If Cities Could Speak

We’ve been in Madrid for a couple of weeks now for a prolonged Easter visit. Besides the obvious (spending time with J’s family and feeling the sun’s dependable rays on my skin), the thing I relish most about coming here is the food.  This trip has been different in that I’m 19 weeks pregnant, which necessitates a more restrained relationship with food, what with all the NHS-recommended restrictions. Normally when I’m here I eat everything with joyful abandon, so it’s been hard having to second guess what’s on my plate and saying a temporary goodbye to certain food (for example, the slices of soft pale cheese that looked as if they would melt in your mouth that J’s grandparents put out as part of a pre-lunch spread).  Despite this, I have still managed to indulge on several occasions. We were only a few hours into our stay when I gleefully gobbled up my first  torrija  of the season, and I went on to eat at least three more throughout th...

  I ate my first torrija around six years ago in the kitchen of a house in Tooting where I rented a room. In those days I was sceptical about white bread and sugar, so I probably didn't relish this doughy treat as much as I could have, feelings of guilt polluting the pleasure of each sweet bite.  Now, I'm standing in the kitchen of a house in Madrid with my mother-in-law, sleeves rolled up and my relationship with food uncomplicated. It’s a hot Easter Friday and we’re making a fresh batch of torrijas to enjoy throughout the long weekend, as per tradition for this Spanish dessert. Whether you’re familiar with the name or not, you’ll almost certainly be familiar with the concept of torrijas. They’re Spain’s answer to French toast and are made by dipping sliced bread in sweet milk and eggs, before being fried in a deep pot of bubbling sunflower oil and sprinkled liberally with cinnamon-speckled sugar. There is something therapeutic about the repetition of it all, the dipping of e...

A fallen tree on the train tracks means we arrive at Walk Wood Wagon two hours late; mother nature making her power known. It’s still light though, just. We arrive at the clearing in the woods and plonk our heavy rucksacks down on the ground, taking in the sight of the black and white wagon that is to be our home for the next few days. The chimney poking out of the roof promises warmth on this February weekend in East Sussex and we’ve been assured by the owner that the small space heats up quickly once the fire gets going. There’s a deck attached to the wagon with an outdoor kitchen, a little table and two bright blue chairs that look garish against the earthy tones of the woods. The wagon is surrounded by a tangle of spindly trees that creak like an old man’s bones as they sway in the wind. There are fields visible beyond the trees too, great expanses of green that stretch out into the distance. We park ourselves on the chairs and gobble down cheap Tesco sandwiches that satiate the ap...

The sky is turning the shade of octopus ink by the time Vicente finishes running us through the idiosyncrasies of his army-green VW campervan. It is a T3 model - in other words old - and it will be our home for the next four days. Before we venture out into the Puerto del Rosario night, Vicente directs our gaze to the wall where a large white map of the island is pinned, strips of purple post-it notes stuck on various points to indicate desirable parking spots. I take three pictures of the map on my phone and we climb into the van. Jorge is driving; I am too nervous to go first and besides, he is more accustomed to driving on the right-hand side of the road.  It is a bumpy first ride (the darkness doesn't help) and we’re too flustered to venture far. We’re also hungry, the energy from our airport sandwiches dwindling. We park up on an empty road and venture into the city to find food. We’re not fussed about fine dining - the thought of securing a suitable place to park for the nigh...

Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash 2020 was the Year of the Rat according to the Chinese zodiac, and it’s certainly been the year of the rat for me. In English we call avid readers ‘bookworms’, named after the creepy crawlies that munch their way through precious paperbacks and hefty tomes alike. But in Spanish the term is ‘ratón de biblioteca’, which technically means library mouse but hey, it’s close enough. My point is I read a lot in 2020, and I wanted to share my 10 favourite books with you in case you’re in need of some inspiration for your 2021 reading lists (and also to refresh my memory since it was a long year).  Non fiction Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari I realise I’m late to the party, but this book is an absolute eye-opener. Harari takes the reader on a journey through the history of our species, looking at the cognitive revolution, the agricultural revolution, the unification of humankind and the scientific revolution in turn. He’s a brillian...

Puerta del Sol December is here, Mariah’s on the radio and I’m watching the Grinch on repeat. The Christmas countdown has officially begun. Although this year the height of festive fun is a socially distanced mug of mulled wine on a freezing terrace, we can hopefully look forward to cosy Christmas markets and spending time with more than six people next winter. Maybe we can even dare to dream about hopping on a plane or train for next year’s festive getaways.  When you picture spending a long Christmassy weekend exploring another city, I’m willing to bet Madrid doesn’t immediately spring to mind. But having visited Spain’s capital during the festive season for the last three years, Madrid at Christmas holds a special place in my heart. If you’re in need of some festive daydreaming or if you’ve gorged on enough German gingerbread to last a lifetime, here are four ways to get your Christmas cheer on in Madrid.  1. Get your churros fix at San Ginés There’s something about the com...