%)
Through the Magnifying Glass
Admission to Extraordinary Measures costs £8 for adults, £4 for children and £20 for a family. For more information, visit www.extraordinarymeasures.co.uk or call 01661 881636.
Another Night with a Knight
Stepping into Magic
Harry Potter's was a brick wall. Lucy, Edmund, Susan and Peter's was a wardrobe. Alice's was a rabbit hole.I, too, know of a magic portal in England.
It is called the Lewes Train Station. Some might argue that it's nothing special -- a place where London commuters wish away their hangovers and teens in school uniforms munch Walkers Crisps after school.
But I assure you that the instant I stepped out of Lewes Train Station, the ordinary world vanished. In its stead stood an enchanted landscape.
To my left was a small Norman castle jutting out of a cluster of heritage buildings. Before me, steep Station Street with its wee sidewalk nestling against two pubs. And to my right -- the most seductive part of all -- a dramatic chalk cliff capped with a toupee of verdant grass.
Just like that, I was under the spell of the South Downs. Read More...
Smitten with Britain
Five Best Sites in England for Period Movie Buffs
1. Castle Howard, Yorkshire – Home of the aristocratic Marchmain family in 2008’s Brideshead Revisited, Castle Howard makes for a complete day out (the house, multiple cafes, gift shop, gardens and adventure playground are open to the public), but it is still privately owned by a disgustingly wealthy family.
Read More...
The Ghost of Crimbo Past
What I wouldn’t give to hold the present in the telltale shape of a She-Ra figure! Or hear bells streaking through the backyard (a neighbour, pretending to be Santa - not actually streaking, but then again it was dark so who knows). Or decorate the tree with my two brothers, bickering over who gets to hang the coveted ornament known “The Cute Santa Claus.”
Today I’m thinking about the two Christmases I spent in Lewes, England, the little town that romanced my imagination and refuses to relinquish its hold on my heart.
Snow was a no-show, but the air was chilly and wet, which suits my Westcoast-born self just fine. The lead-up to Christmas was laden with traditional fare like mince pies, mulled wine and Christmas cake. Also, they say “Happy Christmas” instead of Merry Christmas, and Christmas is occasionally abbreviated to “Crimbo.”
While we’re at it, “pants” are underwear, “a minger” is an ugly girl and a “minge” is...not suitable to discuss in a Christmas blog.
Lets get back to nutcracking, shall we?
On Christmas Eve, the friendly, family-run pub I frequented (The Brewers Arms) was packed. One year, a friend and I brought our guitars and played carols as the entire pub sang along - a moment that could easily have been plucked from Victorian times. It was one for the mental scrapbook!
Upon the big day itself, the English tend to eat “Christmas Lunch” in the afternoon. Sometimes the main course is even goose (Dickens-approved).
I guess it goes to show that Christmas nostalgia needn’t be relegated to childhood - it’s a work in progress. So remember that this year’s Christmas is next year’s fond memory, and make it count.
What’s your most cherished holiday memory?
"Best kept secret in the Midlands"
Story and photos by Reb Stevenson
WARWICK, ENGLAND – A gang of grandpas doesn’t stand much of a chance against dragons, princesses and knights.
The Lord Leycester Hospital is wise. It knows that competing against its neighbour, Warwick Castle (a.k.a. “Britain’s Ultimate Castle”), is a losing battle. Especially since, to really pare things down, Lord Leycester Hospital is an old folks’ home.
And so it idles quietly near Warwick’s original town gate, never trumpeting its existence. In fact, the hospital doesn’t do any advertising, period.
“We are the best kept secret in the Midlands,” boasts Gerald Lesinski, the delightfully eccentric 32nd “Master” of the hospital. What makes him so delightfully eccentric? Well, for starters, the man uses a monocle. Read More...
The Curtsy Conundrum
By Reb Stevenson
Like Cinderella to the ball, I was going to Buckingham Palace to meet HRH Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh and the king of questionable quotes.
There was no doubt as to how I would greet him. The choreography had been outlined in an email entitled “Royal Protocol.”
“Upon being presented to HRH, it is customary to give a short bow from the neck for gentlemen and a curtsy for ladies.”
A curtsy!? My generation’s formal greeting consists of a sloppy salute and a rhetorical “howz it goin’?”
As usual, the guys were getting off easy with a simple head bob. They had that action down pat, as (from my understanding) it’s a customary response for males when they encounter one another at a urinal and feel the need to offer an acknowledgement but not an invitation to get beaten up.
A curtsy requires elegance, grace and balance. For there is a dangerously fine line between a delicate plie and toppling into a disheveled, bruised heap directly upon a royal’s polished shoes.
The occasion: some 70 travel writers from around the globe were summoned to Buckingham to ogle the State Rooms and learn about a new public exhibition marking the 60th anniversary of the Commonwealth.
To pique our interest even more (and, in my opinion, provide comedic fodder for our articles), Prince Philip agreed to make an appearance even though it happened to be his 88th birthday. Read More...
History on an Industrial Scale
PHOTOS AND STORY BY REB STEVENSON
ENGLAND–Any alumnus of Grade 10 history knows this about The Industrial Revolution: there were factories. Lots of them.
As for any other details, they're about as foggy as a breath of London air circa 1860.
The problem is that this event failed to stimulate the youthful imagination like the knights of the round table, the guillotine and – well, geez – even Sir John A. Macdonald seemed sexy in comparison. Yes, sexy.
So when I heard that this year marks the 300th anniversary of the start of the Industrial Revolution in England, my instinct was to fall into an instant coma on my desk.
But then, like a shrill recess bell, something jostled out of my stupor. It's called Ironbridge. Read More...
Britain's A Bargain!
By Reb Stevenson
Pounds: you either pack them into your wallet after withdrawing from a British ATM or pack them onto your thighs after depositing some fish and chips into your mouth. Either way, the term pound is usually greeted with fear and loathing. I cant offer any liposuction, but I can take a weight off your shoulders when it comes to stressing about certain expenses over the pond. You may already know that the pound is as lean as its been since the mid-eighties. But furthermore, there are mad (crazy) deals to be had in Blighty (England) even if youre skint (poor). No, Im not taking the piss (pulling your leg). So bone up on a few of these tips, switch off Coronoation Street and get spending, luv! Read More...
I'd Kill for Bill's
56 Cliffe High Street
BRIGHTON
100 North Road
The Big Picture: Scenes from a Storybook
To anybody who pooh-poohs England on a regular basis, citing overcast skies and drizzly days, I offer this: the delightful, magical place in Lewes, East Sussex known as Southover Grange. The grounds of this circa 1572 mansion are now a glorious public garden that explodes with colour every spring. I shot this view today while I caught up with my English friend Kat in the park. We watched children happily darting about the lawn without a care in the world. It was amazing to think that kids had probably been doing just that for some 400 years!
Note the manor house on the left and Lewes Castle up in the right hand corner. Oh - and the bored teens, who probably suffer from the universal affliction of not appreciating anything at all. It’s ok, I have enough of it to cover them.
The Big Picture: Whitechapel's Junk Hunk
I was strolling through East London (a.k.a. Jack the Rippersville) yesterday and couldn’t believe my eyes when I spied this chap who looked like he had walked into a London fog some time around 1892 and emerged from it in 2009. Wearing this retro outfit, he was standing in front of an old fashioned store organizing old books.
Was he a ghost? A jet-lag induced hallucination? An extra in a new Sherlock Holmes made-for-TV movie? No, he was Andrew Coram, owner of Beedell Coram Antiques (86a Commercial Street), which is probably more photogenic than it is shoppable.
I had a peek inside but couldn’t get much further than the front door as junk threatened to eat me alive from the feet up. Everything from loose film to portraits of dour Englishmen was haphazardly stacked every which way. So instead I settled upon simply talking to Andrew, who was just as eccentric as I had hoped. What else do you expect from a person who plucks a dirty bowler hat from a trashcan and wears it with such effortless panache?
Not Paying a Princely Sum
The classic double-decker bus drove right past the hordes of tourists and parked itself right there in Buckingham Palace’s front yard. I realize that might seem kind of redneckish. But hey, we’re talking about London’s fanciest home here.
Off the bus clomped a crew of travel journalists, most of whom are not accustomed to wearing heels (myself included).
For two hours only, we were part of the royal court, invited to a special reception with Prince Philip (that bloke who shagged Queen Elizabeth and created the quotable wonder that is Prince Charles) upon the occasion of his 88th birthday.
I was initially excited by the exclusive invitation. Then my thoughts turned to red-light blinking, siren shrieking, run-for-cover terror, as I remembered that, as a travel journalist, I possess the bank account of a travel journalist. My Balenciaga was somewhere around, oh, let’s see...(converting to British pounds here)...ZERO.
However, England’s wealth of cheap and fashionable clothing stores became this Cinderella’s fairy godmother. Some careful hunting produced this outfit, which rang in under $100. In other news, I’m relieved to report I was not arrested by the Buckingham fashion police.
Here’s a breakdown:
Dress, H&M: $40
Sweater, New Look: $30
Hat, Primark: $12
For more on my visit with The Duke of Edinburgh, stay tuned for an upcoming video...
Spoiled Alert!
Now I’m tempted to become a first class whore.
After years of lusting after transformer seats, awkward non-sleeps in upright chairs and one-night stands with various travel pillows, I finally got the chance to spend one helluva sexy night in British Airways Club World.
Though the flight to Heathrow was just six hours, I probably got about five hours of solid sleep,
Upon landing, Club Worldlies can access the Arrivals Lounge at Terminal 5, where showers, more breakfast, internet, even more breakfast and suit-pressing are available. All of which increase your chances of feeling vaguely human when you land.
No walk of shame for me this morning, baby.
The Big PIcture: Flipping England
Three things I love:
The English Countryside
A Nice Dollop of Sunshine
Sheep that Mind Their Own Business
Speaking of which, Flip just released HD versions in Canada, which excites me tremendously. I’ve got myself the Flip Ultra HD, which I shall be testing out next week when I visit London, Edinburgh and Glasgow.
A Tale of Three Households, Part 1: Ripley Castle
Try Ripley Castle in North Yorkshire, England, where the ancestral paintings span 700 years. The breathtaking property - now open as a museum, has been continuously inhabited by the Ingilby family since 1309. The current Ingilby is Sir Thomas (see portrait, below), who still lives in an apartment within the home.
The rest - including 2,000 acres of land - is open to the public. So much for the days of hunting, fishing and sneering away the afternoon.
“The aristocracy has changed so much in the last 60-70 years,” guide Eric Campbell tells me. “He’s inheriting a business, really.”
On the upside, everyday paupers like yours truly now get to drink in all the splendour. Ripley Castle is loaded with neat features such as the library,
Another curiosity lies in the lovely wood-panelled Tudor Room: the PRIEST HOLE, a hiding place for those turbulent times when it was illegal to be Catholic in England (Francis Ingilby was a covert priest, you see).Bald? It prescribes “Take three frogs, fry them alive in a pot and apply to your head.” (Thinking I might have to patent this formula, if only so I can brand it FROGAINE).
I got bored.
But I suppose that’s nothin’ to complain about when you consider Francis’ fate. His Catholicism was eventually exposed...and so were his guts: he was hung, drawn and quartered (it’s 16th century England, what did you expect, 15 hours of community service?!)
Cadbury Secrets
By Reb Stevenson
It nests temptingly near cash registers, fits neatly in the palm of your hand, and incubates a satisfying embryo of goo.
The Cadbury Creme Egg: like clockwork, the ubiquitous Easter confection reappears each Spring.
But, despite its dependability, there is still a shroud of mystery surrounding the Creme Egg: just what is that filling? Why does it vanish after Easter? And is there a chocolate hen involved?
You’ll find the answers at Cadbury World in Bournville, England.
Read More...
Ramble on (The South Downs)
This past Sunday, I had the pleasure of rambling to from Lewes to Glynde (about 1 hour) with my English friends Julian and Andy Thomas. Andy is a presenter on Rocket FM and journalist Julian practically lives on the Downs, rambling for hours almost every day when he’s not sojourning in Hong Kong.
The roast lunch offers a choice of turkey, beef or lamb with roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding (oooh yeah), carrots, broccoli, cabbage and other assorted veggies on the side. And it’s all smothered in a pool of gravy.
For more on rambling, visit www.ramblers.org.uk or watch my video from last September.
BB-Seen!
Thankfully, I was on hand to violently attack some dough for the camera.
Click HERE for the finished piece (forward to 2:10 if you can’t be bothered to watch all of it).
Wedgwood's Good
Like a child with no appreciation for the contents of Grandma’s cupboards (unless there are cookies in there), I was not particularly enthused about learning the back story of bone china.
But real live kids were there on a school field trip, and - shock of shocks - they seemed to be having fun. Yes, FUN - in a museum dedicated to plates and teapots!!! Had I gone mad, or were these batty English children completely drunk on tea?
Also, there’s a cafeteria that serves a Victoria Sponge Cake which, frankly, would win over anyone.
Tesco! Jacket Potatoes! Sheep! Ahh...
In a decorating move that’s both English and edgy, dozens of teacups dangle from the ceiling in the restaurant.
Artist Antony Gormley carefully arranged them across a 300 metre stretch of beach. Their foundations go 30 metres deep, which is handy since the tide ebbs and flows, submerging them completely at times.
The jet lag made for a hard night’s day. So, naturally, we ended up at the new Beatles-themed Hard Day’s Night Hotel. Surprisingly restrained for a place that could so easily have gone overboard (think the interior of The Yellow Submarine), this hotel is a four-star, classy homage to the Fab Four. The Lennon Suite complete with its own white piano, is the star of the show.The McCartney Suite is more like a backup dancer.
Winterlude in London
My favourite pics came from actress/writer friend Sara Bynoe (on the right, in uber cool jacket), a Canadian who is currently living in London. Bynoe and accomplice sculpted this awesome tree-hugging snowperson in the middle of a park. Upon closer inspection, you may note that she is clasping a bottle of maple syrup in her right mitt.
Sadly, soon after this photo session Bynoe reported the following:
“Mabel was victim of a random knifing/ beating in Clapham Common last night.
We awoke to only the remains of her bottom ball, the rest of her was destroyed. Now as the temperature rises to +2 and +4 tomorrow she will return to mother earth.”
Now that is one cold-hearted vandal!
Really Getting My Goat
Green, Mossy...and Goaty
Last Week: Wwoofing and Goofing Around
STORY
VIDEO
Week 1: Diary of a Lone Wwoofer-
STORY
VIDEO
Also, check out my companion video to week 3:
Sheep Shaggin' Boots
Wwoofing and goofing around
Last Week: Diary of a Lone Wwoofer-
STORY
VIDEO
Jan. 31: Getting my goat in the Lake District
Also, check out my companion video to week 2:
WWOOF, WWOOF!
WWHAT IN THE WWORLD IS WWOOFING?
DIARY OF A LONE WWOOFER: WEEK 1, OLD HALL
Next week: Seeking Wwoofing Justice in Nottingham
Jan. 31: Getting my goat in the Lake District
Also, check out my companion video to week 1:
Art Imitates Me
MY PHOTO:
VIRGINIA’S PAINTING:
Everyday Guy Jeans and Artsy Glasses
Many Englishfolk I know wake up on Saturday mornings to an assertive hangover. Depending on who/what is occupying the other side of the bed, a healthy dose of regret often enhances the nausea. And the solution is a fry-up washed down with hair of the dog.
I prefer to arise to The Guardian’s Weekend Magazine.
Extra! Extra!
Here is a round-up of some of my work that has appeared in papers across Canada over the past few weeks.
ST LUCIA: JAW-DROPPING ACCOMMODATION
ENGLAND: A TIMBERED TOURIST MAGNET
Rye’s Mermaid Inn is uber-haunted...by Tudorphiles like me.
BOX SET! Watch my video on Rye here.
TORONTO: 37 TAKES ON COOL
MADAGASCAR: THE MOVIE 
Read my interview with writer/directors Eric Darnell and Tom McGrath, who explain how a special trip to Africa inspired the creative team of Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa.
Blasting off on Rocket
I’ll be joining Rupert Lloyd Thomas on Rocket FM in Lewes, East Sussex tonight from 6-7pm GMT to discuss travel, Bonfire Night and all sorts of frivolous trivia.
You can listen live online at http://www.rocketfm.org.uk/streaming/index.html
We will also dial up Toronto musician friends Billy Reid and The Human Statues, do a little cross-Atlantic chin wagging and share some of their latest pop offerings.
Do tune in, it will be a blast!
Miss Stevenson meets Miss Potter
If you’ve been reading my blog faithfully, you will know that while I was in the Lake District of England last week, I had a whirlwind romance with the Brompton Folding Bicycle.
You think this is wet? Bah - I grew up on Vancouver Island!
One our little sojourns took place in the pouring rain (according to old movies, an essential component of any passionate love affair). Seeing as how it was a Saturday, we decided to do something wholesome and family-oriented. So we made our way via train, boat and bus to Hill Top, former home of one Beatrix Potter.
Youngsters still delight in Potter’s whimsical world. Photo by Reb Stevenson
You should know Potter as the original shrunken book author/illustrator. You may also know her from the 2006 Renee Zellweger biopic, Miss Potter, which is - quite frankly - a very sappy period film suitable for grandmothers and other assorted doily-weavers (yeah, okay, I loved it).
The brilliant thing about Hill Top is that when Potter died in 1943, she left the property to the National Trust, complete with very specific instructions on where each little knick knack was to be placed. And so you have a very authentic little house museum - complete with wood fire a-blazing!
If you fail, at least you tried. They just want you to put in your best effort.
And even if you fail to see the point of turn-of-the-century talking animals, at least you can appreciate the surrounding countryside, so tranquil and lush that it’s no wonder Potter derived so much inspiration from this setting.
The village of Sawrey, home to Hill Top and sigh after sigh. Photo by Reb Stevenson.
Nottingham and Cheese
The Brompton: Origami meets Bicycle
Getting my Goat
Reb and Lorna riding bikes at Sprint Mill Farm in Cumbria
Sprint Mill Farm near Kendal, Cumbria is the place to get your goat. I’ve been here just two days, and have already sampled:
1) Goat milk (the polite way to put this is “an acquired taste”)
2) Goat butter (the polite way to put THIS is “gag!”)
3) Goat cheese (not shabby, not shabby at all)
4) Goat meat (surprisingly edible!)
Farmer Edward Acland and his wife, Romola, like many wwoof hosts, try to live off their own land as much as possible. So the on-site goats provide daily sustenance.
It is most welcoming and picturesque here. My cab driver must have thought I was nuts, the way I was babbling on about stone fences when we first pulled up to the early 19th century mill. But it is truly a sight to behold, this riverside dwelling. Brilliant, emerald-green moss seems to have a fuzzy grip on everything. And the cottage in which the Aclands live is is framed by verdant hills and is perpetually obscured by mist.
Grey and green abound in Cumbria
Wwoofing here is more like a vacation than anything: Edward’s philosophy on life is decidedly laid back and so wwoofers are only expected to work in the morning (and even that doesn’t start until 9:30am or so). More than anything, he likes to chat about sustainability and share what he has learned on this 15-acre, not-for-profit farm.
Yesterday Lorna (an English wwoofer) and I chopped up come comfrey using an old farm tool that could easily lop off a limb if misused. And today we rocked some brutal death-style scythes. Now I understand why that’s his accessory of choice: it’s part axe, part portable guillotine. All gothic power.
Today, Lorna and I rode into Kendal. I took the Brompton fold-up bike, and after a few wobbles fell in love with the funky contraption. Just like a relationship with a man, ain’t it?
More on the Lake District , Sprint Mill Farm and my ongoing consumption of goat in the days to come.
The stone is unforgiving, but the Sprint Mill farm kitchen is cosy and inviting.
My New Czech Mate
Hello from Nottinghamshire! I am in my second week of wwoofing at Trinity Farm in a small hamlet called Cossall.
Read on for more photos...
Mutiny on the Blighty
Constable Country!
A Very Tesco Breakfast
What is it? All Day Breakfast
Where is it? U.K.
Describe it: Celebrity chefs like Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay have done a lot to overturn England’s reputation for bad cuisine. On the flip side of the coin you have this not-so-posh culinary masterpiece. The All Day Breakfast contains baked beans, sausages, button mushrooms, chopped pork, egg nuggets, cereal AND bacon. Yes, all in one civilized can. You may as well just dump in your cuppa tea while you’re at it.
How much? 98 pence (about $1.88 CAD) at the grocery store.
Old Hall Short
Who Let the Wwoofers Out?
Me, Karen from Illinois (or is it Margaret Atwood? You decide) and Niels from Germany.
I’ve just completed my first day wwoofing on this rather picturesque farm near Colchester, Essex.
In case you’ve never heard of wwoof, it stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. The only connection to dogs is that you may well be working like one.
Wwoof is a scheme in which you exchange your brawn for food and accommodation. Sometimes, you’re camping or living in a “caravan.” But at The Old Hall, wwoofers sleep in this awesome old manor house:
No sooner had I arrived than a cup of tea was thrust into my hand (how British!), and I was led on a tour of the property.
60 people (most of them adults, but a gaggle of kids as well) permanently call The Old Hall home, sharing an expansive, cheery kitchen where communal meals are taken. I’m told 80% of the ingredients are generated on the farm, including cheese, milk, and meat.
We volunteers are expected to work 6 hours a day, 5 days a week to earn our keep. Today we weeded a bean bed and hacked down some corn stalks like deranged, rural psychos (very therapeutic). I enjoyed wielding farm implements: it gave me an undeserved sense of power.
The other two wwoofers, Karen and Niels, were good company. Tomorrow, however, they’re off...leaving me all alone.
Not quite sure how I feel about that, since I feel a tad out of my element on a farm (don’t ask me whether I touched up my lip gloss at lunch). Like, if someone instructs me to feed the pig, I’m liable to help myself to a snack.
Born a Ramblin' Gal
A Medieval Commute
Up, Up and Away!
Goodbye Kensington Market, hello Kensington Palace!
Today marks the first day of my two-month travel writing blitz through England. Over the coming weeks, I’ll be rambling through the South Downs near Brighton, wading up to my eyeballs in manure as I partake of the WWOOF scheme on four organic farms and getting third degree burns at England’s largest bonfire night celebration on the fifth of November.
While I’m writing mostly for publication, I intend to keep this blog updated with little snippets, photos and videos. Plus, while a newspaper is equipped with sensible editors, a blog provides the opportunity to swear, be crass and overindulge in pathetic navel gazing that nobody cares about.
As I am about to board my British Airways flight to Heathrow, I thought I’d riff a little on FLIGHT WARDROBE.
First of all, anyone who wears jeans on a long-haul flight is a lunatic. Or maybe some people have a penchant for deep crease marks in their groin.
Here are my long-haul flight fashion tips:
1) Wear the most comfortable pants you can find. Lululemon has never failed me (see above).
2) Forget underwear. You don’t sleep in it in your bed, so you won’t feel comfortable trying to snooze in it on the plane, either (but sshhhh...keep this detail to yourself, this is not an ice breaker to use on a seat mate).
3) Layer! Layer! Layer! Today I am wearing a tank top, a short-sleeved hoodie and a jacket. Planes are notoriously chilly.
4) Open-toed shoes: are you crazy? (I’m staring at a dude with exposed piggies as we speak. Guaranteed that halfway through the flight he’s shivering and swathing his popsicle toes in the airline-issued blanket).
5) Sweater vests: a must if you’re on Stephen Harper’s campaign jet.