Ah Genoa

Flying south to Genoa from London takes us over the Alps - spectacular, jagged, icy peaks. As the mountains tumble into the Mediterranean, we are suddenly banking over Genoa. The pilot and this correspondent nervously search for a spot that is level and long enough to land.  Fortunately, and without my help, he finds it, and we land to a plummy British Airways welcome to Genova.

What a city! Beautiful ancient buildings cling to the hillsides surrounding the Porto Antico. The Mediterranean is ablaze, radiating brilliant light onto the pastels of the city, its cupolas and castellations, made homely by washing strung between shuttered windows. Turning into the old city from the port feels like coming inside, so quiet and dim and still compared with the bustle and glare of the port.

The city is a delightful maze of narrow old lanes, winding their way up the hill from the sea. They are cobbled and surrounded by four storey buildings – lanes so narrow that we move into single file to pass or to dodge a flatulent Vespa.

There are countless small shopping streets, selling shoes, clothing, jewellery and antiques interspersed with tiny bars, restaurants, bakeries. Occasionally, the narrow street opens to a piazza, with street-side restaurant. In early November, the weather is mild and locals rule the streets, not tourists. Genoa invites you to poke around, wander, follow your nose.

Turn off the shopping streets and you quickly find quiet residential lanes, or street-girls leaning bored against a wall, or sitting astride a stool at a door.

Walk on a little, foccacia Genovese in hand, and the old town opens up into the world heritage listed palazzo and streetscapes of Via Balbi and Via Garibaldi. These exquisite seventeenth century residences of the wealthy and the royal are breath-taking, with grand street frontages, huge internal colonnaded piazza and gardens. We visited the Palazzo Reale, now a museum with the rooms as they were when the Palazzo hosted Naploeon for a state dinner in 1805.

For our dinner, we crossed from the hotel to a restaurant with room for perhaps twenty. We walked past displays of fresh seafood to be welcomed by a mustachioed waiter, whose English was significantly better than our combined Italian. The seafood antipasto, pesto and veal with porcini went with a dry Italian white for us. The kids found happiness in carbonara, bolognese and chocolate icecream, served on linen tablecloths with flair and charm.

Genova is a reminder that Italians live with their history, in it, on it and around it. Very little is locked up – the place wouldn’t work if it was. This is one of my favorite places.   

Around London

inspired by the egyptian exhibits at the british museum

duffy's inspiration

canal little venice

notting hill saturday morning

pub off oxford street

tower bridge

beefeater tower of london

Randy near Abbey Road in Little Venice

On our last morning in London, Hugh and I went a-walking. There was a tube strike and the traffic was appalling. We saw double-decker bus lines that, in Hugh's words, 'went on as far as the eye could see'. In our very up-market neighbourhood, the bentleys, jags and ferraris were moving at less than our leisurely, hand-holding walking speed. (I hold Hugh and Caity's hand every chance I get). We saw a few stiff upper lips a-quivering and heard exotic horns a-blowing. It was good to be out.

We have been staying in Little Venice, about 15 minutes from Piccadilly Circus on the bus, named for its canal. The canal is small, but perfectly formed. It still carries lots of narrow-boat traffic and is a delight to walk alongside. So we did.

The canal disappears under Edgeware Road for some distance, then surfaces again. We followed it for a time, marvelling at the narrow-boats that people made home, before turning away for our first destination - Abbey Road. 

Remember that album cover, with John stepping out on the pedestrian crossing in white suit, Ringo following, then Paul, mysteriously in bare feet, with George last? Hugh photographed me there doing the same. The motorists that stopped seemed to be having a very bad day, dealing with the extra traffic and mugs like me. I crossed the other way for another shot. I spent some time explaining what we were doing and why to Hugh, starting with who the Beatles were.

Then we walked along to the site of the first, but not last, raunchy bit in this blog. Have you ever wondered about the origin of the word 'randy'? Neither have I, but stay with me. It was, apparently, common for pubs in Georgian England to double up as brothels. The Warrington, built in 1857 on Randolph Street, around the corner from us, was one such establishment. And if you were up for a bit, it came to be said that you were 'randy', as in Randolph. Is all this true? Not sure, but Gordon Ramsay's 'gastro-pub' in the Warrington likes the yarn. 

We hopped on a slow bus to join the girls and Matt for 'We will rock you' a West End, Ben Elton tribute to Queen.    

I smell like Winston Churchill

One of the depressing things about international travel is the globalization of brand and product. To see not only the usual suspects, like Apple and Starbucks, but also Armani, Chanel, Sony, Foot Locker, Burger King and golden arches at every turn. Not that these things are bad, just ubiquitous - and dull and uninteresting for that.

This sameness especially overwhelms me at airport duty-free lounges. I swear, spin me around in the airports of Singapore, London, Bangkok, Amsterdam........and I would not have a clue where I am, nor would it matter. The merchandise would be identical.

For that reason, Penhaligon's the perfumer is a delight. It is a tiny perfume maker near Covent Garden at 18 Beauchamp Place, London. Established in 1870, when people really needed perfume, Penhaligon's seems to have changed little. To quote the very delightful, only slightly stuffy young lady who attended us, 'Penhaligon's does not follow fashion'.

She wasn't kidding. Among their treasures, 'Blenheim Bouquet', created in 1902 on commission from the Dukes of Marlborough, was a personal favourite of Winston Churchill. It is a 'citrus scent, with black pepper notes, supported by alpine woods'. Winston drank like a fish, smoked cigars from breakfast until bed and reportedly had issues with personal hygiene . He was also rumoured to be a success with the ladies. I bought some.

Penhaligon's had just released 'Sartorial', to capture the essence of Saville Row. Sort of floral, but with an edge. Rich, but diminshed, like a banker after the GFC.

You know, these may, or may not, be the greatest perfumes and aftershaves on the planet. Waft three card slips in front of me and I can't tell the difference. But they are distinctive, they have history, they are presented by people who can tell the story and I really like them. And I smell like Winston Churchill.  

Although prepared for martyrdom, I preferred that it be postponed. Winston Churchill  Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference. Winston Churchill  Great and good are seldom the same man. Winston Churchill  He has all of the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire. Winston Churchill

Why Halloween should be bigger in Australia

I read that a Perth man had a heart attack while chasing kids who splattered his car with eggs as a Halloween stunt. A concerned neighbour said Halloween should be banned in Australia, that it is an American thing. I thought that too. I've changed my mind.

Travelling through Ireland, we were amazed at the prominence given to Halloween. Every shop was decked out with pumpkins and spooky figures. Plastic bats swooped from ceilings in the most unlikely places. Shops were flogging outfits, both scarily skeletal and spandex sexy, bulk trick-or-treat lollies - everything needed for a Halloween bash. How sad, we thought, that crass American commercialism had been so comprehensively consumed by the gormless Irish. Tsk tsk.

We moved onto London to find - more of the same. Fashion shop models sporting the latest in Halloween chic, Tescoes selling bins of treats. Clearly, something was on. We asked the owner of our apartment whether we could expect kids at our door trick-or-treating - yes indeed. We bought a huge container of chocolates - and waited.

Early in the evening, Hughie started lobbying to go out trick-or-treating, mounting every argument at a nine year old's disposal. The one I liked best was that if he didn't go now he would be too old. Syl and I can tough out these pleas when it is dark, cold and wet, but Matt is more susceptible. Hughie donned an over-size big brother's black coat, an orange beanie and, looking like a mugger, hit the streets with Matto in tow. They were back in an hour with a bag of goodies.

Over the next coupe of hours, spooks, skeletons and witches, the odd Darlek and try-hards like Hughie bashed on our door. At first, I just held out the bucket of chocolates and a rush of hands would pounce. Our supplies were rapidly depleted. I feared the worst if we ran out, that the crowd could turn ugly. We moved to war time rationing, solemnly dispensing two per child. Caity, realizing that leftovers would be hers, supported this conservative approach.

So what is this madness that has Ireland and England in its clutches? The answer is ancient celtic tradition! To quote Wikipedia it: celebrates the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darker half", and is sometimes regarded as the "Celtic New Year". The ancient Celts believed that the border between this world and the Otherworld became thin on Samhain, allowing spirits (both harmless and harmful) to pass through. The family's ancestors were honoured and invited home while harmful spirits were warded off. It is believed that the need to ward off harmful spirits led to the wearing of costumes and masks.

So, the puzzle isn't that Ireland gets into it, but that Irish Australia doesn't. Did those transporting poms suppress it? Did our Irish forebears have trouble detecting the light half from the dark half in the blinding Australian sun? Who knows. But clearly, this tradition harks back to our celtic roots. It is not an american transplant. Yes, I know, there's not a lot of tradition in spandex and cadbury, but Hugh has this morning thanked me again 'from the bottom of his heart' for letting him go. It was fun!  The dress-ups are great, the gifts voraciously received, the investment modest. Bring it on, I say.