Why breakfast is special

Some things are the same everywhere, or not very different. Some things, on the other hand, change drastically when you cross a border.

Dinner and lunch don't change. Breakfast does.

Breakfast seems to be the single most diverse meal in the world. Each nation defines itself in its breakfast choice.

In France: ah yes, tourists think it's croissants. Nope. Real French breakfast, at home, is baguette, perhaps toasted, with jam, and coffee in a bowl, not a mug. I think the reason it's in a bowl is that perverse people like my significant other can dunk their bread in it... Littl'uns get drinking chocolate instead of coffee.

In the Netherlands: a massive buffet of ham and cheese. Buttermilk, carefully distinct from ordinary milk in its different coloured bottle. (And a cigar... I don't quite understand the Dutch attitude to smoking, but there you go. And in Friesland, you can add a stiff drink to this, as long as it's after nine o'clock in the morning. Maybe that only happens when they're entertaining foreign business journalists.) But buttermilk, ham and cheese everywhere.

Germany: the cheese and ham are there, with slight differences. But you'll also find a lot of yoghurt and mix-it-yourself muesli - not nice soft easy muesli like Alpen or supermarket mixes, but crunchy tough stuff for Alpine wanderers, with whole hazelnuts, chunks of dried fruit, oats stiff as if each flake has been starched and hung up to dry before putting back in the box. And coffee. Lots.

In Japan: hot rice with a raw egg broken on top, which gradually cooks in the rice as you stir it in. Surprisingly nice.

Spain and Italy: still have to find out whether these countries do breakfast. They do coffee, and you might have a pastry (which my supercilious French alter ego regards as vraiment barbare) to soak up some of the bitterness. But breakfast?

Except in those few places where you can still get churros y chocolate. The doughy, fried strips with their crunchy outside and a scattering of sugar crystals ... those are the real thing, but for some reason the Spanish seem to be turning their backs on them.

Morocco has liquid breakfast; beisara, a rich thick pulse soup. I stopped in the market of Fes-el-Djid for some; in a thick green earthenware bowl with a lump taken out of the rim, and with huge mounds of cumin, paprika and salt on the table for scattering on top. (I like it with a huge amount of cumin and very little salt.)

English fry-up; very rare in my life - but I did just have a superb fry-up at Peterborough Beer Festival (one of the staff perks), hence this post. Bacon and sausages, fried potatoes, baked beans, tomatoes (almost always out of a tin, even for quality breakfasts - a stronger but less acid taste), mushrooms, and hash browns. Ah yes, hash browns - an interloper really, but I do like them.

Russia - I have no idea what the typical Russian breakfast is. But I have happy memories of staying in St Pete's and getting brunch that consisted purely of blinis, sour cream, and five kinds of 'caviare' (actually all non-sturgeon derivation, like lumpfish roe, so not quite as decadent as it sounds).

Best of all? Difficult to choose. That big bowl of beisara comes close. So too does a really crisp buttery croissant and a bowl of cafe au lait, milky and bitter at the same time.

But for me, the best of all is scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, on buttered toast.

PS - for pedants, and others who enjoy great words; Aristology, the study of breakfast (by extension, of fine dining), is featured on an excellent blog, World Wide Words.

The landscape changes

Sometimes when we travel we just want to see new things. So we give one day to one city, one day to the next. We walk our linear paths to Santiago, or Canterbury, or up the mountain and down the other side.

And we miss a lot.

I was reminded of this as I ran by the Wensum this morning - back in Norwich after a month and a half travelling.

The sky is leaden though the sun is out, shining palely. The leaves of trees by the river are dark green, and fleshy, heavy, almost sinister. Everything seems heavy, lethargic, and I can feel thunder in the air.

A line of swans passes silently, two adults and five cygnets in their greyish brown fuzz. Their wing feathers are just beginning to grow out white.

Yet two days ago, running at evening, I saw a different world; one in which the low sunlight dappled the path through glowing leaves, and the one streetlamp that always comes on early added its orange-pinkish glow to the scene. A world of luminosity and warmth, so beautiful you could almost cry.

The purple loosestrife is out, tall spikes of garish flowers, swarmed by bees. Ladybirds are everywhere. The first blackberries are ripe (I missed the flowering), and the mulberry tree has spattered the pavement with black. Autumn is coming, this morning; yet two days ago it was still summer.

This is what you miss when you travel too fast. When you walk a street for the second time, you see how it's changed; different light, a different time of day. You get to know it a little.

I know the temptations. The list of 'places I must visit this holiday'. The map that shows the Pennine Way, neatly coloured in as far as I've gone today, and the lure of the uncoloured path - the desperate feeling that you must finish it, you must press on. The desire to stick pins in the map; 'been there'.

And yet resisting this onward pull is what real travel is all about. Instead of forging a path forward, letting yourself sink into the surroundings; staying a few days, finding your footing. Slow down, rest, allow the small things to tell their stories.

Chambord: architecture out of control

The Loire is tourist country par excellence. Every house with a turret or a classic al facade seems to have turned into a must-visit chateau, with a special attraction such as a waxwork museum or a hunting museum or a museum of nineteenth century cutlery (I think I've invented that one, but it certainly might exist), and charging ten euros admission, and absolutely thronged with tourists.

You can get away. Jacques and I wandered the woods behind the chateau of Chenonceaux, alone in the moist warmth with the smell of decomposing leaves and the sound of a desultory breeze in the branches high above. At Beaugency, we found we were the only people in a deserted town, except for the lady in the boulangerie who sold us a baguette, and the artist dozing in front of his 'SPAM ART' exhibition who hailed us from his camp bed.

But for the most part the Loire is fixed up, parcelled out, sold up.

Some of the chateaux are quite pretty. Some are really rather surprising. Some are just plain dull.

But Chambord is something else.

At Chambord, what we see is not in fact a chateau. It's just a hunting lodge. A hunting lodge, mind you, that is bigger than most of the royal chateaux.

Francois I took twenty years to build  it, and then spent fewer than 35 nights there. It's a triumph of architectural splendour over real function.

Its geometry is clear - a square castle with four corner towers, based around a Greek cross plan of axial corridors, with a spiral staircase at the centre. Each quarter of the castle is built in exactly the same plan; each set of apartments is exactly the same (with one exception, the little oratory built on to one of the towers). This should be the triumph of reason.

But it's not. The exact repetition makes it impossible to remember where you are; you get confused, bamboozled. The staircase is a double spiral, and it seems to act as a sort of randomiser - you can never quite remember which arm of the staircase you took, so you're never sure where on any given floor you will come out.

And the place is huge. It's like a giant's castle, the ceilings high, the rooms massive, the walls thick. (Each apartment is completely separate, built into the thickness of the walls.) Francois in the end forsook the central block to move into the more intimate, more usable space he'd had built in one of the flanking wings. You can't imagine it in use; the court only camped here, with folding beds and chairs, and was never in permanent residence.

Later, in the 18th and 19th centuries, some of the rooms were subdivided and refurnished - but they don't seem to manage to overcome the brooding bulk of the chateau, its overpowering architecture.

There's something completely out of control here. Architecture has grown like Quatermass; it's created an environment, but not one for living in. Within, it's austere, rigid, classical; on the roof, exuberance breaks out with turrets and lanterns, chimneys, pinnacles. You could imagine yourself in a French Renaissance village up there, with two-storey houses perched on the roof, and the central lantern over the staircase like a perfect circular church tower.

Chenonceau is lovely, but it's human in scale. Blois wears its grandeur on the outside, but inside is an intimate place. But Chambord is like Gormenghast - it's a castle that has sucked all the life out of its inhabitants, and become a living thing itself. And not, I think, a completely benign being.

The unexpected

I'm just reading an intriguing speech by Philip K Dick on the building of science fiction universes. It's replete with a range of references from the Bible to the pre-Socratic philosophers, and one of these in particular caught my attention;

"If one does not expect it, one will not find out the unexpected; it is not to be tracked down and no path leads us to it."

It's a lovely paradox. It's particularly true of travel. Some people go to the most surprising places and never experience the surprise, because they are not open to it.

The 'fat white woman whom nobody loves' doesn't experience the vastness of the desert, but the sand getting in her hair.

I found a most surprising experience last week, in the Loire valley. I'd gone to look at chateaux - I ended up listening to cajun music at a village fete, the Stuffed Tomato Fair in Rilly-sur-Loire, eating salmon-stuffed tomatoes, and admiring the Honda motorcycle lovingly created out of choux pastry by a local patissier.

(Why stuffed tomatoes? Because they grow tomatoes in greenhouses nearby.)

Welcoming the unexpected is about noticing the little signs that tell us there's an adventure down this road. The poster for a local fair, the busker playing a tune you recognise from somewhere, the procession heading down a street (it might be a jazz funeral or a fourteenth July procession, like the one I saw in Blois featuring fifteen fire engines)...

But if you don't expect to find the unexpected, all you'll find is what the guidebook tells you.

Another little brag

Not really so much a brag as just a link to a site that I did some work for a while back - Morocco Gateway.

Tim Evans, who runs the site, gave me a very clear brief - it's aimed at travellers who don't want to do a boring if-this-is-Tuesday-it-must-be-Marrakech escorted trip, but who aren't completely go-it-alone adventurers. 'Safe' adventure, or adventurous tourism, whichever you want to call it. We evolved a number of ideas for itineraries, which I've written up to try to give a feeling for the whole experience of travelling in Morocco - rather than trying to 'sell' any particular destination.

If you click on 'articles' you can find my articles, written with my partner Jacques Combeau who is the real expert. (And also the guy who got hit on by touts all the time - his temper being much more equable than my short fuse!)

Wow!

I've just heard that a piece I wrote has been shortlisted for the Bradt/Independent newspaper travel writing prize. That's rather a thrill so I thought heck, let's brag about it on my blog.

The piece is here; it's about one of the strangest towns I've ever visited, from my trip to Morocco earlier this year.

And now back to reality; I have painting to do after having my bedroom redecorated.

Visions

I saw visions today.

I think I saw an angel.

A man lying on his back in the grass, and the sunlight caught the grass so that it shone and glittered with gold, like a halo.

Willow trees shimmering like gold leaf, so thin you can move it with your breath.

A pale blue sky with broken clouds that seemed to recede as I ran towards them (though I know, really, it was only an optical illusion caused by my more rapid progress towards a tall chestnut tree).

And last night, coming back home about ten as the sun fell, a pair of paper hot air balloons rising into the sky (itself just that rich purple velvet before full darkness comes), the tealights making them glow richly as they swooped upwards, taking the light breeze to the west.

I'd been wondering today, after reading Tracy Chevalier's Burning bright and blogging about the Blake exhibition at the Tate, how William Blake could see the 'chartered streets' of London as angels.

And now I know.