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Look At The Plates
When travelling, there’s a long list of advice people give about how to find a good place to eat:
Eat where the locals eat
Avoid menus with photos
Look for short menus
Check Google reviews
Avoid restaurants with someone trying to pull you inside
All of that can be useful. But there’s another signal that’s quieter and surprisingly reliable.
Look at the plates.
When travelling, there’s a long list of advice people give about how to find a good place to eat:
Eat where the locals eat
Avoid menus with photos
Look for short menus
Check Google & Trip Advisor reviews
Avoid restaurants with someone trying to pull you inside
All of that can be useful. But there’s another signal that’s quieter and surprisingly reliable.
Look at the plates.
A hallmark of quality - flowery plates. Koh Kood, Thailand.
If the plates are old, patterned and slightly mismatched, you’re usually in the right place.
Not modern white restaurant plates - this can be a red herring. Not colourful crockery. Not uniform stoneware chosen by an interior designer. The good places often have plates that look like they’ve been there forever.
Floral prints. Gold rims slightly faded. Different patterns mixed together. The sort of plates that feel like they might have come from someone’s grandmother’s cupboard.
Veronese bollito misto - Locanda Castelvecchio
And that usually means something important. It means the restaurant probably wasn’t designed first and cooked in second. It grew slowly and. It’s probably been serving food long enough that the plates have simply accumulated over time.
Places like this tend to prioritise; home cooking, regular customers, continuity. They don’t generally do it as a concept, branding, or pure aesthetic.
Bowls of goodness in good bowls, Kuala Lumpur
Of course, pre-planning for this is not always possible. Sometimes you only notice the crockery when the food arrives and the plate lands on the table. And when that moment does come, it often brings a quiet feeling of relief. You sit back comfortably in the chair and think, “Ah. This is going to be good.”
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Paradise Isn’t Always Quiet
A loud rumble of a vehicle passes close to my right side as I walk along the dusty, dry street, narrowly avoiding uneven slabs of pavement and stepping over open drain covers.
Welcome to the hustle of southern Sri Lanka. A place where beautiful seas and beaches sit in uneasy tandem with the overcrowded coastal road. Where nature is in direct competition with humanity’s relentless pursuit of growth at all costs.
A loud rumble of a vehicle passes close to my right side as I walk along the dusty, dry street, narrowly avoiding uneven slabs of pavement and stepping over open drain covers.
Welcome to the hustle of southern Sri Lanka. A place where beautiful seas and beaches sit in uneasy tandem with the overcrowded coastal road. Where nature is in direct competition with humanity’s relentless pursuit of growth at all costs.
A simple walk to the shop for water often turns into an assault course for the senses. A Leyland Ashok bus hurtles through town at unnecessary speed, brushing the already heavy air across your body with even greater intensity, as a seemingly endless fleet of tuk tuks passes by asking if you need a ride.
After almost two weeks away, the prospect of returning to the beach brings a flicker of excitement.
It doesn’t last long.
Ashok Leyland Bus - A Sri Lankan menace
I’d read the beach would be busy with people drawn by the turtles, but I hadn’t expected quite this. Masses of people huddle around the giant animals at the shoreline, lured in by food bought from beach vendors and tossed into the shallows. Visitors crowd around, phones raised, inappropriate poses readied and edging closer and closer.
On one occasion my wife pulls a plastic bag (used for the aforementioned food) from the water, left drifting where a turtle might easily have swallowed it. Nearby, she gently but firmly tells a woman to stop pushing one of the animals for a better photo.
It feels wrong. Upsetting. A little hollow.
A circus, not the quiet encounter with wildlife I had imagined.
It reminds me that travel isn’t always soft edges and easy beauty.
Relaxation at Ahangama Secret Beach
Two days later we finally find a beach that ticks the most important boxes: quiet, safe and calm. We decompress almost immediately. Each sip of the chilled king coconut from the nearby beach hut a literal tonic to the heat exhaustion.
The repetition of sea-sunbathe-sea-hydrate becoming a seductive mantra for relaxation and unwinding. The day passes slowly and upon returning to the main road, there’s almost a feeling of the outside world being one of calm. And then it hits you again - the offers of a tuk tuk ride, hurtling blue buses and weaving mopeds. The sea breeze is behind you and it’s a race back to the comfort of the air conditioned room for respite.
The cycle continues for a few days and we settle into a nicely compromised daily ritual. Morning light and walks. A cafe. Then to the beach before returning for a rest and then braving the busy streets once more for our evening meal.
Respite at The Kip, Ahangama
We depart the south coast and head to Udawalawe National Park and the following day take a safari.
Our jeep crawls through winding jungle roads past tropical birds and groups of monkeys who look like that incredibly ugly bloke we all know. Over bumpy tracks into vast watery plains with colourful peacocks and gurning water buffalo (there’s the ugly man again!).
And finally, the king of Udawalawe. The elephant.
We see a few lone males and small family groups along the way, but nothing beat the final roll of the dice when we turned down a quiet back road and stumbled upon a small herd eating and bathing in the muddy water.
Total bliss just sitting in silence. The only sound being the spraying of water and mud onto their hot brown skin, watching these beautiful creatures go about their day peacefully from touching distance.
And at that moment I realise just how much noise we had been carrying inside and what paradise really means to me.
Elephants bathing in the mud, Uduwalawe
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Pettah Go Early
Long before the crowds and chaos, there is a moment of calm. A stillness. An unexpected beauty.
My tuk tuk comes to an abrupt stop outside the Jami-Ul-Afar Mosque in Colombo’s Pettah district. It’s early on a Sunday morning and I am here to take some photos of this colourful area before it all gets too much.
The air is heavy following a downpour overnight. The clouds are thick and grey and puddles linger at the side of the road. I step over one to reach the relative safety of the pavement across from the ‘Red Mosque’, a jewel in Colombo’s architectural crown.
Long before the crowds and chaos, there is a moment of calm. A stillness. An unexpected beauty.
My tuk tuk comes to an abrupt stop outside the Jami-Ul-Afar Mosque in Colombo’s Pettah district. It’s early on a Sunday morning and I am here to take some photos of this colourful area before it all gets too much.
The air is heavy following a downpour overnight. The clouds are thick and grey and puddles linger at the side of the road. I step over one to reach the relative safety of the pavement across from the ‘Red Mosque’, a jewel in Colombo’s architectural crown.
The road between me and the mosque is quiet. A few locals pass by and I’m conscious of their glancing looks as I pace up and down, trying to find my amateur photographer’s best angle to show off the beauty of the tiled building before me.
The ‘Red Mosque’. Jami-Ul-Afar, Colombo
While I do so, a small crowd approaches the mosque and I realise it’s a wedding photo shoot. I hang back and muster the confidence to take a photo of the happy couple, stood outside the entrance. I watch on with no real purpose and then, after a short while, find the nerve to attempt a shot of the pair holding hands, through the window of a passing tuk tuk. I somehow manage it first time and I’m quietly thrilled that my fairly limited technical ability with a camera pays off.
I walk on and head to explore the surrounding streets. Down 2nd Cross Street it is still quiet, but things are beginning to stir as market vendors set up their stalls for the day. I have a clear view of the jumble of signs fighting for attention from the buildings lining the street, advertising everything from clothing, to watches, to baby items.
The happy couple through a tuk tuk
King George VI red postbox, Pettah.
I’m relieved I came early and have the bandwidth to take it all in without the crowds. This time of day is maybe my favourite for getting out and walking. Right on the cusp of things starting to happen and a sense of possibility and excitement for the day ahead. A literal awakening of the day.
At an intersection I spot a red King George post box and think briefly of home. As I turn around, I see yet another newlywed couple having their photos taken right in the middle of the street. I hold back to give them space and continue on along Prince Street.
Love amongst the chaos, Pettah. Colombo.
Market porter on the move. Pettah Market.
Market porters now pass with increasing regularity, pushing goods on large trolleys and dodging the big puddles. A Chinese tour group of photographers walks by and says hello as I duck into the small passageways off the main thoroughfare, marvelling at the vivid red signs and retro typography.
Then I notice my smugness beginning to fade. I’ve made the rookie error of not checking my camera battery before setting off.
I loop back towards the mosque via 1st Cross Street. An old lady walks ahead of me, framed by towering yellow cranes at the nearby port. I’d almost forgotten I was by the sea, but being out at this time has given me the space to observe and to settle back into myself.
My camera battery finally dies and I hail a tuk tuk. It winds its way through the ever-busier streets as traffic begins to build and another day properly starts.
The smugness, briefly lost, has returned.
The towering yellow cranes of the port
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Fruit, Heat, Repeat
It’s hot and humid and we are stood uneasily inside a badly lit shop. Sharp knives are carelessly left on any flat surface that can be found. A large spider crawls up a wooden beam directly behind my wife and settles, part-camouflaged beneath a heap of pineapples. There’s a bucket of discarded leaves, skins and chopped ends of fruit rotting away as flies circle its circumference.
Welcome to the fruit stall.
Since travelling we’ve become attuned to what’s in season and what each place does best, and have subsequently spiralled into some kind of unnamed fruit addiction. One that now quietly drives the intent of our days.
It’s hot and humid and we are stood uneasily inside a badly lit shop. Sharp knives are carelessly left on any flat surface that can be found. A large spider crawls up a wooden beam directly behind my wife and settles, part-camouflaged beneath a heap of pineapples. There’s a bucket of discarded leaves, skins and chopped ends of fruit rotting away as flies circle its circumference.
Welcome to the fruit stall.
Since travelling we’ve become attuned to what’s in season and what each place does best, and have subsequently spiralled into some kind of unnamed fruit addiction. One that now quietly drives the intent of our days.
In Thailand, mango is king. A serving at breakfast with yoghurt. A mango smoothie with lunch to cool off after a day at the beach. The ubiquitous mango sticky rice from a street vendor, shared as dessert from a plastic tray.
Mango smoothies, Koh Kood - bliss!
Dragon fruit, with its otherworldly shape and bright purple flesh speckled with black seeds. The tartness of passion fruit, enough to awaken the sleepiest mid-afternoon lull. Pineapple with its thirst-quenching sweetness.
Visiting a street market in the evening and grabbing a fruit smoothie for around 50p, freshly made in front of you, is now one of life’s simple pleasures. The quiet corner in a pub temporarily dethroned by a plastic stool in a makeshift seating area alongside endless rows of parked scooters.
Galle fruit market, Sri Lanka
In Sri Lanka, mango is readily available, but it’s much more floral in flavour. Something to be savoured rather than devoured.
Banana dominates here. Hanging from every nook and cranny of a stall. Big ones, little ones and even red ones. Sweeter and creamier than those I’m used to at home. A visit to the fruit vendor here often results in a free sample pressed into your hand as you navigate the busy streets.
Daily fruit stall rituals
Back at the fruit stall, the elderly Sri Lankan man is hacking away at a papaya, revealing pale orange flesh that reminds me of the hues of the sun setting over the Indian Ocean. The dark brown seeds are scooped away and forgotten. Eating the cool papaya feels like the perfect antidote to the most humid of days.
The stall holder hands us our clear plastic bag of fruity goodness, sticky to the touch. We pay and dodge our way back past a mound of bananas on the floor.
Another deal done. Another bag of tropical goodness secured.
The daily ritual of the fruit stall isn’t always pretty, but it is always rewarding.
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Setting Sun
Each day, everywhere in the world, the sun will set (extreme solstice points notwithstanding). Sometimes it’s visible, other times it’s hidden behind a thick blanket of overcast sky. On the motorway, outside your home, or at the beach. Often in places you’ll never return to.
The business of day-to-day life usually makes most of us forget this daily occurrence. Travelling allows permission to stop, and quite often provides the perfect canvas for it to project its palettes of reds, oranges, pinks and purples onto the most beautiful landscapes.
Each day, everywhere in the world, the sun will set (extreme solstice points notwithstanding). Sometimes it’s visible, other times it’s hidden behind a thick blanket of overcast sky. On the motorway, outside your home, or at the beach. Often in places you’ll never return to.
The busyness of day-to-day life usually makes most of us forget this daily occurrence. Travelling allows permission to stop, and quite often provides the perfect canvas for the sun to project its palettes of reds, oranges, pinks and purples onto the most beautiful landscapes.
It becomes part of the daily rhythm around which all other activities revolve.
“Shall we eat before, during, or after?”
“Accompanying beer, or not?”
“Are you taking your camera?”
Sunset in Koh Kood
My favourite sunsets are, unsurprisingly, by the sea. The reflective glow, the ever-changing tones on the glistening water as the sun gets progressively lower.
In Sicily, sat on the balcony of an Airbnb in Ortigia, it felt theatrical. Swallows murmurating above in a large mass of black specks, a fishing boat crossing the sun on the water as it headed back to the harbour. A glass of zibibbo in one hand, a fork loaded with fresh fennel and sardines in the other.
A sun set in serenity. Ortigia, Sicily.
In Koh Kood, sunset arrives quietly, as beach revellers reluctantly filter off home, leaving the odd person to swim in the cooling sea. A group plays volleyball, seemingly unaware of the spectacle behind them. Others cradle an ice-cold Chang and look out to sea, hypnotised by the changing of the day.
Wherever you may be, sunsets don’t ask anything of you. They don’t care what you’re doing. There’s no judgement, no measure of your performance, no requirement that you have everything figured out. They simply come and go, reminding you that today is all but done.
Bang Bao beach, Koh Kood, Thailand.
And that’s somehow comforting. A reminder that endings can be gentle, even when your life is in transition.
The sun sets not as a conclusion or a performative display. Just as a pause. Tomorrow it rises once more, and we do it all again.
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Pizza, Oh Dear
I interrupt my usual travel writing (no, this is not a travel blog) with something closer to home.
Pizza.
Or more specifically, the endless wave of pizzerias now blighting the UK, spreading across cities like an unstoppable beige tide of sourdough, San Marzano tomatoes, and buffalo mozzarella.
I interrupt my usual travel writing (no, this is not a travel blog) with something closer to home.
Pizza.
Or more specifically, the endless wave of pizzerias now blighting the UK, spreading across cities like an unstoppable beige tide of sourdough, San Marzano tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella.
This week in Sheffield, where I’m from, a new opening arrived in the city centre: Forbici. Already operating in Manchester, it has now headed over the Pennines, bringing yet another Neapolitan-style offering to a city already flooded with them.
And it made me wonder: is there any limit to this copy-and-paste way of feeding people?
The ubiquitous pizza napoletana
Sheffield, of course, is behind London, which at least now has a more diverse range of pizza sub-genres. London has moved on to Roman slices, New York folds, Detroit trays (admittedly there are also a couple of these in Sheffield), Chicago deep dish, New Haven cult imports, and whatever people are currently calling “London style”.
Sheffield, meanwhile, is still stuck in the mid-2010s hype cycle of all things Naples.
Back to Forbici, though, who have perhaps realised that the Steel City doesn’t exactly have a shortage of pizza napoletana already. And instead of marketing themselves on the familiar holy trinity of best dough, best tomatoes, best mozzarella, they appear to have opted for a slightly more bizarre left-field approach.
Their angle is this:
Come here… because you cut your pizza with scissors… Forbici also translating to scissors, in English.
Apparently, this is the Neapolitan way - Here was me thinking the Neapolitan way was either folding it up portafoglio style and eating it on the street, or sitting down with knife and fork, slightly burned fingertips and a look of mild superiority.
In Sheffield, the world leader in manufacturing blades, perhaps the scissors are the most locally authentic part of the experience?
If anything embodies the sheer mass of identikit Neapolitan pizza options now boring many UK cities, it is surely this.
My first question is: why would anyone care about the method of cutting pizza?
People have been managing perfectly well for decades. Entire generations have survived without artisanal scissors. I admit I’ve even used them at home myself, on the rare occasion I buy a supermarket pizza for the oven. It works. It’s fine. It’s not exactly a culinary revelation.
My second question is: how sustainable can this kind of marketing possibly be?
A restaurant built on kitchen scissors feels unsustainable. What happens when the novelty wears off? Do they move on to machetes? Hedge trimmers?
Ironically, their pizza does look very nice. I’m sure it tastes very good. I have no issue whatsoever with Forbici.
My issue lies elsewhere.
A refreshing change - pizza romana al taglio
It’s the lack of imagination. The sense that outside London, the dining scene has largely become trapped in a loop: the same concept (see also, smashed burgers), the same aesthetic, the same language, the same slightly reverential obsession with Naples, repackaged again and again with some small gimmick taped on top.
And perhaps I’m being snobby. Perhaps I need to loosen up.
But I can’t help feeling it’s a slightly sad reflection of where we are that hype for a new opening is now generated not by flavour, or originality, or even atmosphere…but by the utensils.
All that being said, I know full well that the next time I’m back in Sheffield, I’ll be yearning for one of Napoli Centro’s Maradona-stamped pizza boxes making its way to my door.
Pizzeria… Pizza, oh dear.
Pride of place - Diego Armando Maradona
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A Change of Pace
I am now in Koh Kood and shifting here has been a change of pace.
After the bustle of Bangkok, and the constant movement of travelling through Australia, it’s been quietly comforting to spend a couple of weeks in one spot. To wake up without needing to think too far ahead. To let the days arrive as they are.
I am now in Koh Kood and arriving here has been a change of pace.
After the bustle of Bangkok, and the constant movement of travelling through Australia, it is comforting to be spending a couple of weeks in one spot. To wake up without needing to think too far ahead. To let the days arrive as they are.
The good life: sunset at Bang Bao beach
Decision fatigue can creep in, even in the fortunate circumstances of travel. Eating out is a perfect example for us. In every new city, we seem to accumulate lists as long as our arms: places we’ve saved, restaurants we’ve read about, spots we don’t want to miss.
And then comes the strange work of it all. Checking menus. Opening hours. Availability. Mapping it onto the shape of the day. In bigger places, even dinner starts to feel like logistics and a chore.
I’m not complaining. We love it, genuinely. Seeking out the revered little trattoria, the neighbourhood bistro, the place that everyone swears is worth it. But after weeks of living that way, it becomes tiring in a way you don’t always notice until it lifts.
Only since arriving in Koh Kood have I felt that weight fall away.
Here, the choice is simple. Two or three places nearby, all serving good food, all more or less the same. The decision is made on mood rather than optimisation. You eat where you feel like eating. And that simplicity is oddly refreshing.
It’s a small reminder of how much quieter life is now.
Living out of a 47-litre backpack reduces the noise also. It narrows the options. It makes the essentials clearer. That doesn’t mean I want to live forever with so little, but it has shifted something in me: a renewed appreciation for how little is actually needed, and how much freedom there is in less.
I used to think freedom meant more options. More possibility. More control. But I’m starting to suspect it might be the opposite. Freedom might be fewer decisions, fewer distractions, and the ability to simply be where you are, without needing to maximise it.
A simple meal that will literally put a smile on your face
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Unfamiliar Familiarity
Familiar unfamiliarity is often a feature of travel.
A trip to New York turns a lifetime of television and film into reality. Manhattan becomes a walking set of “wasn’t this in…” and “isn’t that where…”. Paris and Rome carry a different kind of recognition, the inherited romanticism of the Seine or the Trevi Fountain, places we feel we already know long before we arrive.
Sydney offers those picture-postcard moments of familiarity on first visit too. The Harbour Bridge, so often a backdrop to New Year’s Eve news stories, watched from afar while the Australians celebrate and you wait for the clock to crawl round to that mate’s house party back home.
Familiar unfamiliarity is often a feature of travel.
A trip to New York turns a lifetime of television and film into reality. Manhattan becomes a walking set of “wasn’t this in…” and “isn’t that where…”. Paris and Rome carry a different kind of recognition, the inherited romanticism of the Seine or the Trevi Fountain, places we feel we already know long before we arrive.
Sydney offers those picture-postcard moments of familiarity upon first visit too. The Harbour Bridge, so often a backdrop to New Year’s Eve news stories, watched from afar while the Australians celebrate and you wait for the clock to crawl round to that mate’s house party back home. The Opera House, a view seen a thousand times and in-person, as is often the case, appearing smaller than you first imagined.
Sydney Opera House and a camera friendly seagull
But Sydney offers something else, something deeper and more disarming, particularly for a British visitor.
Not only do you hear British accents everywhere and Aussies drive on the left, but there are quieter clues too. Street names and statues regularly nod to Britain’s past. Queen Victoria in particular is everywhere, watching over parks, squares and civic buildings.
Then there are the streets themselves. Much of the architecture can feel uncannily close to home, especially on a wet day, when the light dims and the air turns heavy.
Elevated Aussie take on a terraced house
A walk along Liverpool Street (there we go again…) brings to mind Piccadilly Gardens in Manchester, a comparison that will no doubt upset several corners of the North West at once. The area around Kings Cross (oh, one more) echoes the seedier edges of Leicester Square. An evening walk after dinner in Paddington (ok, this is getting daft now…) provides an Australian take on the quaint terraces of Notting Hill.
The familiarity can become confusing, almost disorientating. Enough so that you find yourself seeking reassurance in small rituals. A pub. A pint. Australians, it turns out, do pubs exceptionally well, serving proper pints in proper glasses, often with the option of a pie, or a roast dinner alongside.
A Sydney boozer whose exterior reminded me of one you’d find at some UK seaside town.
Of course, this is not what visiting Australia is really about. But there is comfort in being on the other side of the world, in a subtropical climate and still being able to find a bacon sandwich. Familiarity, it seems, has travelled a very long way.
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Byron Bay
The sun rises above the horizon, spilling gold across the sea and over the hundreds of pilgrims gathered at the Byron lighthouse. A middle-aged Italian man begins singing the opening lines of My Girl. Not an obvious soundtrack for a warm, cloud-free January morning, but a welcome one nonetheless.
Long before the sun appears around 6am, the streets of this small but famous New South Wales beach town are already alive. People of all ages run, walk, and cycle through the quiet roads. Being outdoors and connected to nature feels like a default setting here, something that comes up again and again, and one of the reasons Australia, and Byron Bay in particular, feels so appealing.
The sun rises above the horizon, spilling gold across the sea and over the hundreds of pilgrims gathered at the Byron lighthouse. A middle-aged Italian man begins singing the opening lines of My Girl by The Temptations. Not an obvious soundtrack for a warm, cloud-free January morning, but a welcome one nonetheless.
Long before the sun appears around 6am, the streets of this small but famous New South Wales beach town are already alive. People of all ages run, walk and cycle through the quiet roads. Being outdoors and connected to nature feels like a default setting here, something that comes up again and again, and one of the reasons Australia, and Byron Bay in particular, feels so appealing.
Byron Bay lighthouse
Early morning sunlight has well-documented health benefits. It helps switch off melatonin, boosts serotonin activity, and supports mood, emotional resilience, and metabolism. I have always been more of a morning person, but time in Byron Bay deepened that connection to rising with the sun and getting outside as soon as possible.
Back home, mornings were often something to get through rather than enjoy. Coffee drank quickly, social media checked too early, the day already half spent before it had really begun. Here, mornings feel like an invitation rather than an obligation. Nothing is waiting for me except the light.
Good weather and beautiful surroundings help, of course, but a week of this routine left me feeling noticeably more energised, more positive, and sleeping better too. I notice it most in the afternoons. The familiar slump never quite arrives.
Sunrise at Byron Bay
Beyond the beach, Byron’s neighbourhoods unfold in quiet, tree-lined streets. Weatherboard houses sit lightly on their plots, all timber and verandas. Cafés and bakeries appear almost incidentally, corners rather than destinations, serving excellent coffee and improbably good pastries to people still in flip-flops or running gear. Nothing feels overdesigned. It is interesting in the way places become beautiful when they are lived in properly.
Health and wellbeing are a constant presence here. The stereotypical Australian instinct to be active is hard to ignore, especially around the beach, where it is striking how few overweight people there seem to be. Surfing, another well-worn cliché, is everywhere, but with a far broader cast than expected. Small children, older men, young women, and the archetypal surfer bro all share the same waves with little fuss or hierarchy.
Surfers at Tallow Beach
Australia also appears to have a refreshingly relaxed relationship with class. Byron Bay is sometimes described as “posh” or “stuck up”, which likely says more about the observer than the place. Anyone familiar with the UK’s deeply ingrained class consciousness would struggle to see much of that here. Even amid the wealth of Byron, there is an air of egalitarianism that is hard to miss.
As with most great places, however, it is the natural world that truly steals the show.
Tropical birds make sounds you usually only hear in David Attenborough documentaries. Koalas sleep lazily in eucalyptus trees while tourists peer hopefully into the canopy above. The koalas barely acknowledge the attention. Curled into themselves, they sleep through the excitement, entirely uninterested in being seen.
Dolphins are visible from the coastal path, just offshore in turquoise water. Lunch at Beach is accompanied by an unexpected sighting of a pod of whales a few hundred metres out to sea, as we tuck into the ubiquitous Moreton Bay bug. No sharks during our stay, thankfully, though a tree snake, luckily non-venomous, pops out to say hello as we check in to our Airbnb.
By the time we leave Byron Bay, waking early no longer feels virtuous or productive. It simply feels normal. As though this is how days are meant to begin and life is meant to be lived.
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Rain…I don’t mind
Usually, a rainy day would put me in a bad mood. Perhaps surprising, given I come from the north of England, but it’s never something one really looks forward to, especially when travelling in the hope of sunny climes.
And yet, on this latest trip, I’ve noticed a shift in mindset. Rainy days no longer bring the same sense of mardiness they once did. Of course, they can be a welcome relief from the heat, but more importantly they feel like nature’s way of saying, have a day off.
Usually, a rainy day would put me in a bad mood. Perhaps surprising, given I come from the north of England, but it’s never something one really looks forward to, especially when travelling in the hope of sunny climes.
And yet, on this latest trip, I’ve noticed a shift in mindset. Rainy days no longer bring the same sense of mardiness they once did. Of course, they can be a welcome relief from the heat, but more importantly they feel like nature’s way of saying, have a day off.
A wet day means fewer possibilities. No long sightseeing loops, no afternoon spent lying on a beach, comatose under the sun. Instead, it gently forces your hand towards the quieter things. The life admin. The laundry. Sorting through the ridiculous number of photographs you’ve taken. Or finally sitting down and finding your rhythm with writing again.
Like life itself, even the most idyllic stretches have a gloomy day now and again. And while it’s never wise to ignore how we feel, rain has become a small reminder that time still passes, plans still shift, and there are often quiet positives to be found in moments that initially feel like a disappointment.
Sometimes, all you need is permission to slow down.
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Unfamiliar Kitchens
Eating out is one of the great joys of travel. I love food and I love trying as broad a range of things as possible while away, ideally local and ideally seasonal. We spend a lot of time planning what and where to eat on our trips to make sure we experience the best and most authentic food a place has to offer.
Sometimes, though, it is nice to make use of the kitchen where you are staying. A visit to the local market is always a must. It is one of the quickest ways to understand a place, its rhythms, its people, its priorities.
Eating out is one of the great joys of travel. I love food and I love trying as broad a range of things as possible, while away - ideally local and ideally seasonal. We spend a lot of time planning what and where to eat on our trips to make sure we experience the best and most authentic food a place has to offer.
Sometimes, though, it is nice to make use of the kitchen where you are staying and have a night in. A visit to the local market is always a must. It is one of the quickest ways to understand a place, its rhythms, its people, its priorities.
Then comes the kitchen itself.
A country kitchen at an Air BnB near Ragusa, Sicily.
Unfamiliar kitchens come with inevitable compromises. The blunt knife. The awful plastic chopping board, or worse, a glass one (which explains the blunt knife). An induction hob paired with a collection of pans that do not work on induction. Leftover salt and olive oil from previous guests. And, lurking at the back of the cupboard, the true heathen: balsamic glaze.
Cooking at home is an intuitive dance. Fridge to chopping board, to bin, to stove, back to the chopping board, then oven, sink, fridge again. A solid nine on Strictly. In an unfamiliar kitchen, this becomes the uncoordinated movement of a drunk uncle at a wedding. Where are the pans? Where did I put the garlic? Is this really the only knife they own?
Impatiently attempting to cook Swordfish an old outdoor grill
The fumbling intensifies if you decide to cook outside, or attempt to use an ancient wood oven. Spoilt by modern conveniences but instinctively drawn, like most men, to the primal appeal of cooking over open flames, you cannot resist. Hours are spent coaxing heat from wood and embers, trying to judge timings so that dinner does not quietly drift into midnight.
Serving presents its own challenges. No kitchen tongs. No proper serving spoon. Plates in questionable colour pallettes. Wine poured into a glass clearly designed for fizzy pop. It all pulls you out of your comfort zone, and somehow that is part of the appeal.
Once the frustration fades, you realise none of it really matters. A first-world problem, as they say. But it is a small and welcome reminder that travel is not all glamour and carefully curated feeds. Sometimes it is blunt knives, bad pans, and wine in the wrong glass. And somehow, that makes the experience richer, not poorer.
From an unfamiliar kitchen - nice ceramics and even some wine glasses, but a challenging cooking set-up
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Trattoria Aldo
We take a left from the busy streets of the market. Catania is as edgy as I recall - the dark grey buildings, narrow streets and looming Mount Etna giving it a totally different feel to the baroque hillside towns of the Val Di Noto, where we have just come from.
With the turn we enter a steer that is strewn with half empty boxes and litter from the market stalls and one which is far quieter, almost devoid of people. We quickly approach a sign saying ‘Aldo, piano no.1’ with an arrow pointing up a suspect looking staircase.
We take a left from the busy streets of the market. Catania is as edgy as I recall - the dark grey buildings, narrow streets and looming Mount Etna giving it a totally different feel to the baroque hillside towns of the Val Di Noto, where we have just come from.
With a turn we enter a street that is strewn with half empty boxes and litter from the market stalls and one which is far quieter, almost devoid of people. We quickly approach a sign saying ‘Aldo, piano no.1’ with an arrow pointing up a suspect looking staircase.
We head up and I try my best to look confident and unfazed at stepping into the unknown, all the while wondering if this is going to be worth the impeccable tip off I’ve been given to visit here.
Simplicity is king at Trattoria Aldo
Through some glass doors at the top of the stairwell and we are into a wood-panelled heaven (always a hallmark of a quality traditional eatery, in my experience), adorned with a mix of paintings featuring early 20th century Paris and in a shift in artistic taste, clowns. A smattering of Christmas lights flash to a sombre rhythm in the near-empty dining room. We are early to lunch by Italian standards and as such, pretty much have the place to ourselves.
We are seated at a simple table with a paper table cloth and passed a menu with a mix of typed and handwritten items. The service is prompt and we opt for the becaffico (meaning little fig-pecking bird) - grilled sardines stuffed with breadcrumbs, herbs, raisins and pine nuts. Orata (bream), tomato salad and the antipasto option, which at Aldo is a buffet option containing an excellent range of vegetable dishes such as grilled courgettes, caponata, fritatta, spinach, wild mushrooms and fried cauliflower, to name but a few.
Antipasti selection - a real bargain and a great way to eat
However, the best is yet to come as when we ask for a glass of wine each, the waiter tells us that we “might as well” order the half-litre carafe of wine as it’s only €4 instead of the €5 for two glasses. Not wanting to let stereotypes of tight fisted Yorkshiremen down, I eagerly accept. We chat about how ridiculously well-priced it is, for what turns out to be better than many white wines you’d pay at least twice as much for, by the glass, in a bar at home.
Our food arrives and we select our antipasti from the communal buffet table and dig in. Everything is so simply cooked, but to a very good level of quality. There’s no pretension here. The food does all of the talking and as we eat, we discuss that these types of places are far more enjoyable to dine in than many restaurants with a higher price tag, for a lower standard.
Our meal, including the excellent beccafico
It felt so connecting eating in a trattoria such as this, whose only opening hours are 7 am to 4 pm - a reflection of its position by the market and its main clientele. These are exactly the types of places I want to eat when travelling, as they’re unashamedly local, have tasty dishes at a very reasonable price and have the kind of aesthetic that’s now a dying breed.
Here’s to places like Trattoria Aldo continuing for many more years yet!
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A Perfect Entrance
Of late this blog has gotten a little travel heavy and that’s because of course, I am travelling. However, I’m acutely conscious that this is not a travel blog. There’s no intent to unseat Lonely Planet in telling you where to go, what to do, or what to think. Instead, our aim is to illicit thought, bring an alternative view, or take a dive into the less talked about.
Whilst staying in the rolling hills of the Sicilian countryside I just had to rewatch the Godfather trilogy and during Godfather II I was reminded how cool Robert De Niro, playing a young Vito Corleone looks. The baker boy hat, the brown herringbone jacket, the wool trousers - it’s almost like a lookbook for Engineered Garments, only cent’anni fa.
Of late this blog has gotten a little travel heavy and that’s because of course, I am travelling. However, I’m acutely conscious that this is not a travel blog. There’s no intent to unseat Lonely Planet in telling you where to go, what to do, or what to think. Instead, the aim is to illicit thought, bring an alternative view, or take a dive into the less talked about.
Whilst staying in the rolling hills of the Sicilian countryside I just had to rewatch the Godfather trilogy and during Godfather II I was reminded how cool Robert De Niro, playing a young Vito Corleone, looks. The baker boy hat, the brown herringbone chore jacket, the wool trousers - it’s almost like a lookbook for Engineered Garments, only cent’anni fa.
Robert De Niro as a young Vito Corleone in Godfather II
But, it’s not The Godfather II I wanted to cover here, it’s Mean Streets and specifically De Niro’s entrance in the film, which incidentally was his first major entrance on the silver screen.
My friend and I often talk about this scene when we’ve had a few beers and it turns to the inevitable conversation of film and tv.
Johnny Boy enters the bar arm in arm with two girls, already loud, already alive, already impossible to ignore. He is there to meet Charlie, played by Harvey Keitel, but the room belongs to him. The scene unfolds in slow motion, set to the raw opening of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” by The Rolling Stones. Brian Jones’ bass riff carries him forward as Mick Jagger howls, “I was born in a crossfire hurricane,” and suddenly everything makes sense. This character is going to be trouble. Charlie knows it - you can tell by his expression as Johnny Boy walks through the bar, and so, now does the viewer.
For my money, it is a perfect introduction. The character, the confidence, the absolute command of attention. All eyes are on De Niro, and rightly so. It is one of Scorsese’s finest moments, which is no small claim more than fifty years on.
Robert De Niro as Johnny Boy in Mean Streets
The Long Way to Scaccia
Some foods find you. Others you have to hunt for. Scaccia belonged firmly in the second camp.
I first came across it years ago, in a newspaper article I read. It mentioned this strange folded bread from the Ragusa area of Sicily; part pizza, part focaccia, part something entirely its own. Nobody I knew had ever heard of it. Even in the UK, where Italian food is popular, scaccia might as well not exist.
Some foods find you. Others you have to hunt for. Scaccia belonged firmly in the second camp.
I first came across it years ago, in a newspaper article I read. It mentioned this strange folded bread from the Ragusa area of Sicily; part pizza, part focaccia, part something entirely its own. Nobody I knew had ever heard of it. Even in the UK, where Italian food is popular, scaccia might as well not exist.
That only made it more intriguing. When a dish is that local, that unknown, my curiosity goes into overdrive. So I did what any food-obsessive would do: fell down a rabbit hole of half-translated recipes, regional blog posts and fragmentary instructions. I ended up stitching together my own version (recipe below), equal parts instinct and detective work. It tasted good, but I always wondered how close I’d come to the real thing.
Scacce Modicane - the slimmer, lighter sibling to that of Ragusa
And now here I am, in Ragusa, finally meeting the dish on its own turf. No substitutions, no approximations, no British flour pretending to be Sicilian. Just a bakery counter, a sheet of dough rolled out thin and fillings folded in with the kind of muscle memory that comes from doing something your whole life. Holding a slice warm from the oven feels like closing the loop on a quiet obsession that’s followed me for five years.
What’s struck me since arriving in this part of Sicily however, is how scaccia isn’t an outlier. It belongs to a whole landscape of baked goods that are so local they sometimes don’t even travel to the next town. In Modica you’ll see scacce Modicane (note the difference in spelling), which is a thinner layered version and less rich than that of Ragusa. Impanate (or ‘mpanette depending which town you’re in), resembling a cross between an empanada and a Cornish pasty; filled with cauliflower, brocolli or aubergine. Ten minutes over a hill and the display changes entirely: different shapes, different fillings, different vocabulary.
A selection of baked goods at Panificio Giummarra, Ragusa
It’s one of the clearest reminders of how hyper-local Italian food really is. In the UK we often talk about “Italian cuisine” as if it’s one unified thing, but here the borders are drawn at the nearest ridge. A bakery in Ragusa folds its dough differently to one in Modica. A tomato filling that’s standard in one town is unthinkable in another. Even the way loaves are knotted or scored seems inherited, more family tradition than written recipe. That’s the charm: food that has stayed local, specific and stubbornly itself.
And it’s not just the bakeries. Even pizza rewrites itself here. At Daniele Baglieri’s pizzeria in Modica, I watched every assumption I had about what pizza “should” be fall away. Lighter bases, different techniques and dough fermentation, toppings that respect the land rather than trends. It’s a reminder that just when you think you know Italian food, something new taps you on the shoulder. That’s the thrill of it, in a world where almost everything is available everywhere and known, there are still pockets of Italy producing things so local, so particular, that they feel like discoveries.
Outstanding, fresh and inventive pizze (Padellino & Pensa Tonda Romana) at Daniel Baglieri Pizzeria, Modica. A must try!
Scaccia sits right at the heart of that. A dish that’s pretty unknown outside of this corner of Sicily, somehow finding me anyway and now finally, letting me come to it and in my quest, unearthing a whole other plethora of wonderful baked goods to taste and try and one day recreate myself.
The delicious cross-section of a Scaccia Ragusana
My Scaccia Ragusana Recipe
335g semolina flour
160ml lukewarm water
1 & 1/4 tsp sugar
1/4 tsp yeast
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1/2 tsp sea salt
Flour for dusting
Mix the yeast, water and sugar and leave to sit for ten minutes. Then mix in the olive oil.
Separately, combine the flour and salt in a bowl. Add the wet ingredients and bring together. Knead for 5-8 minutes, until smooth. Add more water if the mix feels too dry.
Add the dough to a lightly oiled bowl and cover with cling film. Let it rise for approximately 2 hours, or until doubled in size.
Meanwhile make a basic tomato sauce and slice cheese/any other fillings (aubergine is popular in Sicily).
Heat the oven to full and roll out dough as thin as possible.
Fold and fill the dough using this video as a guide for the technique - https://youtu.be/CjJiVchocxA. Tuck underneath at the end to stop leakage.
Bake for around 50-60 mins at 200 degrees.
Let the scaccia rest for at least 5 minutes before cutting. Enjoy!
One of my prior attempts at Scaccia Ragusana - straight from the oven
A cross-section of my scaccia. Having now tried the real deal, I can’t wait to get home to tweak and develop my technique further.
Pandas and Poly Tunnels
Departing town and dodging Fiat Pandas making illegal, yet excruciatingly slow, turns. A BMW fails to stop at a stop sign and I am grateful to be on high alert. Cars sit double parked along the pavement, blocking a lane of traffic. It is apparently fine because the hazard lights are on.
The road opens and follows the coast, with Sicily’s industrial edges, present. Bland apartment blocks rise beside littered streets. You will not find this on TikTok.
Departing town and dodging Fiat Pandas making illegal, yet excruciatingly slow, turns. A BMW fails to stop at a stop sign and I am grateful to be on high alert. Cars sit double parked along the pavement, blocking a lane of traffic. However, it is apparently fine, because the hazard lights are on.
The road opens and follows the coast, with Sicily’s industrial edges, present. Bland apartment blocks rise beside littered streets. You will not find this on TikTok.
At last the autostrada arrives and we enter big sky country. The low December sun lights up the endless viaducts, each one giving a steady drumbeat under the tyres as we pass over the joins. The elevated view reveals mountains with the occasional farmhouse and its modern neighbours: wind farms, scattered across the hillsides.
The rolling hills of Southern Sicily, near Gela
The road narrows back to a single carriageway as we exit into bright light from a tunnel, carved beneath a hulking rock. Traffic slows behind a lorry loaded with oranges that cannot keep pace with Sicilian impatience. Drivers ignore the no overtaking signs and take their chances to continue at speed.
The landscape shifts again and we return to the coast. The sea is almost close enough to touch and the golden beaches look inviting to an Englishman, still in awe of twenty degrees in winter.
Another town arrives. Another cavalcade of Fiat Pandas. Another test of hazard perception.
The ubiquitous Fiat Panda
The pace of travel quickens and so does the scenery. Rolling hills appear that would not look out of place in the Peak District, if it were not for the expanses of vines now wrapped in plastic after the harvest. A tight bend later and it becomes a sea of poly tunnels protecting tomatoes, aubergines and peppers. Over the next crest it is orange groves, bright and ready for their moment on the market stalls.
Then, almost without warning, you glide through another coastal town and repeat the rhythm of the journey until Modica reveals itself with its steep ravine and beautiful hillside, basking in the golden December sun - a picture postcard scene that does make its way onto social media. The journey to reach it is something that should not be overlooked, because this is the real Sicily: a land of sudden change, of harsh contrasts and of pure life.
Modica, basking in the December sun
Eerie Erice
We’re driving through the outskirts of Trapani. A rain shower passes over as quickly as it came, a common theme for this part of the north western Sicilian coastline in late November. The windscreen wipers begin to slow and the sun shines bright, glistening off the road.
Monte Erice ahead of us, still shrouded in a heavy, thick cloud; brooding above.
We’re driving through the outskirts of Trapani. A rain shower passes over as quickly as it came, a common theme for this part of the north western Sicilian coastline in late November. The windscreen wipers begin to slow and the sun shines bright, glistening off the road.
Monte Erice ahead of us, still shrouded in a heavy, thick cloud; brooding above.
We begin the never-ending climbs of twists and turns up the mountain and I’m thankful for having hired a car with an automatic gearbox. We pass incredibly brave (or daft) cyclists making their way up 2,461 ft climb. The sun is glistening down on the city of Trapani, below and we have a clear view across to the Egadi Islands.
We begin to reach the summit and within a turn of a hairpin bend, the infamous cape of fog and mist that envelopes Erice in morning hits us. I make a bad quip about Erice being eerie as I pull into a car parking space by Porta Trapani that seems to have been marked out using a Smart Car as the optimal size of vehicle for its use.
We head up the steep hill from the car park in search of a sweet breakfast at the infamous Pasticceria Maria Grammatico. The slippery footpath like glass from the earlier downpour and horizon barely visible, we finally reach our target and some sugary, caffeine fuelled solitude.
It’s quiet when we enter and the feeling of being part of a noir tv drama series is only intensified by the wonderfully old fashioned decor of the pasticceria - wood panelled walls and a large collection of foreign currency and Catholic saints a backdrop to the large, sweeping counter that’s full of Sicilian treats.
We have our cappuccino and share a few bits from the counter - a still warm crema Genonvesi, a slice of Torta alle Amarene and piece of Crostata al Pistachio. Our eyes being bigger than our bellies, we wrap some away for ‘later’ and head out into the street, past the group of cyclists we’d passed earlier on the road up and into a now slightly clearer Erice.
The fog and mist lift to add even further sense of cinematography to an already picturesque town. We tread delicately on the slippery stone streets and reach the north-eastern edge of the town to be blown away by the dramatic landscape towards San Vito Lo Capo. Clouds suspended mid air and running quickly along the vista of the hills below and the sea beyond.
An incredible vista towards San Vito Lo Capo, from Erice
The eeriness of the climate and landscape only continuing as we walked around to Castello del Bálio where we stood above a blanket of swirling cloud, obscuring the view to the south and Marsala with just the odd glimpse of a field a couple of thousand feet beneath.
We continue walking back through the main heart of the town. Past a church with its doors open - a Virgin Mary statue illuminated in the doorway to welcome in visitors and along more winding street with dark semi derelict houses only adding to the mystique as the clouds and mist envelop the town once more. A cold dampness setting into the air.
The mist and noir sets in once more as we head back to our car
Erice was a truly remarkable place that surpassed all my expectations and if it hadn’t been for tiredness and a slight anxiety about the car being parked in a space that’d have been small for Noddy’s car, whilst being fully aware of many Italian’s inability to drive carefully, we would have stayed for longer. Alas, we left feeling grateful for the experience as we snaked our way back down Monte Erice.
I mercati di Palermo
Anthony Bourdain once said that the real heart of a place is found in its markets and that if you want to understand a culture, you should go where people shop and eat every day.
I have always agreed with him. Whenever I travel somewhere new, the market is my first stop. Spend twenty minutes wandering between the stalls and you get an instant sense of what is in season, what is local, and what you should be ordering later at dinner.
Anthony Bourdain once said that the real heart of a place is found in its markets and that if you want to understand a culture, you should go where people shop and eat every day.
I have always agreed with him. Whenever I travel somewhere new, the market is my first stop. Spend twenty minutes wandering between the stalls and you get an instant sense of what is in season, what is local, and what you should be ordering later at dinner.
Here in Palermo, returning to Mercato Capo and Ballaró has been every bit as exhilarating as I remembered from three years ago. Both run along narrow streets through the centre of the city, a jumble of makeshift stands and permanent shopfronts tucked beneath the golden stone apartments above.
It can feel like controlled disorder. Teenagers on mopeds inch their way down corridors of people. A car turns down the wrong lane and has to roll over a mountain of discarded cauliflower leaves to escape. Voices carry from every direction, thick with Sicilian dialect that hints at the island’s history with North Africa and the Middle East.
Music fills the gaps, especially at Ballaró where Italian pop blares from speakers and stallholders dance as they serve panelle con pane. One man I remembered instantly from our last trip, famed in my mind for turning meat with his bare hands, shouts a compliment at my wife with full theatrical hand gestures. Palermo knows how to put on a show.
It is a full sensory hit, equal parts spectacle and obstacle course. Yet this time, something is different. The heat has eased. It is late autumn now, a comfortable twenty rather than the humid mid thirties. And the crowds have thinned. Gone are the tourist groups drifting toward restaurants plastered with photos of lasagne. In their place are locals comparing prices, debating the best way to cook something, offering advice nobody asked for but everyone expects.
The produce has shifted too. Where figs, melons and aubergines once dominated, the stalls are now piled high with fennel, cauliflower, and the bright citrus that defines Sicilian cooking. Oranges everywhere.
With space to breathe, choosing what to buy feels more deliberate. Ideas come fast, matching the energy of the markets themselves. And despite the flood of possibilities, the decision more or less makes itself: swordfish, still local and still in season, paired with a crisp fennel and orange salad and finished with chopped pistachio from Bronte.
Simple. Obvious. Perfectly Sicilian.
Midnight in Sicily
Our plane begins its descent into Palermo. The curve of the bay glows on our left, a soft necklace of lights against the dark water, while the mountains stand brooding around the city.
Our plane begins its descent into Palermo. The curve of the bay glows on our left, a soft necklace of lights against the dark water, while the mountains stand brooding around the city.
We’re back in Sicily. The still warm November air hits us as we alight the plane - a small announcement that we’ve left behind the cold, wet, grey of England and arrived somewhere that shares more DNA with North Africa than with Rome.
We take a (dangerously) quick cab into the city, along the highway where the Judge Giovanni Falcone’s car was blown apart by La Cosa Nostra, in 1992. I recall to the last time I was here, reading Midnight in Sicily and learning how a place so beautiful could carry such deep scars. How the island is a complicated subversive web of criminality and the law and not always necessarily fitting the bad and good tags that you’d associate with either.
There’s something undeniably pleasing about driving into a city at night. Streets hushed and shrouded in darkness. A solitary window lit by the bluish light of a TV. A tiny orange ember hovering outside a doorway where someone smokes. Traffic lights flipping colours like painted brushstrokes. A bar glowing softly, making you wonder what stories are unfolding inside. Landmarks illuminated like canvases in a quiet gallery, stripped of the crowds that swarmed them only hours earlier. A couple stepping out of a warm trattoria into the night, still slipping on their jackets.
Then there’s the AirBnb arrival ritual. You step out of the taxi hoping you gave the driver the right address, because nothing looks the same as it did on Google Street View. Nothing ever does at night. There’s the familiar dance with key codes and lockboxes, followed by the discovery that the building has no lift and both 20kg suitcases need to be hauled up four flights of narrow, badly lit stairs.
But then you open the door, and the place does look like the photos. Relief washes in: you haven’t been conned, and you can finally stop. After hours of travelling, of queuing for security, of boarding by standing in stairwells for no logical reason, of buying that unnecessary airport pint because what else is there to do for forty minutes and you can finally exhale.
The trip starts now. After a night of sleep in a strange bed, tomorrow it will truly begin.
Nostalgia Without Memory
I’ve recently been watching Jimmy McGovern’s Accused on Netflix. This drama from the early 2010s sees each episode focus on a trial, at court. The crimes committed in each episode vary, but the consistent theme of each challenges the viewer’s perception of morality, versus the law. It’s an excellent show and is a bit of a who’s who of British acting - Sean Bean, Olivia Colman, Stephen Graham, Sheridan Smith and Peter Capaldi all feature, to name but a handful of household names. But that’s not the focus of this post.
I’ve recently been watching Jimmy McGovern’s Accused on Netflix. This drama from the early 2010s sees each episode focus on a trial, at court. The crimes committed in each episode vary, but the consistent theme of each challenges the viewer’s perception of morality, versus the law. It’s an excellent show and is a bit of a who’s who of British acting - Sean Bean, Olivia Colman, Stephen Graham, Sheridan Smith and Peter Capaldi all feature, to name but a handful of household names. But that’s not the focus of this post.
It dawned on me when watching Accused that Jimmy McGovern also wrote on the no longer with us Scouse soap, Brookside, which ran from 1982 to 2003. The latter part catching my attention - as in my mind, it had ended in the late 90s, or just on the turn of the millennium.
This got me thinking about our opinions of events. In this case, a tv show and perhaps how outdated and wrong we can be. How the mind plays tricks and how our memory isn’t as good as we probably think.
Sticking to the Brookside theme I began to realise I could remember little about it, so why was I so surprised that it ended so ‘late’? It was always on in our house growing up. I remember the opening credits, with shots of Liverpool and then drawing to a close (on the close, ironically) with a final dead shot of the Brookside cul-de-sac; one which reminds me of a street on the estate next to where I grew up.
I can recall some of the characters. Jimmy Corkhill, who seemed to be the local hard man and his daughter (can’t remember her name), played by Claire Sweeney. Simbad, a greying fat middle aged man. With the only other people I can recall being ‘Tinhead’, a young man who for what I recall got progressively more involved in crime - culminating in a shoot-out with a police helicopter at a petrol station and his girlfriend, whose character name I’ve also forgot, played by Jennifer Ellison.
That’s pretty much it… Something I apparently was present in viewing regularly up to the age of around 13.
If you’d have asked my opinion on Brookside before I was thrown into this self-imposed memory exercise, I’d have said it was a good, gritty show that had a more realistic edge than other soaps. But, the last few paragraphs prove I don’t really know anything about it, so how can I come to this conclusion?
Why are we so overconfident about things that we can’t actually remember? Is nostalgia simply misled feelings that we’ve mislabelled as facts? Does it even matter?
Maybe nostalgia isn’t about remembering correctly. Maybe it’s about remembering how something made you feel, even if the details have slipped away.
The Pink of Passeggiare
If you’ve been wondering about the splash of pink across Passeggiare, here’s the story.
The inspiration comes straight from Italy’s most iconic newspaper: La Gazzetta dello Sport. I didn’t want this to look like just another blog — the choice of pink was deliberate, a nod to something uniquely, unmistakably Italian.
If you’ve been wondering about the splash of pink across Passeggiare, here’s the story.
The inspiration comes straight from Italy’s most iconic newspaper: La Gazzetta dello Sport. I didn’t want this to look like just another blog — the choice of pink was deliberate, a nod to something uniquely, unmistakably Italian.
My first memories of La Gazzetta go back to childhood, catching Football Italia on Channel 4. For many of us of a certain age in the UK, it was a cult show — Saturday mornings meant James Richardson in some sunlit piazza, tiny espresso at his side, holding up the latest Gazzetta to the camera. He’d translate the bold headline, sprinkle in some humour, and suddenly Italian football felt exotic, witty, and a little bit glamorous.
It was also my first memory of watching football outside of the UK — a window onto a different style, a different culture. In fact, Football Italia was probably my first real introduction to Italy (unless spag bol counts!). That early spark grew into an obsession in adulthood, and one of the gateways to why I’m even writing Passeggiare today. It helped form a curiosity that isn’t just about places, but about the finer details of life that reveal something deeper (such as knowing which tifosi and curve make up the boot).
James Richardson, doing his thing
Since then, whenever I’ve gone to Italy on holiday, it’s become a ritual: pick up a copy of La Gazzetta dello Sport, find a good piazza, and strike a James Richardson–style pose. A silly little tradition, maybe, but one that makes me smile every time. These days, after years of Italian lessons, I can actually read chunks of the paper — though I’ll admit, it’s still more prop than page-turner.
One of many photos of your author reliving the Football Italia dream
So yes, the pink of Passeggiare isn’t random. It’s a small tribute to those early memories, and to the quirks that drew me toward Italy and made me realise there’s a bigger, more colourful, more interesting world beyond these shores. And if it also gives me an excuse to keep striking the odd James Richardson–style piazza pose, well… I’ll happily take it.
When travelling, there’s a long list of advice people give about how to find a good place to eat:
Eat where the locals eat
Avoid menus with photos
Look for short menus
Check Google reviews
Avoid restaurants with someone trying to pull you inside
All of that can be useful. But there’s another signal that’s quieter and surprisingly reliable.
Look at the plates.