Every town here has one. A central square. In Sucre, it’s the ‘Plaza 25 de Mayo’. We go there most days to sit on the benches shaded by palm trees and watch the world pass by. Campesinos sell woven bracelets, bags and belts from brightly coloured striped blanket bundles that they sling over one shoulder. Ragged children sell corn to feed the pigeons, loose sweets … Continue reading Plaza 25 de Mayo. Sucre.
A feast for the eyes. Abundance. Vivid colour. It makes the mouth water and the stomach rumble. The amazing Mercado Central screams life and sustenance. Fruit and vegetables piled high and displayed like works of art. Huge pumpkins hacked into halves and quarters to reveal soft orange flesh. An old woman laboriously shelling fresh peas into a bowl nestled between her legs. Mini-mountains of mauve-skinned … Continue reading The Mercado Central of Sucre.
It’s like being a child. Back to square one. Frustrating and marvellous. In some ways not being able to talk to people is a blessing. You rely on other things, become better at reading body language, smile more, listen harder. Maybe it’s more about understanding the other, than getting your own message across. I cannot remember the time when I could not talk, and this … Continue reading Spanish and Sucre.
These cold winter days we are nesting in Amsterdam and I’m reflecting, reading and resting; looking back on past trips and planning future ones. So, for the next few weeks I’ll be travelling back to 2014 and reliving Bolivia and Peru. Modern-day nomads, like tortoises we carry everything on our backs. Experts at packing. Good at making do. There is nothing like the excitement of … Continue reading A Beginning. In Sucre, Bolivia.
An ordinary woman. An extraordinary woman. Miss Hilda Craven was born in 1892 and lived to the age of 102. She was ruled over by seven different British monarchs, and lived through two world wars. She saw the first step into space, the development of electricity, atomic power and the digital age. While the world was turning on it’s head and changing beyond recognition Hilda … Continue reading Mrs Smith.
You know you’re a house-sitter when you see a painting of a dog in one chair, and a girl in the other, and think ‘oh no, how sad’. Mary Cassatt’s girl does look a bit fed up. One of the perks of house-sitting – there’s always someone to share the sofa! Some let you drink your first cuppa quietly. Others perch stylishly on the edge. … Continue reading Couch-Sharing.
Istanbul offers disappointment in only one regard – the amount of scaffolding, tarpaulin and building work that engulfs the city. Even from our flat in Kadikoy we could see the scaffolding around a minaret of the Blue Mosque and decided we didn’t want to visit. ‘Go to the Süleymaniye Mosque’, Senem told us, and so we did. The Blue Mosque could not have been any … Continue reading Istanbul. The Süleymaniye Mosque.
Sīmīt are everywhere in Istanbul. Simple, sesame-encrusted bread rings. Some call them the Turkish bagel. Sold from stationary red-painted government-owned carts, and from men who roam, swirling them on a stick, carrying them in baskets, setting them down on makeshift trestle-tables, or balancing them niftily in wicker trays on their heads – they are impossible to escape. Arranged in impressive towers and pyramids, the jengo … Continue reading The Humble Sīmīt.
The Harem. Ugly Beauty. We were standing at the heart of four hundred years of Ottoman intrigue. If I half closed my eyes I saw black eunuchs and concubines, diaphanous fabrics, ewers, jewels, court musicians and the sultan’s dwarves. When I opened them I saw selfie-clicking tourists and tunnels of thick polythene sheeting hiding no-go areas. Not so much the soothing sound of water fountains, … Continue reading Istanbul – Topkapi Palace.
We can see the Bosphorus at the end of our street. It’s like living at the seaside. A five-minute walk and we’re at the ferry terminal; but that’s not counting the ten minutes we need to cross the road. Traffic in Istanbul is awful. A seething mass of buses, dolmuses, cars, sunshine-yellow taxis, all tooting and hooting, swerving, impatient to be somewhere. Most folk just … Continue reading Istanbul. The Morning Commute.