Our (Wo)Man in Havana

The view from our balcony in Havana. You look into houses and they may have props holding ceilings up or look derelict, but then a couple of floors up, people are living. Our Casa hallway was full of broken chairs, but inside, it was so beautiful. One of our new friends told us that Havana is so dusty, you have to clean the whole apartment every day.

So that's it. I'm 50 now. After months of milking it, with various different events, we went to Cuba for my actual birthday.

I really don't know where to start. Cuba is such a full-on experience. Our time there was multi-layered, with each day adding something new to the experience. In fact I'd call it an adventure, rather than a holiday.

Vintage cars are everywhere, not just in Havana. They are symbols of resilience and ingenuity, belching out the most awful fumes. Flower sellers on the corner. This is how things are sold, in an apparently impromptu fashion on the move, but Cubans understand how things work. 

Bicycle taxis and horses and carts are even more common than the big old cars. Everyone is remarkably considerate of each other. They are really good drivers, there is no road rage, no anger, everyone just works together.

The education is good and you see school children in their cute little uniforms everywhere. We met lots of highly educated people. Unfortunately professions such as Engineers and University Lecturers are not so well paid, so instead or as well, they take jobs serving in bars or driving taxis, in order to earn more money. They told us it hurt their hearts that this is the case.

We stayed in cities and in the countryside, spent time at the beach and on the road, and every day was full to the brim of sights and sounds and people. 

This tiny dot wasn't worried about a lack of music. She was wiggling her little hips for all she was worth, singing to herself, oblivious to the world and full of joy. That dog made me laugh. He's clearly seen it all before. Trinidad, Cuba.

Cuba is a noisy, busy place, possibly one of the most difficult places to take photos, because everyone is on the move constantly and there are always people around. You take a shot and before the clicker goes, a bus has whizzed by or someone has arrived in the deserted hallway you thought looked attractive.

Our Casa for the first night, run by a lady called Reysa, who was very kind and motherly and probably saw in our eyes that we were daunted and needed a little help. It transpired that she was friends with our next Casa and the final Casa, so we saw her at a party on our last night. This is a very Cuban looking Casa, with high ceilings, an internal Courtyard with rooms off it, Saints, and the ubiquitous rocking chairs. Everyone has rocking chairs in Cuba, whether they are very simple wooden affairs, cast iron or antique bergere style caned chairs. So nice to sit in. I'm a convert.

Because so much of it is deprived and in a state of degradation, it feels voyeuristic to take photos of people and their homes. What we consider to be faded grandeur or poetic decay is actually real life hardship for the people of Cuba, and it doesn't feel right to enjoy that. So, often, you keep your camera in your pocket.

Plaza de Cathedral, Havana

We went now because we thought that Cuba might change and we wanted to see it in its 'authentic' state. But the reality of that is that this so-called 'authenticity' is hardship.

The truth is, Cuba needs to change, but in the right way for them. The people desperately want progress. They want the internet, decent wages, trade with America so that they can get things like parts for cars and goods in the shops, freedom to travel and generally to be up to date with the world.

Casa number 2, known as Casa Blanca, for obvious reasons. This is right on the Malecon, the sea road in Havana, where everyone comes at night to meet up and promenade. We watched from the balcony

They are incredibly intelligent, well-qualified people and they don't want to be patronised. They understand that they are living in a time-warp and whilst they are fiercely proud of their country, they want the chance to be current and modern.

It's a really clever mix of antique and modern. With everything painted white, everything fits together very nicely. I took a handful of outfits and wore them on repeat, leaving most of it behind as gifts when I left.

So, what did we do? We elected to stay in Casa Particulares rather than hotels. These are homes belonging to Cubans, where you stay in an ensuite room and effectively live with the family. They cook you breakfast and dinner, do your laundry, organise your trips and transport, and look after you like you are their children. All you have to do is enjoy the luxury of being on the receiving end of all this precious care and loving attention, try to speak a little bit of Spanish and fall in love with them. They make it so easy.

Hemingway's house, about 10 miles outside of Havana, a real little oasis, but possibly a dilemma. Here he was, this rich American living in a beautiful house, set in huge grounds, and his neighbours all live in the simplest, most run-down shacks. Not sure how that would feel. 

The number one tip I would give to anyone thinking of travelling to Cuba is to learn Spanish. Cubans have very few opportunities for International travel, in fact a lot of them haven't even had the chance to visit other parts of their own country. So us privileged members of the English-speaking world need to do a bit of work.

Plenty of evidence of his passion for huntin', shootin' and fishin'!

Luckily for me, I love languages. Many years ago, I used to teach English as a Foreign Language, and it struck me that in order to understand what my students were going through, maybe I needed to learn a new language. So I went to Spanish evening classes for a term and, my goodness, it has held me in good stead.

Havana by night. This was the night that the period of official mourning came to an end. There were people everywhere, drinking rum and dancing. A fellow called Paulo came and started chatting to us. He told us he didn't like tourists, and he didn't like capitalism. But he did clearly like Ron (rum) and Q's beard. Kept leaning over and stroking it in wonder!

More often than not, we stayed in Casas where they only spoke Spanish, and somehow we managed. I was seriously punching above my weight, but somehow, we understood each other and had conversations about really meaningful things and on occasion laughed until we cried. I have no idea how. I think it might have been magic. I know it felt like it.

Our final casa for the last night in Havana

When we first arrived, it felt really difficult. On our first full day, we walked here there and everywhere trying to get bus tickets to take us from Havana to Vinales. A fruitless task. We were dismissed, sent from pillar to post, so that when somebody offered us a different solution, we were willing to take it regardless of what it involved.

Up the stairs to the roof terrace for breakfast

We booked our first collectivo taxi. The man at the office said, 'I just need to tell you that there may be one or maybe two other people in your taxi.' We said, 'That's fine'.

Of course he was having a fine joke at our expense. There were nine of us in the taxi, which when it turned up was a 1940s Dodge. Straight out of the film Casablanca, with a steering wheel from a Seat, seats from a 1970s Lada, handcarved wooden door handles, and all manner of ingenious extras. Truly the Turner Prize of Heath Robinson inventions. I absolutely loved it. Spent half the journey chuckling to myself.

After a few days, something shifts and suddenly it starts to feel OK. Even seasoned travellers that we met said the same thing. From then on, you're fine. It looks chaotic. It looks like there's no system, but somehow, with a beer at lunchtime to help proceedings, everything works.

I spent months preparing for this holiday. I spoke to everybody I knew who had been to Cuba. I spent ages, trying to sort out accommodation and travel and excursions. All I needed for any of them to say, (which strangely none of them did) was, 'Don't worry, the Casa will sort out everything for you'. I mean really. They sort everything. If only I had known, it would have saved me so much worry and hassle. Those ladies are AMAZING. They know everyone and everything. Don't waste your time. Let them look after you. It's their job, their talent and their pleasure. They really want you to love your time in their country.

Well, seems I had plenty to say! And there will be more...

We are family, I've got all my sisters with me!

Once upon a time, there were three little girls. They were often dressed in the same outfits, shared a bedroom and divided their time neatly between playing nicely together and tormenting the very life out of one another. It can only mean one thing. They were sisters.

But that's the beauty of all that childhood stuff. It knits you together, irrevocably, and when you get to a certain age, you realise how very precious that is. As adults we rarely get the chance to be together, all three of us at the same time and in the same place, due to distance and commitments, so when we do, it's a real treat.

About a week ago, we all converged on Salisbury in Wiltshire. It's on a train line for the other two, so it seemed a good place to meet.

Update, thanks to Fiona: Those are mating swan towels on the bed!!

I was the last one to arrive as I had a four hour drive to get there (and a five hour drive back, horror of horrors). They were waiting for me, with a drink at the ready. Half a cider. Haven't been a cider drinker since I left Somerset thirty years ago. Turns out it's just like riding a bike, got straight back into it as though I'd never stopped.

We then popped up to drop our bags off and check out our rooms. Wow! Rather special! But then I knew that already, because Mim only went and stayed there last month! 

When we were kids, after mass on a Sunday, the priest, Father O'Brien would come round and say hello to everyone as we chatted outside. Every week he'd come out with the same questions. 'Who's the clever one, Mum? Who's the quiet one? Who's the naughty one, Mum?' We'd give each other the side eye, and shove someone other than ourselves forward for that last category. 

As kids, we generally accepted that Fiona was the quiet one. Well, this week we re-evaluated the situation. Turns out that number 1 daughter Fiona was the naughty one all along! When faced with our pristine beds, she launched herself, like kids do into freshly fallen snow. Look at that face. I can't look at these photos without laughing.

So eventually we set off, in search of lunch. My little sister, who had planned and organised all of this for me as a wonderful birthday treat, had also brought some bits and pieces she had found in a folder from our Mum and Dad's house before it was cleared out, so we looked at old photos and documents and generally reminisced and marvelled at what she had found.

That's a 1930s handmade cotton dress I'm wearing there, bought when I went on an adventure with Serena a while back

After that we all agreed, it was time to hit the chazzas. Amazing that all three of us like doing that. Salisbury was pretty good. I got a Jaeger velvet skirt, a tweed skirt and some plus fours!

Early evening, we went up to enjoy our fancy rooms and get ready for dinner, which Olivia had booked in the restaurant at the hotel. The food was lovely, and we washed it down with Peach Bellinis. All very delightful.

We had sweet potato chips with our salad. Delicious!

Olivia had brought a whole loads of snacks for after tea, just in case we were still peckish, but we really weren't, so we just hung out in her room, watching TV and chatting until bedtime.

It was the best birthday treat I could have hoped for, and I loved it, loved it, loved it!

The only downside to all this wonderful celebration is that you get to be what feels like much older at the end of it. I'll be Five-OH next month! Yikes. Guess I'll just have to go somewhere nice to soften the blow...

Allotment life

I haven't bored you with treated you to an allotment update recently, and really I need to before the gloom of winter descends and it's all just a distant memory.

If we ignore June, we had a pretty good summer here in the East Midlands, with plenty of sunshine and warm days. I'm not at all a sunbather, but I do love waking up to bright days and being able to wander around in flip flops and summer dresses. I hate having to wear loads of layers, and I miss the flowers in winter. I like swimming in the outdoor pool and eating supper on the patio, so although I die in the intense heat (after a lot of moaning), I truly do love summer best of all, with Spring getting a Silver medal and Autumn scooping the Bronze.

The blackberries this year were plentiful and delicious. Gentleman's Avenue, where the bigwigs of Nottingham had their plots. Our friend Dancing Dave has just landed one there. We're going up for a visit next weekend.

August/September was lovely so it seemed the perfect time to invite some friends up to see what it's all about, this allotment life. If I'm honest, I've hardly spent any time up there this year. I have two jobs and an unpaid role which take up most of my time and energy. Every year I say I'm going to do less work, but for the time being, it's just wishful thinking. Good job there's a man-who-can to keep things going.

So one weekend Serena and Claire came to see us. We hadn't discussed food or anything but great minds think alike. We took homemade scones, cream and jam made from the currant bushes up on Q's plot, and they brought wine and crisps. What a lovely combination that proved to be.

A surprise visitor. So beautiful!

A sudden downpour sent us scurrying into the shed Q has fashioned from some bits of wood he was given, including a child's Wendy House. It's still awaiting a finished door and windows, but hopefully by winter it will be watertight, so he can seek refuge and make himself a cup of tea. 

Then the following weekend Phil and Varanya visited. This time we had bread, cheese and a cup of tea. It's one of the rules of nature, that everything tastes better outside, so we really enjoyed it.

The allotment has a very special feel about it. It's easier to relax and unwind up there than anywhere else I know. There's the most amazing variety of wildlife, big skies, the wind blows and you feel free. I love it, much more than our garden.

I'm already looking forward to next summer when we can have some more friends to visit.

She was a day tripper

I had a bit of time off work the other week, and there was talk of maybe going away for a few days, but we didn't get our act together, so after careful scrutiny of the weather forecast, I persuaded Q that a day out was in order.

As a driver, I find train trips such a luxury. No traffic, no mystifying one-way systems and no hassle with parking. Plus, it can be quicker. Twenty three whole minutes to Newark-on-Trent, a small market town on the banks of the River Trent, bursting with civil war history. Plus you get to see fields and orchards and woodlands and into people's back gardens. Much better than roads.

That's the ruined Newark Castle there, 12th century if you're interested. I like the fact that it sits within a park, accessible to all, and actually there were quite a few people just sitting there, basking in the early autumn sunshine.

That's a me-made patchwork skirt there, been slowly adding to it for months, thinking it might end up as a bedspread, but I had a rush of blood to the head and decided to make it into a skirt. It looks fine from the front but from the side I look a bit like one of those crocheted dolls who use their skirts to hide the loo roll. Not exactly the look I was aiming for, so it may find itself on a bed yet.

We'd been given some hot tips about where to go for eating and drinking, but the rest of it was free form, just wandering and exploring.

We sat outside for a coffee and it felt positively continental. We both agreed we could be on holiday and rebranded our day out as a mini-break.

There are a few plaques referring to the siege of Newark during the Civil War, but I plumped for this one because it features Charles the First's Queen, Henrietta, who happens to share a birthday with me*. When you get to my age, you want to share photos with someone older than you, and she is. 357 years older to be precise.

*some sources give it as a day earlier, in which case 357 years and 1 day older.

We missed a trick, visiting on practically the only day of the week there is no market. Some days it's a fruit and veg type market, but on others it's a flea market. I'll be going back on flea market day.

There's a big old church just off the Market Square. It asks for donations from people taking photographs, £1 for stills and £2 for videos. Being the well-behaved, law-abiding citizens we are, we did as we were told. I saw a couple of buckets on the floor and put my coins in. Turns out they were the buckets to collect rainfall. Oops.

A carved wooden door within a door, and vintage grafitti on the choristers pews! 

And guess what else there is? Only a vintage shop called Vintage Vixen! I had heard of it before, but had completely forgotten about it, so what a nice surprise. The lady who runs it was lovely and her prices were very reasonable, so we spent a happy half hour rummaging through the rails. I saw a few things which I thought...oh, yes, Mim would like this and ooh, that would be perfect for Curtise. Turns out there were a couple of things which were perfect for me too; a pair of 1980s dungarees and a red dirndl skirt. I've hardly stopped wearing them since I bought them, so I'm sure they'll be coming to a blog post near you soon.

Me-made patchwork skirt, t-shirt, necklace, cardigan and belt charity shopped, earrings and havaiianas gifted

After shopping and a slap up lunch, we took the train back to Nottingham for part 2 of our mini-break, a drinky in the Famous Spiegeltent, (a mobile dance hall) which had popped up in the Market Square. This one was built in 1920 in Belgium and has even hosted Marlene Dietrich.

I had a whole bottle of prosecco to myself (OK, it was an individual serving) and he had a pint while we took photos and sang along to the Blue Danube

Da-da-da, Da-da-da, Da-da-da-da-da. Can't hit the right notes, but I know all the lyrics.

That velvet canopy was so beautiful, and actually the whole interior was really cosy. I could just imagine Ms Dietrich hitting those high low notes.

After all that excitement we went home and had a cheese and wine evening for two. The perfect end to a perfect day.