Eating out?

Mother at Large has tagged me on a food meme - the idea being that I share the details of five eateries in Glasgow that I would recommend. This is problematic for two reasons:

The cost of eating out here leaves me with heart palpitations. For what I would pay for a beautiful meal at a reputable restaurant with a sea view in Cape Town, I can get a deep fried pizza in Glasgow. Lucky me, this would probably arrive with chips.
Budget eating in Glasgow requires the bulk consumption of grease which, after the heart palpitations would probably just send me straight to the ER.

As you may have guessed we have not eaten out very often since we've been here.
This is not to say that Glasgow does not have some fine, grease-free establishments - just that I have not frequented them. That said, there are a few places we do go to occasionally that I will share:
1. Heart Buchanan on Byres Road - amazing deli, lovely (but painfully small) coffee shop and, if you're getting to the end of the month they will slice you very small pieces of cheese to suit your budget.
2. The Loft in Ashton Lane. Spacious, family-friendly restaurant with good pasta menu. I appreciate that they have no specific kids menu but do kids portions of anything on the menu. It kind of fits my ethos that children are people too. It's also right above the Grosvenor cinema which is handy. But beware of children racing around the wide aisles in Little Tikes red plastic cars. Newbies usually sport shin bruises for weeks.
3. Wagamama on West George Street. Okay, so this is a cheat - it's a chain, I know. But I love good Japanese noodles and they really are good here. Again, it's spacious - I like to breathe between mouthfuls of food and the service is fast but not pressured. The do have a kids menu, but its not the usual fish and chips fare. Bambi particularly loves their chicken noodles which come with a mandarin sauce and slices of apple. Yum.

and that covers my culinary experience of Glasgow. Other attempts in my budget do not bear repeating.
So, instead, I thought I would tell you about my favourite two establishments near Cape Town. Because I'm homesick. Again.


1. Le Petite Ferme, Franschoek winelands. Unbelievable food with incredible views. The Good Man and I have always gone here to celebrate our anniversary - well, when we're in the Cape that is. The form is to have a drink on the lawn in front of the restaurant while perusing the menu, then meander up to your table. Enjoy a glass of the house wine (from grapes grown on the estate) over a fantastic meal and then go for a quick lie down in the shade of a tree to contemplate your expanding girth as you consider the desert menu. Which is sufficiently tempting to draw you in for another round. There is no hurry here. Lunch is considered a three hour affair - only one sitting gets booked. Bliss.
2. The River Cafe, Constantia Uitsig. When the Good Man and I had to introduce our parents to each other in the week before our wedding, this was the estate that we trusted with the food. Of course, this auspicious occasion called for the auspicious big brother of the River Cafe, the award winning Constantia Uitsig Restaurant. But now, dust having settled, we prefer the more casual ambiance of the Cafe. It's strictly a breakfast and lunch affair. Tables are arranged on the terraces and the menu features food that is familiar but always with an interesting twist -perfectly prepared and presented. And the wine shop next door isn't half bad either...

I see much opportunity in this tag. I challenge ('cos lets face it that's what tags really are):

Gwen

Katie, and

Pepette

who may well be able to shine a more informed light on the Glasgow eaterie scene. And its about time I learned!

Reluctant Memsahib - although may I request your recommendations are for Nairobi eateries??? Cheeky, I know

Debio - 'cos I'm hoping to spend a wee bit of time in Dubai soon too.

On a completely different track, my big brother in South Africa is going shark cage diving tomorrow. Now how many of you can say that?!

Smeaton in Poetry

Got this on email today - have no idea who wrote it. Someone Scottish I would imagine.

Twas doon by the inch o' Abbots
Oor Johnny walked one day
When he saw a sicht that troubled him
Far more that he could say

A fanatic muslim bastard
Wiz doin what he'd planned
And intae Glesca's departure hall
A Cherokee he'd rammed.

A big Glaswegian polis
Came forward tae assist
He thocht "a wumman driver"
Or at least someone half-pissed

But to his shock nae drunken Jock
Emerged to grasp his hand
But a flamin Arab loony
Frae Al Qaeda's band

The mad Islamist nut-case
Had set hissel' on fire
And swung oot at the polis
GBH his clear desire

Now that's no richt wur Johnny cried
And sallied tae the fray
A left hook and a heid butt
Required tae save the day.

Now listen up Bin Laden
Yir sort's nae wanted here
For imported English radicals
Us Scoatsman huv nae fear

Okay, so it's not quite Rabbie Burns...

Local Heroes

The Scottish press today is full of stories of heroism.

At the top of my list is Alan Johnston. Released after a four month ordeal following his capture in Gaza, he handled the media surrounding his release with grace and appreciation. He has a point. The support from the media in campaigning for his release was phenomenal. He was able to hear about their support on a radio he had from two weeks into his captivity, which he makes clear was a powerful 'psychological boost'. He could barely have shunned them in the hours following his release.

But just imagine spending four months in solitary confinement - the last three without exposure to daylight and then, quite suddenly, being thrown into a media circus. Most of us would have been stunned, meek, timid. Instead he was articulate and grateful, highlighting the plights of other hostages and apologising to his family for the stress he had caused.

He even had light moments, getting a quick haircut in an effort to lose what he referred to as 'that just-kidnapped look'. And promising to stay out of trouble. 'I couldn't bear to ask you all to do all that twice, just imagine the embarrassment.'

Being captured and incarcerated doesn't make a hero. But this is a man who lived in Gaza for three years before this incident, reporting for the BBC as sensitively and factually as any journalist I have seen. That's brave.

Now, he is handling his release with such dignity that I have confidence he will make some good come from what must have been a nightmarish ordeal. But it may be in the background. He is quoted as saying, 'You are about to see a rapid decline in my profile. I'm sure that if you hear from me again it will be in the most work-a-day, normal, BBC, journalistic context. The Johnston family is about to go back to the obscurity in which it was extremely happy for about 45 years. '

Mr Johnston, I do hope to hear your voice on the BBC World Service in Kenya.

And then there is a local hero of an altogether different mould. John Smeaton, the baggage handler who brought down the terrorist in Glasgow airport may claim to be no hero but 1000 pints at the Holiday Inn say otherwise. He says he was only doing what anyone else would have done in similar circumstances. Um, am I the only one who fears they may not have tackled a potential suicide bomber if given the opportunity.

You're one brave Weegie, Mr Smeaton.

Safe as houses

Before I came to Glasgow, I anticipated that our time here would feel safe. By European standards, Glasgow doesn't have the best reputation for crime, but by the standards of most places I've lived it's really secure.

We chose to live in a nice southside suburb where people may twitch their curtains, but would never look inside your unlocked car. The residents of this wee corner of the world sometimes complain that nothing ever happens here but after years of electric fences and endless petty theft that suits me just fine.

I have felt safe here. I walk back from the station after dark on my own sometimes and we have even been known to leave our back door unintentionally unlocked from time to time (please don't tell my landlord), without incident.

And then, this afternoon, two people drove a vehicle into the check in area of Glasgow airport. It ignited, they were arrested and, although significant damage was done to the building, nobody was hurt. Actually that's not quite true. The two people in the car were taken to hospital with burns - I'm finding it difficult to feel too much pity for them right now.

The police now suspect that this is an act of terror linked to the discovery of two car bombs in London yesterday. And the UK is on full security alert.

I think it is human to feel a little less safe when terror breathes down our necks like this. But is it right? A terrible thing happened today. But will I be in any greater danger tomorrow than I was yesterday, when I felt no fear at all? Perhaps, but probably not.

Sadly, the success of terrorism depends on that 'perhaps' - the human response to an unpredictable event. In absolute terms, far fewer people will be directly effected by terror attacks than will have their lives effected by the fear these incidents generate. And then terror wins.

I passed through Heathrow on my way back from South Africa in August last year. It was the last time this country was on high alert and the launch of the liquid-in-hand-luggage restrictions. What struck me was how everyone just got on with it. The queues were unreal and the rumours very frightening. But the great British public know about queuing and developed a quiet camaraderie in the face of it all. There was no panic.

So, no. I am not going to bed afraid tonight. It's something I learnt while living in Scotland.

Cheap wine and a three day growth

It all started when Bambi had just turned one. Our wee gazelle was an early talker and had several multi-syllabic words under her belt by her first birthday. She could also sing sentences. Yes, sing. She couldn't talk in sentences but could sing full song verses. Strange, but true.

So there we were driving somewhere (I know not where) when our little cherub piped up with,

Cheap wine and a three day growth, oh yeah!

A long look was shared between good man and good woman and Cold Chisel was summarily ejected from the CD player.

All of a sudden we were faced with the not insignificant challenge of finding music for the car that would not result in a visit from Child Services. And that we could bear to listen to as well. Bambi favoured her Rhythm Time CDs. These were sweet to start but got increasingly annoying with each turn of the wheels on the car.

I discovered Dan Zanes (very bearable) and Laurie Berkner (sometimes catchy, sometimes not so much). All seemed on track until my daughter got a lift in a friend's car and came home demanding the 'Doo doop' song. At first I thought she'd been listening to the Andrews Sisters, which seemed odd but innocent enough. It then transpired that my dear friend Janet had been playing the Fratellis for my daughter's listening pleasure. And the 'doo -doop' in question was the opening refrain to Chelsea Dagger.

To be fair I rather enjoy the Fratellis. They're a Glasgow outfit with an upbeat indie sound that now forms the soundtrack to my time in Scotland. That said, their lyrics can get a wee bit hinky. For example I may get concerned if Bambi starts a rousing chorus of She gets naked for a living, she aint afraid of giving, ah huh... in the aisles of Tesco. Or lets rip with He's been out for days, in a deep malaise in her nursery school.

But, for now, enough of me is relieved for the respite from Baa Baa Black Sheep. She can have her doo doop CD. I'll just hum along loudly.

Scary things

The night before Easter, my normally confident little Bambi announced that she was 'a bit scared' of the Easter Bunny. It transpired that she had seen two people in bunny outfits handing out eggs and (do give a child credit here) thought something was amiss. As tempted as I was by the thought of a sugar-free Easter, I felt that some Easter eggs should make it into the fray (not the least for me!) and began negotiations.

She was not buying the story about the human sized bunnies being fake - this was clearly what differentiated the Easter Bunny from normal bunnies. Extra height and reticulated thumbs are quite obviously what gives him his supercharged chocolate producing powers. Eventually we promised to not let him into our house. But, if it rained, he was allowed to leave any offerings inside the storm door. One should always take care not to let one's chocolate offerings get soggy, you understand.

Then, several weeks later, she announced that she was scared of Barney. This made more sense. A large, purple dinosaur would freak me out too if I hadn't made the whole person inside connection. Don't let those catchy tunes fool ya!

But then, when I asked her what she thought Barney was going to do to her if she met him, she told me that he would tickle her. Exuberant tickling by a large purple dinosaur....hmmmm. Okay, fair enough. Again we decided that, should Barney ever visit our street we would simply not let him into our house and take cover in the pantry.

Today I took Bambi and Granny to see The Wiggles - Live in Concert at the Royal Concert Hall. Her first foray into live theatre was in the form of four loudly dressed Australian men. I'm still not too sure how I feel about this. I had imagined something more highbrow. Carmen for Kids, or The Nutcracker perhaps. At least Dan Zanes. But then he didn't make it to Glasgow.

Anyway, before spending a fair whack on tickets I asked her if she was scared of The Wiggles.

'No Mummy. They're men. Like Daddy.'

Just wait till the Good Man hears that he's a hip-wiggling, primary colour-wearing, Aussie accented singer of itty ditties. At least in the eyes of his daughter.

A note to Hubris

I got my first critical comment yesterday. I suppose, I'm glad to get it out the way. And just to twist the knife in my already bleeding heart, here's what it said:

Whilst your blog is undoubtedly well crafted and funny, I am sad that you are having such a miserable time in Scotland. Obviously this is down to the fact that we Scots suffer from a lunacy, perhaps caused by cerebral hypothermia.

I wish I could apologise wholeheartedly on behalf of this miserable little country. Undoubtedly things are far better in SA. Unquestionably I am proud of a nation which in the last week has stood up against Trident, the War in Iraq, and environmental rape. Personally, I am more passionate about these issues than the temperature.

Please don't waste your time here being miserable and blogging about it. Go out. Meet some people. Learn some things.

Hubris

So, there I was, bracing myself to take it on the chin – I have, after all, been a bit of a moaner – when there came a twist in the tale. Hubris turned out to be a good friend. Well, I use the phrase loosely - she was a good friend yesterday and we'll work our way back there with time. I will not lie, I was really hurt that she aired her grievances on this, my soapbox.

But, as we went through the awkward tribal dance that is making peace, she did make one valid point (well, maybe more than one, but that's as much generosity as I'm prepared to show while the wound remains raw). I have not once mentioned anything of the hospitality, kindness and friendship I have experienced since moving here. So, dear Hubris, here are some of the things I love about my current home:

• I live on the best street in Glasgow. It's a row of terraces, which means that my neighbours live one wall away. In my street I am surrounded by people who are always ready with a cup of sugar or an hour of babysitting. People who take my mother sightseeing when she visits and who love my daughter. We share our wine and we share our woes. In my street live my Scottish family. They keep me in laughter. And, today, one kept me in tears.
• Glasgow is a city of parks. Beautiful parks with ponds and play areas filled with wee Scottish children who are sweeter for their sometimes unintelligible accent. The parks change with the seasons. Most of all I love Autumn and Spring, periods of transition and promise which we don't really get in South Africa.
• I secretly love that my Bambi is developing a Scottish accent all of her own. The way people speak here has a way of adding a twinkle to even the driest dialogue. If she loses the accent, I pray she keeps the twinkle.
• The arts are valued. Until now I have lived in countries dealing with such basic socio-political issues that the arts have been a very small blip on the social radar. In South Africa it is extremely hard for even the most talented artists, musicians and performers to eke out a living. Here there is a plethora of theatres and venues, galleries and exhibitions providing to an appreciative and discerning audience. Love it.
• Everything is available. Always. Except Soba noodles. I hear they can be hard to find.
• The history. Old castles, fortresses and priories, meticulously maintained and just waiting for a visit from Princess Bambi and I.
• My friends, who have also become Bambi's friends and their children who have become mine. Together we watch them play, explore and learn and get to do some playing and exploring and learning of our own. I fear the effect the loss of their presence in our lives will have, when the time comes to move on.

There is more, dear Hubris. But maybe that can be for another post.

Can I moan again now?

Things to do in Glasgow when it rains

It's raining again. It started on Friday and hasn't really stopped since. With every mizzy little drop I curse the weather gods who have (and this is truly painful) chosen just this moment to shine on Cape Town.

'We've got the most gorgeous sunshine here at the moment' exclaimed the Good Grandmother on Saturday. The Good Brother informs me that his family spent the weekend playing action golf and braaiing at Silvermine. Well fantastic! Jolly happy for you I am!

We stayed in, mainly, with a brief escape to the local deli for lunch and a spirited excursion to a soft play area to give the wee 'un a run around. And watched the London Marathon on TV on Sunday. Which was in London. Where the sun was bloody shining.

But enough moaning. If there's one thing the Scots know how to do its keep themselves entertained while its raining. Observation leads me to believe that some of the more popular activities include getting completely po-eyed at one of the (very) many pubs, playing bingo and spending vast amounts in shopping malls (which often contain bingo halls and pubs). But here are three of my favourite things to do in Glasgow when it rains:

Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum Recently renovated and absolutely magnificent. The collections and displays are really impressive but its the building itself that gets me going. I just feel so small every time I visit. And the wee 'un loves it. Not just for the dinosaurs, elephant and giraffe. No, not even for the interactive shoe museum where she can gleefully try on shoes for hours on end. But mainly for the grand flight of stairs where she can descend like a princess, wave to her adoring fans and talk to the imaginary friends floating above her head.

House for an Art Lover Before moving here I never realised the depth of art and design heritage in Glasgow. I always thought of Glasgow as Edinburgh's less glamorous dockyard mate who swore a lot and wore loud clothes. Yes, I had probably watched a bit too much Billy Connelly but we digress. Presiding over Glaswegian design history is the figure of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. He did a bit of everything - architecture, furniture design, interior design and at House for an Art Lover it all comes together. It was built in the early 1990s, over 60 years after his death and is based on his entry to a German design competition. This is its brilliance. It feels no constraints of tight budgets and planning regulations. It is what it was designed to be - a house for an art lover.

Glasgow Science Centre I'm a sucker for a good interactive science spot - a fact I've discovered since visiting silverfish shaped dome on the banks of the Clyde. Even the wee 'un got to enjoy the echo tunnel and wind tunnel, the illusions in the Alice through the Looking Glass display (now closed) and the magnetic experiments. She didn't have a clue what it was all about mind you but who can resist a ping pong ball that floats on air?

Of course, the sad thing is that I'm thinking about these things now. On Monday.

Extreme-ly beautiful Scotland

I've just reread my previous posts and noticed that they both seem a bit whiney and pitiful. Actually, I'm not sad at all. Insecure, uncertain, a bit stressed. But not sad. It would be nice to know where I'll be living in 6 months time. But not essential. Glasgow's not so bad.

Take this last weekend for example. We went to the Trossachs. Beautiful lochs, lovely hills, gorgeous forests. The wee 'un had a fine time splashing about in her wellies and crawling over ruins, safe since the 1200s. And the previous weekend we were in Pitlochry in Perthshire. It reminded me a bit of Victoria Falls - except there were no falls (and least none on THAT scale). And it was considerably colder. And all the people were white. Okay, so not so very like Vic Falls after all. But it does have a few adventure centres where you can go white water rafting, abseiling and a few other 'extreme' activities. - which you get at Vic falls too.

I'm not too sure how this 'extreme' trade works here. In southern Africa things can be pretty gung-ho. When I went rafting the Batoka Gorges we were given a briefing, a short how-to intro and then pretty much told not to drown as we threw ourselves out of the raft on the first rapid. I managed to get myself pinned under the raft (very scary). 'Oh! I forgot to mention. Just let the raft slide over you and grab the rope on the side as it goes past.' added the guide as I regurgitated a few litres of the Zambezi. Yes. Helpful.

When we paddled down the Orange River we were allocated canoes and told to go down river feet first if we fell out. Advice on the Breede River included the gem, 'If you see a snake in the water don't try to touch it or hit it with anything.' No problem there.

But here everything is governed by health and safety. So how does that work. Are extreme sports subject to rigorous checks and balances. Not very extreme. I suppose its a bit like rollercoasters. A bit of a thrill but really quite safe. Except for one other thing I've noticed since being here. Not all that many people can swim.

Planet Glasgow

You would think that, having grown up in Cape Town - a developed city (although not without its social issues) - Glasgow would be an easier transition than Lusaka. But that really hasn't been the case. It all looks vaguely 'right'. The roads are generally well surfaced and the shops are well stocked (not to be taken for granted after Zambia) but there seems to be a social code that I don't quite understand. Glaswegians are friendly right enough. And the sense of humour is fantastic (Billy Connolly is only unique in that he is famous!). But people don't just drop by. And families don't mingle with other families on the weekend. And the children all know how to play indoors...

Then there's the languge barrier. Catherine Tate did a great skit with David Tennant for Comic Relief where she questioned his authority as an English teacher given that he 'spoke Scottish'. Now there's nothing wrong with Mr Tennant's Scottish. His is of the genteel, clear, don't-we-all-wish-Dr-Who-was-Scottish type of Scottish. But there is another type that comes at you like rapid fire and leaves you taking cover as you wonder whether your mother has just been insulted or whether you're simply in the wrong queue. At these moments I am certain the tardis has landed on Planet Glasgow.

But the thing I find the most unsettling is that people don't say what they mean. There's a niceness that flies in the face of honesty. People seem to avoid confrontation with zeal! But they'll complain vigorously amongst themselves. So I never quite know where I stand. Are people really being nice to me or are they just afraid I'll fight back if they tell me I'm breaking the social laws. I suspect this may have something to do with the soft focus pocket of southside Glasgow where we live. If the newspapers are anything to go by, brutal honesty can be found elsewhere in this city.

Here we go again

Well, we left home (Cape Town) in 2002. I drove to Zambia with our dog who was ill at the time. Somehow driving 3000kms through Africa made more sense than putting her on an aeroplane with a heart condition.

We spent three fantastic years there. Travelling to the bush, living the expat dream. Okay, so there were moments of challenge - heat, dust, putse flies, malaria. But our daughter was born there so, all in all, a good time.

And then we moved to Glasgow. Since we've been here my father has passed away, my father-in-law has had a heart attack and we've been cold. Very cold.

And now, as the sun emerges and the weather begins to warm, with promises of lochs to be swum; as islands with romantic names like Skye and Iona beg to be explored, we are preparing to move on again. Such is the life of the nomad.

I'm not sure how long we'll still be in Scotland - could be three months or six. But it's unlikely we'll have another summer here. Please share this one with me.