Renewable energy hysteria alive in Australia and UK

It seems that some of the hysteria surrounding onshore wind farms in the UK has now spread to Australia. 

For Australia, a country that still generates an uncomfortably high proportion of its electricity from coal, to "wind farm refugees" protesting outside of its Parliament House, is a disturbing development.

UK energy policy, with its adherence to strict EU emissions targets, is streets ahead of Australia's. After all, Australia has only just suceeded in putting a price on carbon, after years of political wrangling.

So naturally it is distressing to read reports that seek to advance the agenda of NIMBYism at a time when Australia's renewable energy is only making up a fraction of total electricity consumption.

 I was shocked to read this unbalanced article in the Australian newspaper (well-known as the conservative mouthpiece of its owner, Rupert Murdoch), where a powerful energy company compared community opposition to wind farms with that of coal seam gas projects.

The Australian is treading a dangerous line here - the article quotes the submissions of Energy Australia and Origin Energy (both of which invest in renewable and fossil fuel projects) to the Renewable Energy Target review but doesn't canvass the opinions of any other wind industry participants or industry associations.

The paper should have led with the real news - that there is a critical underinvestment in wind projects and Australia risks not meeting its 2020 renewable energy target. 

However, the UK battle of fossil fuels versus renewables is far from over.  The government's on again, off again relationship with renewable energy is a product of intense infighting between the Conservatives and Liberal Democrats in the governing coalition.

Fortunately, in the noise over a "dash for gas" and "rising energy bills," voices of reason are emerging in the UK energy debate.

On Tuesday, the Environmental Audit Committee, a group of MPs that scruntise environmental aspects of the budget, launched a scathing attack on the "mixed messages" the government is sending. The committee was particularly critical of what it described as a "veil of transparency" under which the new energy policy was crafted.

Even better, it described chancellor George Osborne's ludicrous attempts to pit the economy against the environment as "counterproductive and wrong."

The appointment of John Hayes as energy minister in September is seen by some to be a deliberate attempt by prime minister David Cameron to assuage the fears of tory MPs against wind farms.

If David Cameron's goal was to have the ridiculous views of this irrational bunch of NIMBY'ers represented on the national stage, he has succeeded.

After less than a month in the job, the slimy Hayes made his views on wind farms known when he said on the record that no new onshore wind farms should be built, lest the precious English countryside become "peppered" with them. He was quickly slapped down by the more senior energy secretary of state, Ed
Davey for breaking with departmental policy, but by then the deep rift in the coalition had already been exposed.

George Osborne - a self-professed gas aficionado - has been steadily undermining the energy debate all year long, with neverending hints about the relative expense of renewable energy versus "cheap" gas.

All this bickering is increasing the likelihood of delays to the government's electricity market reform strategy. The government is aiming to have two readings of the bill in parliament before the Christmas recess, which begins on 20 December.

Basically, this gives senior government ministers a week to get their stories straight and sing out of the same hymn book. The problem is, no matter how unified they appear, everyone knows that there is still strong opposition to renewable energy subsidies in the upper echelons of British politics.

Meanwhile, a host of energy investors are scrambling for more details on the new subsidies for low carbon generation - a convenient umbrella term that encompasses renewables and nuclear. At least seven projects are holding out on making a final investment decision to hear how their new Feed in Tariff based on a Contract for Difference will be calculated  - a payment that reimburses power producers when wholesale prices fall short of an agreed 'strike price'.

Investors interested in gas plants want to hear more about the new capacity mechanism - payments to encourage flexible generation to switch on and off when needed, to back-up intermittent renewable generation.

Autumn leaves

One thing I like about working near Bloomsbury is that there are a lot of nice parks nearby where, once inside, its possible to surround yourself by trees and forget the urban chaos of London.

I didn't realise Central London had so many trees until the middle of summer, when their weighty green boughs hang over the road, almost obscuring the buildings behind them.

In summer, Russell Square became a thick green forest, a popular relaxing spot for students studying nearby or schoolkids on excursions.

Come autumn, my fascination has switched from admiring the immense greenness, to watching the leaves turn all sorts of colours before gently being picked up by the wind and fluttering to the ground.

Each time I walk through Russell Square, something is different. One day a tree will have turned a light amber, while the one behind it is a powerful shade of purple. Another day, a section of trees will be completely bare, while another group will have just started turning brown.

Why do some trees decay faster than others? And why on earth are British kids wearing hi-vis vests when they go on school excusions - is that happening in other countries too?

Naturally, I turned to the internet for answers. Wisegeek says trees turn different reds, ambers and browns because they already possess these colours, but in summer the chorophyll in their leaves mask the colours.

But this doesn't explain why some trees lose their leaves faster than others, especially in the same spot. Just Gardening says trees with a northern exposure often change colour and lose their leaves faster than other trees with a different orientation, because they are losing sunlight hours faster. Trees facing south get more exposure to the weakening sun.

And it turns out temperatures don't really play a role in the rate at which trees lose their leaves. Sunlight exposure is more important, so trees will start to lose their leaves when the duration of daylight shortens, even if temperatures have not fallen sharply.

And as for the hi-vis vests? Well plenty of internet sites sell them for as little as £1.99, claiming they are a must for taking a group of rugrats around in the dark. As the days shorten and the natural light dims, I can see why they're becoming popular!

A Brit's guide to Australian English

Australians speak the the language that was handed down to their predecessors by Mother England, but a lot has changed in a couple of hundred years.

Sure, the accent is distinctive, with its elongated vowel sounds and trademark rising inflexion, as if we are asking a question? with every statement? as if needing reassurance?

But Australian English, while not formally recognised by linguists as a separate language, has evolved unique and characteristic expressions that may be unfamiliar to the British (or American) ear.

There has always been a focus on the number of Americanisms that have crept into in the everyday Australian lexicon, with terms such as "dude" or "awesome," popular since the spread of surf culture in the 1970s and '80s.

Well, Australians too have developed a unique vocabulary that is not well understood by English speakers of other countries. Furthermore, the idea of what constitutes "Australian slang" tends to be outtdated.

So if you're a Brit who is considering (as so many are right now) moving to Australia, want to get a grip on what's going on in Neighbours or simply be able to decipher your Aussie bartender, here is a guide to what Australians are saying. I've also touched on what Australians are NOT saying, despite what the rest of the world thinks.

AUSTRALIAN WORDS (OR EXPRESSIONS WITH A UNIQUELY AUSTRALIAN MEANING)

The Shits

Denotes anger, frustration, at someone or a situation. Eg; "I've got the shits at her for stealing my boyfriend." This does not mean you need to visit the bathroom (NOT loo) every five minutes because you've just returned from a week in Thailand.

 Root

To have sex with. If you hear "I rooted that hot chick last night," it doesn't have anything to do with having a root around in your bag to find your keys. In politeness terms, it's about on par with the British "shag."

Westie

Originally a derogatory term used to describe a person from the lower-class Western Suburbs of Sydney, the use of the word "Westie" now extends to cover any uneducated, unfashionable individual with poor taste in hairstyle, footwear and clothing.

Bogan

In a similar vein to the Westie, the term "Bogan" was first used in the 1980s to describe a flannel-shirt clad person with a hotted-up car and a penchant for AC-DC. It is now used as a derogatory class separator, in a similar way to as the British "Chav," or the American "Trailer Trash." If The Only Way Is Essex were screened in Australia, the stars would undoubtedly be classified as "Bogans."

Skippy

No, not the Kangaroo from the TV show in the '70s, silly. Skippy, or Skip, is the term used to describe an Anglo-Saxon Australian.

Yobbo

Apparently, Brits use this term to denote an unruly child. In Australia, this is used to describe a boisterous, crude (most likely drunk) individual (possibly also a bogan).

Pom

This term is not new to most Brits, but it is never used within the UK. In fact, it does not even rate a mention in the Oxford English Dictionary. But I've included it here because most Brits probably underestimate its usage abroad.

Try as you like to ignore it, Pom is how you're most likely to be referred if you are visiting Australia - no one is going to call you a Brit (although they might call you 'English', even if you're from Wales).

NOT happy, Jan!

This doesn't mean you have "the shits" with your Aunty Jan. The origins of this expression hark back to a Telstra (phone company) ad in the early 2000s, where a boss isn't happy with the failure of her employee Jan to buy a listing in the Yellow Pages. She leans out the window, yelling, "NOT happy....Jan!" as Jan runs down the street to rectify the situation. Australians use this to express their frustration at a situation that has not turned out in their favour.


Daggy

Uncool, dated, retro (not in a good way). You may have come across this if you watch Home and Away or Neighbours

Paddy wagon

This NOT a term to describe your Irish neighbour's ride. Rather, it is a police vehicle with a large cabin at the back used for locking up criminals on the way to the 'Cop Shop' (police station).

Povvo

Someone, or something that is poor, or of inferior quality. Can also be used as an insult to accuse a person of stinginess. "You're such a povvo, mate."

Paddock

Originally used to mean a field where crops are grown/livestock kept, but is now in use by sports commentators to mean the field of play. "Charging down the paddock" is more likely to mean the actions of a football team in the lead-up to scoring a try than describing the plight of a bull on a farm.


 Right...

Said with a flat tone (no rising inflexion for once). This means the opposite of how it looks. If someone says this to you, they are not agreeing with you - in fact the opposite is probably true.

Servo

A service station. 

Grog bog

A loose, generous number two that typically follows a big boozy night out.

WHAT AUSTRALIANS ARE NOT SAYING

Antipodean

Seriously, why do Brits insist on using this word! I had not heard a single utterance of this term before moving to the UK. Neither had any other Australians or New Zealanders I know that have spent time there.

The Antipodes literally means a place on the opposite end of the earth. Well, fair enough, but I suspect Brits only use this term to disguise their inability to distinguish between Australian, New Zealand and South African accents. That's as lame as not being able to tell a Londoner from a Scotsman. 

Fair Dinkum

Do I look like a sheep shearer to you? This term went out with the end of the 19th century. Variants of it have been revived recently, such as former Prime Minister Kevin Rudd's cringeworthy retort: "fair shake of the sauce bottle, mate." 

Down Under

Again, this is YOUR term of reference to describe our homeland. No right-minded Australian would ever use this phrase to describe where they are from, even when travelling overseas. 

Aussie

YOU call us Aussie, WE call ourselves Australian, either singularly, or as a group of Australians. It's probably for the same reasons that you never call yourself a Pom. Interestingly, we do apply the term to inanimate objects, for example, the "Aussie dollar."

Our Dutch easter

Tell anyone you're off to Amsterdam for the long weekend, and they'll nod knowingly, wink, tap their nose, or make another "subtle" gesture to indicate that they know why you're really going.

Yes, it is common knowledge that there are items for sale in Amsterdam that are not readily available in most other countries, but it's kind of sad that people assume that is your only reason for visiting. Amsterdam's charms go way beyond its coffee shops and skanky chicks-in-windows in its red light district. For a city, it has a surprisingly relaxed (and NO not in the way you think I mean) and friendly pace.

Visually stunning, it is just such a lovely place to, well, be. A leisurely stroll, bike ride or boat trip around the canals that encircle the city is all you need to do. And yes, if you think it enhances the experience, by all means stop in at a coffee shop along the way, but don't get lost in there.

beautiful Prinsengracht

Bicycles are more than just a handy mode of transport in Amsterdam. They are a way of life - no self-respecting local would walk somewhere or take public transport when they could just as easily cycle.

Outnumbering people by at least 3:1, bicycle parking is at a premium, with every bike rack, lamp post or any upright-looking structure crammed with the things. I was surprised to find so many rusty old wrecks lying around. Barely anyone keeps a mountain bike or road bike out on the street. Street bikes are functional - big heavy lumps of metal with comfy seats and an upright seated position.

People cycle EVERYWHERE - to work or school, to the shops, to friend's houses and even out at night. You see all sorts of amusing bicycle sights - like baskets and luggage racks crammed with stuff, people riding a bike while wheeling another one alongside, and family bikes with attached sidecars packed with children.

My visit to Amsterdam was very different to the first time I visited in 1992 with my family. Back then, we stayed in a little guesthouse overlooking one of the canals, visited the Anne Frank museum and rented bicycles. It was all very sweet and innocent until we inadvertently meandered into the red light district and rode past rows of naked girlies gyrating away behind the glass. Imagine being my mother and having to explain that to my (then aged) 11-year old brother!

bicycle tour along the banks of the Amstel river

This time though, I had the benefit of local knowledge - a good friend from Australia now lives here. Geoff took us on a long but leisurely cycle trip following the banks of the Amstel from the centre of town right out into the countryside to a town called Ouderkerk.

Being early spring, it was still chilly when we visited, but fortunately we struck a sunny day. Our ride took us past immaculate rows of bell-topped houses, quaint bridges and chugging barges. The rows of buildings soon turned spread out into large two-storey houses with well-tended gardens.

Within a few kilometres, the houses were still further apart and surrounded by lush daffodil-studded fields. Tiny little white dots in paddocks turned out to be, on closer inspection, newborn lambs - I did mention it was spring, right?

Enroute we stopped in at a property containing a dairy and cheese factory. The firm yellow wheels of dutch cheese took four weeks to mature in the factory's cavernous interior, we learned, in between helping ourselves to the array of bite-sized samples on display. In the next room was a set of powerful-looking machinery used to carve out chunks of wood into clogs. The entire ceiling was adorned with rows and rows of freshly carved shoes, hanging up to dry.

beers at a canal-side café

Our cycle trip took a little longer on the way home, as we popped into a few different bars set up on the river bank. In case you weren't relaxed enough after a day or so in Amsterdam, pull up a chair and just gaze at the canal, and your troubles will simply melt away.

Amsterdam has a complete personality transplant in summer, according to Geoff. Like the tulips, the re-emergence of canal-side bars are a sign that the warmer weather is on its way, and the city is ready to come out and play. In spring you see the first signs of this, but the weather can still be cold and changeable, so you don't get the full relaxed, happy vibe that a visit in summer can offer.

Aside from the Amstel and the ubiquitous Red Light District, several other Amsterdam neighbourhoods are worth exploring. Prinsengracht is probably the best looking of the canals, with overhanging trees and well-groomed houses. To the west, past the Anne Frank house, is the trendy neighbourhood of Jordaan. Also neat and leafy, it is packed full of cafes, galleries and in September plays host to a massive street festival. 

cheese shop in trendy Jordaan

Dutch food has a reputation for being fairly bland, but we managed to eat at several nice restaurants and cafes in Amsterdam. The city boasts fantastic Indonesian food - a Dutch colonial legacy. Even better - it is available everywher. Satay skewers, Gado Gado and Beef Rendang pop up on cafe and pub menus alongside burgers and steaks.

Beer-wise we were well-looked after - there were international stalwarts Heinken and Grolsch, plus a wide selection of Dutch craft beers to choose from. We visited local brewery Brouwerij t'IJ, set in a former industrial site on a canal near the Eastern Docklands. The building opens out onto a courtyard with big wooden benches, in the shadow of a giant thatch windmill. You can't get more Dutch than this - and its rusty brown dubbel beer wasn't bad either!

A good thing about Holland's miniscule size is that you can rent a car and drive to the other end of the country in just a few hours. Always a novelty for an Australian. Driving around in spring gives you box seats to the flower power explosion in fields along the west coast of the country.

On our country drive we stopped briefly at Haarlem, which looked to us like an exact, but smaller, replica of Amsterdam. Continuing west, we noticed a sign for a Dutch beach resort, and couldn't resist having a look.

beach resort - Dutch style

Zandvoort is a long, flat expanse of sand on the ocean side of a hilly range of sand dunes. It sort of reminded me of the West Australian coastline, only really cold. Looking out to the brownish expanse of the North Sea, swimming didn't look very inviting, but it wasn't really the right time of year. This didn't deter the locals though. The wide sandy beach was packed with families running around, kicking footballs and flying kites. But it was an odd beach scene - instead of being clad in swimwear, everyone was rugged up in winter coats and hats.

Further south towards The Hague and Rotterdam, we eschewed the motorway for smaller country laneways, weaving our way through the lush green paddocks and leafy overhanging oak trees. Every few corners there were blinding flashes of colour - wide stripes of red, white, yellow and purple. The flower fields were enormous, filled with immaculately planted blooms stretching as far as the eye could see.

Gradually, the flower fields disappeared and livestock came into view, mostly friesan cows, heavily pregnant sheep and tiny newborn lambs. The lanscape was dotted with thatch windmills and gorgeous bell-roofed farmhouses encircled by trimmed hedges and neat front gardens.

fields of flowers

Our destination was the southern city of Eindhoven, not far from the Belgian border. We were visiting some Dutch friends that we met on our trip to South America. Arriving on Easter Sunday proved to be good timing, because it was the day of a football match between local team PSV Eindhoven and their arch-rivals from Rotterdam.

We watched the match on a big screen in a local bar where one of our friends worked. I had envisioned this to be a fairly sedate affair, where I would sip on a beer while sitting comfortably around a table. Wrong! When we arrived, the place was packed to the gills with hardcore techno was blaring from the speakers - and the match hadn't even started! The techno music was interspersed with cheesy Dutch folk ballads, which to my surprise proved very popular - everyone knew the words and sang along!

The crowd was pumped - and when PSV scored its first goal, the chanting started. "What are they saying?" I asked my Dutch friend? "They are chanting 'Farmers! Farmers!'" she replied, explaining that the region is often derided by city types for being farmsville, so they proudly respond by sticking it to them! PSV ended up winning, and after the match, there was a huge influx of supporters on their way back from the stadium.

Mythos time - sailing the Greek Islands

The Greek economy may be on the brink of collapse, but the doom and gloom isn't affecting the islands - its outdoor restaurants are packed, bars are pumping and marinas are crowded with schmick-looking yachts.

Obviously, the crisis hasn't kept the tourists away - among the Italians, French and Americans was a healthy contingent of Greeks. Were they escaping crisis-hit Athens to forget about their troubles for a while, or were they the unaffected ones, the non-tax payers with fortunes squirreled away in offshore accounts?

To explore the Greek Islands, we took a 7-day sailing trip on a 50-foot yacht, run by upstart sailing tour company Med Sailors. The group began offering skippered yacht tours in Croatia just last year, and expanded their offering to include Greece this summer.

Travelling in a flotilla of three yachts, with 8-10 people plus a skipper on our boat, we set sail from a marina in Athens. We explored a set of islands in the Saronic gulf, reaching westwards from Athens around to Corinth and down the coast of the Peloponnese - the big hand-shaped peninsula that dangles off the Greek mainland.

Finding Marina Kalamaki, the mooring for the Med Sailors yachts, wasn't easy. But it's probably because we forgot to print off the PDF instructions showing the exact address. The Med Sailors website said the tour left from the Athenian port of Pireaus. We took a taxi there, but it turned out to be a hub for enormous cruise ships, with over 50 separate bays.

Eventually we tracked down Kalamaki, a few kilometres to the south. Finding the exact co-ordinates of the yacht among the hundreds of masts looked impossible - until our friend Ryan, known for his thorough, boy scout-style packing skills, pulled out a pair of binoculars and located the Med Sailors flag hanging off a mast.

Storm brewing

Ryan quickly established his credentials as the group's drunk and disorderly sailor. His first question in the group briefing related to the amount of esky space available for beer. Keen to live up to his new-found reputation, he hit the supermarket, eagerly loading up on cases of Mythos, our Greek beer of choice.

Setting sail, we got to know the rest of our group of 8 plus our skipper, Christophe. Aside from us three Aussies, there was British couple Andy and Nat, Sarah, another Brit, Judy, a Kiwi and some other guy who needn't be part of this story. We were on the water for less than three hours when a freak storm blew in - we were just about to dive in the water for our first swim, when the sky turned orange and everything started flapping violently.

At this point we were just about to drop anchor at Perdika on the island of Aigina, but the sea was too rough so we took shelter behind a nearby rocky escarpment. The storm passed, but the skippers were reluctant to stop there for the night, so we continued sailing with the wind behind us until it got dark. We stopped at the town of Methana, a settlement on a peninsula connected to the mainland by a strip of land. It had a nice waterfront strip with rows of tables and chairs, but was an otherwise unremarkable place.

The storm slightly messed up our itinerary for the week, as we weren't supposed to stop at Methana until the way back to Athens, but the Med Sailors crew handled the change of plan smoothly. We didn't really care where we stopped and when, as long there was time to do a little sailing and stop to swim and refill the Mythos esky.

Christophe hoists the Australian flag

After the freak storm, the weather totally cleared up, and it was all blue skies and plenty of sun. The next morning we attempted sailing - only to discover that the main sail wouldn't unravel properly after being broken by the additional crew member not mentioned in this story. We made do with the jib, or sail at the front of the boat, meaning we fell significantly behind the two other yachts.

This didn't seem to ruffle the feathers our beloved skipper, Chistophe. In fact he seemed relieved when we didn't follow the other boats too closely, and did our own thing. Christophe's renegade vibe was contagious, and soon everyone wanted to moor away from the other boats, and trashed talked the other crews (who were pretty boring groups of 30-somethings anyway).

We quickly established ourselves as the wild boat, naming our yacht "Mythos III". Ryan, often accompanied by Andy and Adam, got the party started early in the day. Once Mythos Time was declared, it was all over. Ryan decided it was his personal mission to get Christophe as wasted as possible - everytime Ryan said "What time is it?" Christophe would have to answer "Mythos time!"

The second night we moored in a marina in the town of Poros, the largest settlement on the island of the same name. Poros, with its collection of white buildings and terra-cotta rooftops lining a hilltop, had a lot of character. At the top was a beautiful watch-tower, offering stunning views of the surrounding islands and mainland.

Idyllic Poros

The next day it was back on the boat for another attempt to pull out the main sail, which fortunately unravelled this time following the expert touch of Christophe. Only a couple of people had really helped with the sailing at this point, whereas others were either permanently drunk or just content to sunbathe and read at the front of the yacht.

At Poros we had stocked up on pool noodles, investing in one for each person on board. Stopping for a swim, we began a trend of elaborate jumps and dives off the boat, and lounging in the water wrapped up in pool noodles, beer in hand and sunglasses on heads. By the end of the week, we had honed these activities to a fine art!

The next day it was a short hop to Ermioni, a little peninsula on the mainland with a marina on one side and cliffside bars and swimming spots on the other. After sunset, we feasted at a restaurant on a pier by the marina that describes itself as "the oldest restaurant in the Saronic gulf." It was easily the best Greek meal I've ever eaten - it may as well bill itself as the "Best restaurant in the Saronic gulf."

Best Greek meal in the Saronic gulf

After devouring a series of mouth-watering entrees, including plump vine leaf rolls, creamy taramosalata, greek sausage and tender calamari, we were pretty stuffed but our mains were already on the way. Crispy pizzas from the restaurant's woodfired pizzas were delicious, but the lamb Kleftiko that Adam and I shared was simply outstanding. Served in a clay pot with a shank bone poking out, the supple, tender meat was encased in a rich stew and topped with stringy, melty saganaki cheese.

We retired to the boat for drinks and card games. Judy introduced us to an amped-up verson of Snap where there were an array of excuses to slap down on the cards - someone deals a queen, etc. The result was slightly violent - a pile of hands crashing down on the cards every few seconds. The game was abandoned after the first round, on the consensus that it was too stressful!

Hydra

The next morning we sailed further south, arriving at the hilly island of Hydra in the mid-afternoon. Unlike many islands that are visited by car ferries and have roads and buses and trucks, Hydra has two modes of transport - scooters and donkeys. A series of cobblestoned footpaths connects its quaint town, rising up the hill from the main square in front of the marina.

Up the hill and further around was a spot, aptly named "Sunset bar", offering panoramic views westwards across to the Peleponnese mainland. We ordered cocktails and sat around, waiting for the heavy humid air to dissipate and the sun to set. Afterwards we ate at a restaurant tucked away on a little lane behind the main square. It was set in a charming vine-covered courtyard, and we got a few laughs from the translations - Coq au Vin was Cock in Wine and there was also a Lamp in Lemon Sauce.

Unfortunately, our fun angered the waitress, who maybe thought that we were laughing at her expense for some reason. Things became a little awkward at the end of the meal when she told us all that we had been complete smart-asses for the duration of our visit, even though we were just having fun.

View from Hydra's Sunset Bar

The following morning we travelled northwards, returning to the village of Perdika where we had been unable to moor on the first day. I really enjoyed this leg of the trip as nearly everyone got involved in helping to sail the yacht. Christophe showed us how to tack - move the jib sail from one side to the other to catch the wind, use the navigation equipment and steer the yacht. We had competitions to see who could achieve the highest speed while at the helm - Adam held the record of 9.5 knots.

There was no space at the Perdika marina, so the three yachts anchored together in the bay and we took the dinghy into town. By this point in the trip we had gelled into a pretty cohesive unit, and we had an amusing dinner at a waterfront restaurant which consisted mainly of a series of drunken toasts to various things. "to Christophe the Great!" everyone cried, smashing our glasses together. The other, boring crews looked on aghast - we had firmly cemented our reputation as the noisy, drunken sailors.

It's Jager time!

Our final stop was Aigina, a little further around the island from Perdika. The weather had been heating up towards the end of the week, so we sought refuge in an air-conditioned bar. I had not really planned on drinking but felt compelled to as the cocktails were priced about the same as a fruit smoothie.

One strawberry mojito turned into several, and by the time I knew it, Ryan was ordering rounds of Jagers and it was only 4pm! The bar, instead of kicking us out, sent out free Kamikaze cocktails with multiple straws for us to share. We then placed a bulk order of pork and chicken Gyros for a sunset feast to mop up the alcohol.

That night, most of us slept in a hotel on dry land to escape the heat. The cosy cabins of the yacht were pretty stuffy and airless at night, especially if you were a couple! The next morning we motored back to Athens, stopping for one last nostalgic pool-noodle-and-sunglasses swim before arriving back at the marina.

Mythos III crew

Incredible Istanbul

Straddling Europe and the Middle East at the end of the Silk Road, Istanbul has for thousands of years been a travellers' nexus and a meeting point of cultures. Yet the city is completely unique - somehow it doesn't really belong to either continent.

We were a little apprehensive about visiting Turkey's most famous city during the month of Ramazan (as it is called locally). Would it be appropriate to eat and drink in public and, more importantly, consume alcohol?

Don't be put off from visiting during Ramzan!

It turns out our fears were completely unfounded. Turkey takes a very liberal apprach to Islam. Plenty of people were observing Ramazan by fasting, praying and wearing traditional clothing, but plenty were not.

 Bufe restaurants and coffee houses were packed with locals and doing a roaring trade all day long. There were also swarms of pilgrums visiting from other parts of the country. The old parts of the city - Sultanahmet and the Bazaar quarter - teemed with an almost seemless blend of locals and tourists, creating an amazing buzz.

The atmosphere intensified when the sun went down, as Ramazan observers hit the streets in droves, packing out parks, streetside restaurants and cafes to break their fast. The city's mosque's were ablaze with colourful lighting, spelling out a message which I assume loosely translates to "Happy Ramazan." I can only imagine what this place is like on Eid, the festival marking the end of Ramazan.
 

Inside the Hagia Sophia

Istanbul, with a colourful history spanning three empires and over 2000 years, is so crammed full of historical and cultural sites its easy to feel overwhelmed. Sultanahmet square is a logical starting point. It is flanked by the city's most important mosque, the Blue Mosque and the stunning Byzantine church (later turned into a mosque) the Haghia Sophia.

We were stunned by the magical interiors of the Hagia Sophia - one of the things I love about this building is its unique blend of design, art and iconography, arising from a series of conversions to different religions over the years. The Hagia Sophia was built in 360 AD as the cathedral of Constantinople in the Byzantine empire (the continuation of the Roman empire after emperor Constantine shifted the capital from Rome to here). It has been converted from an Orthodox place of worship, to a Catholic church and then a mosque over the years. It has since been declared secular and is now a museum. Inside, ancient Christian mosaics rub shoulders with bold islamic calligraphy.

The multi-domed Blue Mosque

Opposite the square, the imposing Blue Mosque buzzes with activity all day long. Unlike the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque is a working monument, playing hosts to thousands of Muslims who pray there daily. We arrived right after afternoon prayer time had started, and were diverted into a free information session. The presenter said some interesting things about the history and structure of the mosque, but then went a bit religous and dogmatic on us.

We then covered up and went in - I put on a headscarf, but was told my knee-length skirt wasn't long enough and was given a sheet to wrap around my legs. The entire interior of the mosque is covered in beautiful blue decorative tiles. Despite the building's size, it felt quite claustrophobic in there, and a little bit weird walking through an area dotted with people prostrating and praying.

There was a distinct lack of oxygen - the floors are covered with a luxurious, thick carpet and the space is too big to air-condition. The air was heavy with a pungent smell of body odour. I was glad I visited but it wasn't a place where I wanted to linger.

Sultanahmet rises up from the Bosphorous, a busy channel that slices Istanbul in two and is the main route between the Black Sea and the Marmara Sea, which leads into the Mediterranean. It is a bit of a tourist mecca - streets lined with restaurants, bars, tile and rug shops.

Looking out over the Bosphorus

Yet the precinct has a fun, vibrant atmosphere, and wasn't overly tacky like tourist hangouts normally are. Most places were several stories high, with rooftop terraces where you can sit and watch ships cruising along the Bosphorus.

Most cities have a central market - Istanbul has a whole section of town dedicated to its bazaars. The centrepiece is the Grand Bazaar, a sprawling labyrinth of interconnected buildings - all delightfully air-conditioned. The complex houses all manner of merchants and goods - jewellery, painted crockery, rugs, tiles, paintings, scarves, clothes and shoes.

The bazaar overflows onto the surrounding streets all the way down to the Golden Horn, a waterway branching off the Bosphorus that separates old Istanbul from the newer commercial centre of Beyoglu. My favourite bit was the Spice Bazaar, an L-shaped complex rammed with spice merchants. Stalls were piled with cumin, saffron, cinnamon, special spice blends, teas, figs, nuts, nougat, caviar, turkish delight and baklava.

Spice bazaar

The salesman were tenacious - cast so much as a sidelong glance at their produce and they are all over you like a rash. It probably didn't help that I was by myself - Adam and Ryan had decided they'd had enough sightseeing and escaped to a pub. One merchant gave me a full rundown on all of his merchandise, scooping up spice mixes to so I could smell them and hand-feeding me turkish delight!

Everyone we came across was friendly and welcoming. People seemed genuinely interested and were keen to chat, laugh and joke around. This applied to people in shops and restaurants, and also just random people we met in the street.

When we visited the Rumeli Hisari - or Fortress of Europe - a half hour bus ride out of the city, we met a big family group. The patriarch was so amazed by Adam's size he wanted to have his picture taken. After the first shot, his daughter asked to have her picture taken with me, and for the next 10 minutes they turned into the paparazzi, snapping photos of everyone.

Adam's Turkish admirer

There was a moment of confusion when they asked where we were from. We said Australia, and they went quiet and looked confused. One said a word in Turkish that sort of sounded like "straaii?" We shrugged our shoulders, and it wasn't until she then said "Tel Aviv?" that we realised they thought we were from Israel! We then said "Aust-ra-lia" and the mood instantly improved, and everyone burst out laughing.

The fortress itself is pretty cool - overlooking the Bosphorus, it was built by the Ottomans after they took control of the city in 1453. Its ramparts and towers were used to throttle supply ships going back and forth between Istanbul and the Black Sea. Besides a lonely guy at the ticket office, the site was virtually unmanned, so we were free to climb on top of the walls and climb up to the towers. It was sweaty work in the midday heat, but the reward was a stunning view across the Bosphorus to a string of grand Ottoman summer palaces on the opposite shore.

The most elaborate Ottoman grandeur is on display at Topkapi Palace, residence of a string of sultan rulers for more than 400 years. The centrepiece is the harem - home to the sultan's many wives, concubines and immediate family. Arranged around a shaded pine courtyard, the harem is a series of stunningly decorated rooms - painted blue tiles edged in gold and elaborate calligraphy. There are exhibitions of sultans (and sultanas!) clothes, jewellery, calligraphy scrolls and weapons - the centrepiece is the jewel-encrusted Topkapi dagger.

Beautiful Turkish tile art

Sailing the Dalmatian coast

Its clear turquoise waters are straight out of a Caribbean film shoot, but Croatia's stunning Dalmatian coastline is more than your average tropical paradise.

Sailing is the ideal way to explore the Dalmatian coast. You don't have to spend hours on trains or buses and you can just about dock up wherever you want. Marinas are often smack bang in the centre of town, where all the action is.

Cruising up to big bustling ports in Dubrovnik and Split was a surreal experience. One minute you're lounging on top deck watching the buzzing city get bigger and bigger - the next you're in the thick of it, exploring the myriad of tiny alleyways or kicking back with a drink at a waterfront bar.

There are plenty of operators to choose from, catering to everybody from backpacking thrill-seekers to sedate middle-aged holiday makers. We settled on the Kapetan Kuka, a medium-sized vessel chartered by adventure travel company Travel Talk.

Sleeping up to 35, the boat is bigger and roomier than a yacht but not massive and impersonal like a cruise ship. Better still, it was still small enough to be able to leap off the top deck and into the water to cool off!

At the first briefing with our fellow cruisers on top deck, it quickly became apparent that we'd be doing more than lazing around in the sun all week. With a large contingent of single, testosterone-fuelled Australian males, this was going to be a booze cruise.

We struck it lucky with the weather - although our trip was early in the season, temperatures topped 35 degrees most days and we barely spotted a single cloud in the sky. The heat wasn't noticeable when the boat was cruising along through the pancake-flat waters of the Adriatic sea, but it was baking hot when we anchored at small inlets for a swim or docked up at marinas.

The cruise

Starting in the busy port town of Split, the boat headed south to the large island of Hvar, before continuing to the emerald isle of Mljet. We then continued to the stunning medieval fort town of Dubrovnik, before returning to Split, via the island of Korcula and the laid back coastal settlement of Makarska.

Aside from these amazing towns, coastal inlets and nature reserves, the best part of the trip was simply chilling out on the top deck as the boat cruised past tiny isles, rocky limestone cliffs and pristine coves. Mornings were spent lazing on cushions, being cooled by the breeze as we waited for the captain to drop anchor so we could dive into the crystal clear water.

Party time

We docked up at a new spot shortly after lunch, and afternoons were spent exploring medieval fort towns, swimming at rocky beaches or just lazing around in the shade drinking beer. Most of our fellow cruisers had popped the top off a cold one by 11am, and continued on into the wee hours of the morning. Cocktails were a hit at sundown, served up in 1 litre wine carafes by Kapetan's hardest-working crew member, Bartender Ivan.

Everywhere we went, the cocktails seemed to get bigger and bigger, and came in all sorts of weird and wonderful contraptions, including buckets and oversized plastic beakers. In one bar, we donned US army helmets, against which the bartender slammed his cocktail shaker before pouring out a frothy pisco-style blend. The straws were also enormous, and seemed to get longer and more brightly coloured as the week progressed.

Croatians certainly make the most of their landscape when it comes to partying. Besides boozing up on the boat, we went clubbing in the bowels of a 15th century fort, a subterranean cave and several narrow alleyways. There was also a bar with a stripper's pole available for general use and rigged with CCTV projected onto a giant screen outfront so everyone could watch random drunken fools making with the pole.

Hvar

The sheltered harbour of this pine-forested island was seized upon by the Venetians as a naval base and haven for merchant ships travelling along the Adriatic coastline. The Venetian influence is still evident, from the town's beautiful piazza and cathedral, to the narrow alleys lined with white-stone buildings topped with terra cotta roofs.

We arrived at this peaceful port just as the sun was setting over its medieval fort perched high above a sheer limestone cliff face behind the town. Hvar is one of Croatia's largest islands, and is home to about 3,000 people but is almost entirely dependent on the annual migration of tourist hoards from other parts of Europe. In the off-season, its a completely different place apparently, with unemployment as high as 70%.

Mljet

This is one of Croatia's most southerly islands, and compared to its northerly cousins, is relatively pristine. A national park, the island's rocky capes are blanketed in a thick layer of emerald pine forests. Inland are two salt water lakes, connected to the sea by man-made canals.

There's not a whole lot here but that's part of Mljet's appeal. We took a minivan a few kilometres inland to the larger lake, and a short ferry ride later we arrived at the site of a former Benedictine monastery, dating from around 1200. This tranquil lakeside stone building was fringed with brightly coloured blooms and sturdy date palms. Conveniently, right next door we found a shady waterside terrace serving up mugs of cold beer and ice cream.

Another ferry took us over to a pebbly beach on the smaller lake. The pristine pine forests stretched all the way up to the piercingly clear water lapping gently on the shoreline. It was a beatiful spot for a relaxing swim, aside from having to negotiate through the lumpy, uneven pebble river bed on the way in and out.

Sunset coincided with happy hour on the boat. We enjoyed cocktails served in massive wine carafes and big brightly-coloured straws as the light gently faded over the surrounding islands. And, to complete the "shipwrecked in the Caribbean" theme, dressed up as pirates, drawing silly tatoos on each other with eyeliner pencils.

Dubrovnik

I was slighlty concerned I had built-up Dubrovnik too much, but my fears were swiftly erased when we passed through the city's robust fortress walls and into the old town. Exuding the stately charm of Venice, the elegance of Prague and the sturdy medieval gradeur of San Marino, Dubrovnik is both breathtakingly immaculate yet at the same time relaxed and accessible.

Surely there is no other place in the world like it. The city's white limestone buildings are beautifully maintained, surrounded fully inact stone walls and then encircled by the dazzlingly blue waters of the Adriatic. It's tropical paradise and a rugged medieval outcrop all rolled into one.

Strolling atop the city's chunky fortress walls was an unforgettable experience, as the long summer afternoon bathed the city's terra cotta rooftops in a mellow peachy glow. Everywhere you look is an amazing angle, gazing at window sills lined with flower pots, into neatly arranged courtyards or down over the walls to sea-side bars built into the rocks.

A tiny hole in the city wall led to one of these bars, perched atop a series of big rocks adjoining the sea. It was the most incredible place to enjoy a drink in the sun before diving off the rocks and into the water for a refreshing cool off. This was an ideal antidote to arriving in the old town on a sweaty bus in 35-degree heat.
 
Later that night, we partied outside a bar in one of the city's steamy alleyways enjoying cocktails in big brighty-coloured buckets. We then headed to a club called Revelin, set in a massive stony atrium that was once part of Dubrovnik's wall-and-fortress complex. Here, the cocktails were served in big pink plastic containers in the shape of yard glasses. There were smoke machines, lighting effects, girls dancing in cages and even at one point a male gigolo-looking guy gyrating frantically on the bar.

Korčula

We spent most of the day moored at an isolated inlet, which was a welcome change of pace after our action-packed day in Dubrovnik. I alternated between the smooth wooden deck and a cushion-lined sun lounge, leaping over the railing periodically to cool off in the water.

In the afternoon we moored at the sleepy island settlement of Lumbarda. With stately-looking villas fanning out from the marina into hill tops covered with olive groves and vineyards, it seemed like a reasonably well-off community. Near the marina was an open-sided palm-fringed bar backing onto a calm, pebbly beach.

That night, in another attempt at a theme party, we attempted to make improvised wedding outfits out of black and coloured garbage bags. To spice things up, everyone cross-dressed, with guys wearing yellow, blue and red plastic dresses and girls wearing black waistcoats, top hats and tails. As is always the case when boys enjoy cross-dressing, the result was pretty funny, especially seeing those who consented to having make-up smeared all over them.

The following morning we rented mountain bikes and pedaled inland, past rows of grape-studded vines and hobby farms and into Korčula island's forested interior. The tarmac quickly turned into gravel tracks, and it was slow, hot work grinding our way up the steep hills but the sweeping views of a mountain range on one of the nearby islands made it worth the effort. After riding around for an hour or so, we let loose down the hills, bumping and grinding all the way to the bottom.

Later, we stopped in at the sheltered harbour on one side of Korčula town. With walls and lookouts running part of the way around, it sort of resembled a mini-Dubrovnik, with its maze of white stone buildings and alleys. As with elsewhere in Croatia, Korčula has made fine drinking establishments of its historical features. We sipped on cocktails atop the ramparts of a castle-like lookout tower, where a pully system transported drinks up from the bar in the basement.

Makarska

Wedged between the sheer Biokovo mountains and the sea, the seaside resort town of Makarska has a horseshoe-shaped port on one side and a long, flat pebbly beach on the other. Its shape means that it has plenty of waterfront real estate - there is almost an endless line of beachfront bars and a long esplanade adjoining the marina.

The town seemed popular with locals, who sensibly bought with them bits of cushion to put between them and the coarse pebbly beach. It was pretty uncomfortable lying on the pebbles with just a towel - and we couldn't really be bothered to rent armchairs. By this point in the trip we were feeling pretty lazy, a combination of late nights, endless heat and for many of us, travellers diarrhea (tour guide tried to pass this one off as sun-stroke but we didn't have any symptoms of a heat-related illness!).

Split

After a final blissful morning swim, the boat docked back in at the port of Split, meaning we had come full circle and would soon be booted off the boat to make way for the next round of cruisers. We spent the final evening having dinner under a sweaty plastic awning in a courtyard restaurant and drinking in yet another tiny humid alleyway. By this point, I was starting to get a little claustrophobic, so a few of us escaped the group to enjoy the gentle breeze along Split's beautiful lit-up waterfront.

Split radiates out from the Diocletian palace, built by the Romans in the fourth century AD. Part ruin, part museum, the interesting thing about this complex is that the still-standing sections are in use as shops and apartments. Apparently the palace has been this way for hundreds of years, with nobility and ordinary folk living cheek by jowl.

At the front is the entrance to the original Roman section, today a network of dungeon-like passages winding in and out of high domed atriums and stone courtyards. We visited this part of the palace in the middle of the day to escape the heat. Once inside, it was a good 15 degrees cooler than the sunny courtyard out front.

London's first snowfall paints the town black and white

It was very un-Australian. Not only did we fail to celebrate our national day on January 26th (I even had a glass of Kiwi sav blanc), we then decided to help our cuzzie bros celebrate the expat version of their national booze fest, otherwise known as Waitangi Day.

We weren't too fussed with the expat version of Australia Day - lining up for hours behind drunk Aussie teenagers for a place in the mosh pit of the Shepherd's Bush Walkabout. Over here, Kiwis celebrate in much more style. Following the route of the Circle underground line, they amass in their thousands, stopping in at pubs alongside each station all the way around.

Drinkin in the street

The Circle Line pub crawl begins at Paddington, goes around to Westminster, where there is a brief hiatus for a mass Haka performance at 4pm, then continues back along to Paddington. Some of our cuzzy bros must have spent weeks preparing their outfits. Pretty much eveyone (except us - we wanted to blend in but not give the game away) was in fancy dress - many of them in matching group outfits.

There were the usual bros dressed as kiwis, sheep, half-naked lifeguards and some clad in All-Blacks jerseys or draped in the flag. But there were some incredibly inventive outfits in the melée, which by the time it reached Westminster numbered over 4,000. There was a guy with a big robe on made entirely of sewn-together beer towels, boasting brews such as Tui, Lion Red, Canterbury Draft and Speights.

Another group took a nod from the hilarious Kiwi drink driving ad that went viral on You Tube. The one where the guy is telling his friend not to drink drive, otherwise he might die, and then he won't be able to have one of his chips because they would be "ghost chups." Well one group was dressed as....you guessed it...matching billowy white sheets emblazoned with packet of chip logos bearing the slogan ghost chips.

But the funniest was a guy who may not have been in costume at all. A Maori guy in a blue singlet, black shorts and big gumboots. Oh, and there was another guy with an 80's style boom box who had shoved his iPod in the cassette deck It was belting out Crowded House, Matchbox 20 and other old-time Kiwi favourites.

Tiny English pubs near Circle Line stations had no hope of accommodating most of the heaving masses of strangely-dressed Antipodeans. People spilled out onto the streets, re-fuelling at Tescos instead of trying to try and battle for a pint. The result was entire streets full of meandering, drinking (and later, urinating) people, staggering towards Westminster.

Unfortunately by the time we arrived to watch the Haka, there were so many people we couldn't actually see anything, but we heard the sound effects of the "HEEEE...." and other war-like noises loud and clear. Considering everyone was pretty drunk and obnoxious, the police were being pretty gentle. There was no pushing and shoving, no ordering people around and miraculously, no arrests. This is in spite of people trying to scale a lamp post so they could get a bird's eye view of the crowd and take pictures.

Choice bro...

Most onlookers were pretty confused - I don't think they'd heard of Waitangi day, and unless they knew about sheep jokes they may not have been able to figure out what was happening just by looking at people's outfits. The event did upset some though, with one ill-humoured expat ranting to the NZ Herald that the revellers had urinated all over New Zealand's reputation.

He should probably relax. New Zealand's black and white colours aren't all that obvious to those not in the know, and besides, most probably confused them for a bunch of drunk, urinating Australians and thought "no surprises there."

Even though the weather had been milder than a Wellington winter, it was pretty damn cold that day - a shame for those determined to flaunt their short -sleeved rugby jerseys and jandals. Later on, after we had managed to actually get inside a pub and nab a table, we noticed the season's first few flakes of snow swirling through the air.

Of course, everyone went bananas and ran outside to throw snowballs at strangers. Within an hour, the whole world was covered in a thick coating of fluffy white powder. Against the stark black night, it really looked like the town had been painted black and white.

Soho blanketed in snow

Earlier that day in front of frozen Trafalgar Square fountain

Eating out in London

London, with its successive waves of immigrants from Europe, the Caribbean and the Indian Sub-continent, is one of the most multicultural cities on the planet. It should be a culinary melting pot, with an almighty restaurant scene. But for some reason it isn't.

It's true that London offers incredible variety - from sleek French bistros to hip pizzerias, modern Mexican eateries and bloodthirsty Brazilian rodizios, but its not easy to find quality at a reasonable price. In most cities, the "you get what you pay for" adage rings true when choosing restaurants. If you find somewhere cheap, it might be nice but otherwise it isn't surprising, while if you splash out a little more, you are likely to get a good feed in a nice atmosphere.

Unfortunately this isn't the case in London. Cheap food is usually just that - average pub meals or a very shady curry or limp noodle dish. Going upmarket doesn't solve the quality problems. Some of the more expensive restaurants we have tried have been alarmingly disappointing. They are so hit and miss, which makes it hard if you are new in town and picking restaurants out of a guidebook or from the internet.

 In many places, mid-range restaurants are incredibly reliable. They may not have the greatest atmosphere, but you can normally get quite reasonable food and not have to pay through the nose. Finding a nice restaurant that I would actually revisit has been a challenge in London. Many times I have thought the food was just ok, and then received a bill for £60 or more for two people (one course plus a bottle of wine).

London's Soho district, near the West End theatre precinct, is bursting with cafes and restaurants, but we have had some average meals. On Old Compton Street, a Japanese noodle joint called Taro was disappointing and pretty expensive. An Italian place called Little Sicily a few blocks over on Rupert Street was downright horrendous. Here, £6 buys you a limp looking wad of bruschetta, while the main size pastas were bone dry and almost devoid of flavour, and set you back up to £15. Adam said his £16 risotto was like forcing down dry cardboard.

Our Mexican dining experiences have been above-average in London, and far better than the usual "Tex Mex" horrors you might expect to find. Covent Garden's Cafe Pacifico has a lively atmosphere, but the food isn't all that amazing for the price. Chiquito in Leicester Square had some interesting combinations that you don't always see on Mexican menus, such as Jambalaya and Duck Fajitas. Cafe Sol, on Clapham High Street was unexpectedly good. We had deliciously melty enchiladas and juicy spiced sea bass. Boho Mexica in Spitalfields has an amazing Mexican pop-art interior, but will leave you with a much lighter wallet and not really fill you up with their trendy share plates.


Mexican fast food joints have really exceeded expectations. Poncho No 8 is a part of a chain, and not very glamorous - burritos are served subway style, in that you line up along a servery counter and choose your meat, other fillings, salsa etc. But you get a delicious burrito for £6 and you can wash it down with one of a wide selection of Mexican beers in their restaurant-style upstairs seating area. 

 On the whole, Thai restaurants we have tried have been pretty good, if a little formulaic. You can generally get a main curry or stir fry for £8-9, but generally the dish sizes were quite small and there was absolutely no taste of chilli anywhere, but I suppose they are catering to local tastebud settings. We were quite impressed with Thai Square in Islington, and it appears to be a chain as I have come across quite a few other places with the same name. 

There is a weird London trend to blend two or more types of cuisine into a bizarre "fusion with a twist" experience. This surgery is mainly performed on Asian food, like "Chinese-Japanese" food, or Thai-Korean-Malay." I have yet to seen hybrid versions of European cuisine, but I am hoping one day I will run into an "Italian-French-German" restaurant or a "Spanish-Slovakian-Dutch" cafe.

In the North London enclave of Fitzrovia is a bar-cum-restaurant called Jetlag, which has a great bar-like atmosphere, but can't really decide what sort of restaurant it is. It's a great place to go with a group who can't agree on what to eat. The menu is share-plate style, hence its better to eat there in a group, and in the same sitting you can eat Japanese gyoza, lebanese felafel and Indonesian satay. I found the concept incredibly bizarre, although it wasn't outrageously expensive.

Brick Lane's Ambala

East London does better on the variety front - there is a great range of food on offer at all kinds of prices. Once-gritty working class neighbourhoods of Spitalfields, Shoreditch, Whitechapel and Bethnal Green are now firmly entrenched on the city's culinary map. Brick Lane is probably the best known restaurant strip in the area, which is curry ground zero thanks to its sizeable Bangladeshi population. But again, curry houses are pretty hit and miss. In my view the sweet shops are the highlight of Brick Lane. The best is Ambala, which also carries a range of delicious samosa, bhuji and other savoury snacks in addition to some of the sickliest sweets you've ever tasted.

A few blocks away on Commercial Street is the uber-trendy Spitalfields precinct. Centred around the Old Spitalfields market, which used to sell fruit and veg, it us now a highbrow flea market, selling vintage clothes, jewellery, quirky homewares and designs from independent and up and coming fashion labels.

Stjohnbreadandwine.com

Spitalfields may have felt edgy and urbane a few years ago, but now it is definitely on the hipster map, which means it is still cool but no longer cheap. Pretty much everywhere has a great atmosphere, and some London culinary institutions are well worth the splurge - St John Bread and Wine will stretch your meat-eating imagination, and radically overhaul your (probably dismal) view on English food. Hawksmoor, a kind of fine-dining steakhouse, I would love to go to but haven't tried, and is meant to be amazing.


Shoreditch also fares well in the budget-cuisine department, with an entire street of hole in the wall Vietnamese restaurants. Again, these are hit and miss, but at least your wallet is not being punished on every attempt. We ate at one place on two separate occasions, and had completely different experiences, so reliability is not a given. This makes it hard if you eat somewhere nice and then want to go back with a different group of friends - you can end up being burned.

Granted, this isn't a review of London's finest restaurants. Most times we are simply after a decent meal in a place with a nice atmosphere that won't cost the earth. But in this city, looks can be deceiving and you need to do your research in order to uncover the real gems.