in my class. It was super scorchio in the sun. My best time was 60.91, Adam’s 58.91.

We also sprinted at Blyton Park in July with the Westfield Sports Car Club. It was a totally different track layout to the one I am used to. In 1st practice I was only 0.5 seconds behind Adam, but ended up finishing over 4 seconds behind him. Proud to say that I didn’t need a map, but disappointed that with only 2 timed runs I spun and ruined my final go. Still, I think I was 7th out of 9, and I had what was possibly my best excuse to date – stitches and an infected biopsy wound on my left ankle. Manky.

We resumed our usual Midsummer ritual of fire and food, and then I headed up to Edinburgh with Laura for the Shutter Hub OPEN 2017. This year I curated a show for Retina International Photography Festival, and although that sounds (to me) quite glamorous, there was a great deal of graft involved.

On the train, up passed the sea, and the mist, and the sheep. It rained so cold. We walked head first into horizontal rain. I feared that my umbrella would turn inside out. It was harsh. Later when the rain cleared we saw land across the other side of the docks where we thought it had been sea.

Our hotel room resembled a closely packed ferry cabin. We slept well then spent a day working solidly on the exhibition hang. That evening Graeme, who works at the gallery, offered to give us a mini tour of Leith and walked us round the streets pointing to things. Mary Queen of Scots first stepped here when she came to Leith… Oliver Cromwell held aristocrats here and stored gunpowder there. It was fascinating. But we were exhausted. We bought chips and ate them in a bus shelter, managing to lure just one sea gull.

The following morning we headed back to the gallery to host portfolio reviews, and then in the evening we had the private view, which was lovely. I gave a talk which involved me making bird calls (remember, I was tired) before we finished the evening with a pizza and good people.

Back at home I joined some of the lovely Cambridge Eat Up! crew for a picnic on Parkers Piece. I also managed to wander obliviously into the middle of a cricket match, piled high with cake boxes and an inane grin on my face because I could see Aoife across the field.

I’d been invited to try out the new Soboro Bakery in Cambridge so I got something for everyone, we sat on blankets and shared tastes of cakes. It was a lovely evening. Jin made Kuih, Deepa made chive butter filled scones, Aoife made lavender cake and Sue brought along an excellent pork pie.

I think it’s true to say, we all need more picnics in our lives. And hammocks, I totally need a hammock.

All that, amongst other things.

The Netherlands – 2 Nights & 100 Years of Dutch Design (2/2)

From outside, in the dark light of night, the Havezate Marveld Aparthotel looked like a castle, or a replica castle, a film set of a castle. Inside it was something different.

I walked to the end of the long corridor and opened the door to my room, my eyes adjusted focus to look across the vast space and my tired brain wondered if I’d turned up in someone’s house by accident.

My room, for me. Two double bedrooms, a living room, dining area, terrace, kitchen (with dishwasher) (I didn’t use it), two toilets (I used them), and a bathroom that was so spacious the word ‘Jacuzzi!’ echoed from my mouth.

I tried to settle in. I spent twenty minutes trying to close the curtains before I realised it was one large curtain that I was pulling back and forth from the middle of the window. Eleanor came down to check on me and we (I) decided it would be more comfortable if we both went up and shared her apartment.

I helped Eleanor set up the Jacuzzi, it glowed red, gurgled and rumbled deeply. Like an angry vortex to hell.

‘Shout me if the bath demon tries to get you!’ I called, as I retreated to a safe distance.


In the morning, after a good croissant, we hopped on the coach to Harderwijk to visit the Stadsmuseum and preview the exhibition ‘Huszar van de Stijl’.

Such a pretty town, full of interest. I saw a sign for an ice-cream parlour and temporarily forgot my whereabouts.

We drank tea in the sun. 27 degrees Celsius and blue skies. In the museum I was drawn to the local artefacts, including a preserved cockerel in a jar.

Vilmos Huszar, a Hungarian who moved to the Netherlands, and for the last 30 years of his life lived and worked near Harderwijk, was one of the founding members of the De Stijl movement. A few years after the movement was founded, Huszar left and went his own way.

We climbed stairs and stairs. The exhibition part built, copper and pewter dishes laid out ready for their glass cabinets, the walls and gallery floor showing images of nature, of flowers, inspired in some ways by Van Gogh.

‘It is told he had a lot of animals including a pig,’ said our guide, I listened intently, painting a picture in my mind.

On to our next destination, and feeling creatively inspired I took it upon myself to make my own luggage tag from scrap paper. ‘You made this?’ said the driver, as he loaded my case into the coach’s undercarriage, ‘Yes!’ I said, proudly. ‘A little strange!’ he replied, turning away.

The sun had reached it’s highest point as we arrived in the medieval city of Amersfoort. The heat was hot. We stopped off at De Vier Broers where I won at lunch by eating not one, but two delicious croquettes.

We took the walking tour, stopping to admire the church tower (the only part of the church left after a gunpowder storage issue), then a quick loop round the city, through the Mondriaan Huis, past a spouting fountain, along the canal, and across to the Kunsthal KAdE.

Kunsthal KAdE, a bright and bold space, filled with bright and bold work. The current exhibition, ‘The Colours of De Stijl’ is a large collation of work with a strong focus on the use of colour, by the six protagonists of De Stijl alongside artist’s who’ve been influenced by them in the past 100 years.

It seemed so sudden that I found myself stood on the railway platform, Mondriaan themed chewy sweets in hand, destined for the airport.

I sat by the window on the flight home, the one hour journey back in time (leaving at 7.20pm, arriving at 7.20pm). The sun was setting in a beautiful cocktail of pinks. I thought about how amazing it was to be able to hop on a flight, and then travel across the whole of the Netherlands so quickly and freely, by road and by rail, through the flat tree scattered landscape and beautiful historical cities, to the undulating National Park, and back, without a worry.

172km from Schiphol to Winterswijk. I’d do it again tomorrow!

With the greatest thanks to the wonderful people of Visit Holland for hosting me in their beautiful country.