GLASGOW KISS AND TELL

Duke of Wellington in traditional headgear outside the Glasgow Museum of Modern Art

I've just dried out the last of my clothes after 10 days of relentless, persistent, driving rain. Wherever I went in Scotland - the coast, the islands, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Galloway - the rain followed me. When I got back to Brussels the weather switched from hot and sultry to grey and wet. I'm beginning to wonder if it is me.

Glasgow was full of men in kilts on the day I arrived. All milling about on Glasgow Green playing their bagpipes. It is apparently a local tradition, when Celtic and Rangers are playing away. The noise of 80 pipe bands all playing their club anthems was deafening. I could almost hear Harold saying "sounds like 'Match of the Day'". And, do you know, if you closed one eye, it almost did.

A pound shop for Vi -even the underclass is Euro-friendly

I saw many of the pound shops that Vi complained about, and couldn't resist popping in to one or two. I bought a pair of socks in Celtic's new colours of fluo green and black stripes, in homage to Jimmy Bastard. I admit to having been rather scathing about Primark in the past, but I was astounded to see that it is now a fully-fledged High Street store with goods of a quality slightly above that of the defunct C&A. Perhaps I was confusing it with Bon Marché, known in Reading as Bon Marsh. At those prices I could have bought a whole wardrobe for a tenner, if Ryanair's baggage restrictions were more generous. Bodycare were knocking out bona fide French perfumes at giveaway prices. My favourite, YSL's Rive Gauche, was going for about a third of the Brussels price. I couldn't resist stocking up, ready to stuff all three bottles down my knickers when it was time to board the plane. I think I saved the equivalent of the money I lost on that horrid cottage in France. I was starting to enjoy Glasgow!


It is true that Sauchiehall Street is not the most salubrious thoroughfare in Scotland, although I was cheered to see that the tradition of shouty drunks was still going strong, at a relatively early 7 pm on a Saturday. I'm told they're even shoutier at 7 am on a Sunday. Glasgow wouldn't be Glasgow without shouty drunks.


I wouldn't recommend eating on Sauchiehall Street. I tried an Indian curry house - almost a pilgrimage when chicken tikka masala was invented in this city - but The Indian Gallery was really slightly below average, although a pleasant corner location with big windows through which I observed the young gels (barely legal some of them) going uptown for a night out in the skimpiest of outfits.

Another time I ate in what has to be the worst Chinese restaurant in Scotland, and possibly in the UK. There was little attempt at decor, ancient or modern, and the staff barely spoke English. The waitress was a surly little thing who blew her nose loudly while waiting for a customer's order then put the snotty rag back in her waistcoat pocket where it stayed all evening. Despite the fact that only 3 of the 30-odd tables were occupied, they rushed the customers as if there were 3 coach parties coming in any minute. There was no wine by the glass, she said unapologetically. She plonked a bottle of apple juice down unopened on my table with a glass and walked away again. The poor people at the next table were trying to get her attention, but she was too busy round the corner chatting to the manageress. The crispy duck dishes were available as half or whole ducks. I asked if I could have a quarter (quite common practice in most Chinese restaurants). She shouted at me that I could have a quarter of Peking duck but not of crispy duck. If anyone would like to explain the difference, please feel free. To be fair, the quarter of duck came with a double helping of microwaved pancakes plonked on a plate which was stuck on top of a platewarmer. They had obviously never seen bamboo steamers or chopsticks. I wondered which part of China these people were from. The Chinese equivalent of Rochdale, I shouldn't wonder. I ate my meal quickly, whilst watching some young ladies smoking and drinking beer out of bottles in the doorway of a sports bar opposite. Just so that you don't make the same mistake as me, avoid the Jade Garden at 303 Sauchiehall Street, on the corner of Holland Street.


I did however find two good restaurants in Glasgow. One is the Qua Italian Restaurant on Ingram Street, where I had one of the best pizzas I have ever had, in the company of McChe's uncle Aubrey, a quite charming confirmed bachelor and native Glaswegian. The other restaurant is "blas" (with a small b), right opposite the Kelvingrove Art Gallery in the posh West End. They serve traditional Scottish fare in a modern way. Of course I could not resist ordering haggis. The girl didn't even burst out laughing. "Och no, we eat it too ... sometimes" she said. It was served as a timbale, with the tatties on the bottom, a layer of neeps in the middle and the haggis (from Cockburn's of Dingwall) on top, surrounded by a tasty gravy. Washed down by a glass of chilled Sauvignon, it was delicious. But the dessert was what made me nearly do a Meg Ryan. Sticky toffee pudding in caramel sauce with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. The pudding was moist, and married perfectly with the creamy luxury vanilla ice cream, made by Mackie's of Aberdeen. The sauce, however, was ... well, suffice it to say I told the gel to convey to Chef that he had made an old woman very happy.

Dali's Christ of St John of the Cross

The Kelvingrove Gallery, which I had just visited before my orgasmic encounter with the sticky toffee pudding, is a marvellous place. It sits at the bottom of beautiful Kelvingrove Park, and is a Scottish Gothic folly of the first order, a bit like Uncle Aubrey. It is stuffed to the rafters with fantastic exhibits, including the famous Christ of St John of the Cross by Salvador Dali The central hall is quite breathtaking, with a magnificent pipe organ. Every day at 12.30 there is a recital for about an hour. The acoustics are unbelievable. Gallery visitors gravitate towards the hall and the first floor gallery to listen to the thrilling sound of organ music filling the vast cathedral like space. The Kelvingrove is a feast for the eyes and the ears, and it's all FREE! Followed up by the sticky toffee pudding described above, I had a pretty satisfying day.

The organist was a consultant radiologist. Honestly, you'd never have guessed.

The hotel where I stayed for the last two nights was packed with coach parties of Australian, Canadian and American McLeods, Campbells, Murrays, McLintocks et. al. in search of their roots. I hope they found them. But they certainly didn't find them in the Novotel, which was staffed by harrassed Polish waitresses directed by hatchet-faced black-clad native harpies with Govan facelifts, who snarled at customers and staff alike with equal venom. Where were the genteel Scottish maidens depicted in such typical Glasgow sitcoms as Rab C. Nesbitt? Mary Doll and Ella would have passed for royalty compared to these wardresses, who had probably been fired from their previous jobs in HM Prison Service for lack of people skills. I felt very sorry for the tired-looking young Polish gels.

I had to pay a visit to the Gorbals, where Grandpa Harridan was born and lived until he cleared off to America at the age of 17. It is quite sanitized now, and a bit soulless, although you could at least leave your car for 10 minutes and reasonably expect it to have the wheels still on when you came back. There is not much left from the old days - St Francis' Catholic church, which might have been Grandpa's parish church. Books reminiscing about pre-war Glasgow are all the rage in the city's bookshops, and I read "No Mean City", the famous pulp novel about a razor-wielding psychopath who was apparently the archetypal "weegie". I also read a later book called "The Real Gorbals Story" written by a small-time hoodlum who went straight. It all felt strangely familiar, and I wondered if they'd been influenced by our friend Mr Bastard.



Famous Gorbals natives include Jimmy Boyle, once the hardest man in Scotland, now a feted sculptor; Lorraine Kelly, TV personality; and Sir Isaac Wolfson, former Chairman of Great Universal Stores, including Burberry's, to whose memory the local youth pay tribute in their sartorial accessories. Grandpa Harridan was a pretty nasty piece of work by all accounts, but I wondered if I was stepping in his footsteps. Later in the week I crossed the Clyde from Wemyss Bay to Rothesay, and later realized that I had experienced a Dr Who moment, when my ferry had crossed the path of the SS Furnessia which had carried the young Seamus Harridan down the Clyde and out across the Atlantic to New York in 1906. If he'd stayed there I wouldn't be here now. I waved across the years to Grandpa Harridan, and whispered: "Bastard".

On the whole I rather warmed to Glasgow. It reminded me in some ways of London, with its big river, proud buildings and shedloads of attitude. And the best cup of tea you'll get in the UK due to the purity of the water. Not that there was any shortage of water, as my sodden suitcase can attest.



(for a more detailed account of Daphne's culinary adventures in Scotland, go to companion blog Daphne's Dinners)

RETURN OF THE RAIN GODDESS

Ten days without internet access. TEN DAYS. See, I can do it. I can give it up. I'm not an internet junkie. It is eight a.m. on the day after my return, I have not even unpacked my damp clothes, and I am sitting in my nightshirt at the 'pooter. I am going to have a marathon session and write up my latest hols for your delectation this weekend.

Scotland welcomed me by enveloping me in a massive raincloud which surrounded me until my departure on Monday. I spent the whole 10 days with my hijab firmly tied around my head (apart from the photoshoot with Kim Ayres) more in the interests of preventing frizzy hair than in support of Mr Megrahi. I have never seen rain of such relentless determination. As one lot of clouds emptied their load, another battalion was already rolling in from the Atlantic. It was a concerted attack. I think a formal complaint to NATO should be made.

On the return flight yesterday, I heard the sweetest words: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are now commencing our descent. The temperature on the ground in Brussels is 27 degrees." I emerged from the plane into a sultry heat and my sodden leather jacket started to steam. Within five minutes of getting on the shuttle bus, a large black cloud had appeared and seemed to be following the bus towards Brussels. Today the sky is leaden.

I think that confirms it. I am a rain goddess.

I'LL TAKE THE HIGH ROAD

I've no sooner finished telling you about one holiday than I'm off on another, to the wilds of Ayrshire this time, to see a man about a cake among other things. Mr McChé, who was supposed to be accompanying me on this little jaunt, must have got wind of my dastardly plan to leave him on the steps of the Glasgow branch of the Department of Work and Pensions in a cardboard box, and has succumbed to the long-term effects of a Scottish diet. He will live to sleep through another day. But sadly he will not be well enough to join me in the land of the deep fried Mars bar where I hope to be enjoying a bit of this sort of thing :

Meanwhile I've made you up a nice little playlist entirely of Glaswegian artistes so you can be with me in spirit. Some friends have expressed concern about me being at large on the streets of Glesga. I quote Vi Hornblower: "Glasgow is the most horrible place I've ever been, and I've lived in Nigeria." McChe has coached me in the local lingo and customs, and his spirit will stumble along beside me as I shuffle along Sauchiehall Street greeting the locals with a nasal "Yaright pal?" I know the words to Flower of Scotland if I get in a tight spot. I am prepared.

LA MER

My nautical kitbag - bought in Poland

La Rochelle was the antithesis of Royston sur Vasey. It was stylish, elegant, and oh so French. In the two hours it took to drive there, ,my bad experience was already fading from my memory, helped by Lily Allen whose jolly ditty "F*** You" was being played with enthusiastic regularity by Radio NRJ. I sang along as loud as I could, trying to project the sentiment, if not my voice, back to Royston sur Vasey.

I parked up and strolled down through the medieval colonnades of the old town, grinning like the village idiot. I had lost £200 but regained my sang-froid. Lovely shops, and lovely restaurants, and - ooh! lovely yachts! I have always liked ports, even though I don't know a boom from a barnacle. When Harold was alive, it only took a whiff of sea air for him to launch into full piratical mode, rolling one eye seaward and affecting a nautical gait, in a manner more reminiscent of Popeye than Sir Francis Chichester.




La Rochelle is a mecca for sailors, windsurfers and Friends of Scrumpy. There were several groups of dreadlocked youth with their trademark African baggy pants and dogs on strings. I donated the bag of leftover food to a couple of French ecowarriors resting up in a doorway between G20 meetings, who were most grateful and remarkably polite. As I walked away I heard their yelps of delight - they had either found the bottle of wine and 2 cans of 1664, or else were big fans of over-ripe Camembert.



The old town is simply gorgeous, crumbly medieval buildings with colonnades protecting pedestrians and rough sleepers from the hot summer sun, the salty Atlantic winds and the occasional downpour, of which there were a few during my sojourn. Not having taken my gay umbrella with me, I invested in a yachtie-type pacamac, whereupon the rain stopped quite suddenly. Always works.

I was keen to visit at least one of the islands, and crossed the 3 km bridge to the Ile de Ré. The toll is a bit steep for a day trip, but the island is a little treasure, dotted here and there with villages of single-storey whitewashed cottages with green shutters and wild hollyhocks, and vineyards. The unspoilt beaches were practically deserted, probably because I visited them at lunchtime. The main town, more like a big village, is St Martin de Ré, once notorious for its high security prison (still functioning - lucky inmates!), with its pretty harbour packed with sailing and motor boats and surrounded by restaurants where, at 12.30 on the dot, every table was occupied. The French certainly set their clocks by their stomachs.

Lunchtime on a Rétois beach

The tide was out when I arrived and a few people were out on the foreshore collecting cockles and mussels, alive-alive-oh. Oysters are the speciality of this part of France, sadly after a couple of unfortunate experiences with molluscs in the past, I dare not. Not unless I am within a few yards of my own WC and preferably with a toxicologist and a priest in attendance. I contented myself with sniffing the air while I nibbled my quiche lorraine on the quayside.




Back in La Rochelle, I was spoilt for choice with eateries. Creperies are there in abundance, due to the proximity of Brittany. A delicious ham and egg buckwheat pancake with a traditional pottery bowl of Breton cider makes a cheap and cheerful lunch at under 10 euros, especially when you are serenaded by a street band of guitar, double bass and violin doing a passable imitation of Le Hot Club de France. On an evening I covered the waterfront, trying to decide which of the tempting 3-course menus on offer would lure me in. There are so many restaurants in La Rochelle that you could eat out every night for six months without going back to the same place twice.




Whenever I am by the water, river or ocean, I like to go for a boat ride. The old port of La Rochelle is a kind of marine bus station, with an armada of vessels offering trips out to the islands, round Fort Boyard, or just across the harbour on the "sea bus" to Les Minimes, the largest European sailing marina on the Atlantic coast, if you believe what the French say. Sounds impressive, but when you realize the only competition is Portugal and the West of Ireland, it's not such a big deal. I scanned the row of gleaming white cabincruisers and catamarans where tourists were piling on, without much enthusiasm. Then my ship came in: the "Tchou-Tchou" ("Choo-Choo"), a barely modified fishing boat painted bright green, offering a turn about the bay for 6 euros. I spent a pleasant hour with my feet up at the back, being lulled into a state of wellbeing by the gentle rocking of the boat.




The rain got more frequent towards the end of the week so I abandoned the great outdoors for a couple of hours to visit the swanky and relatively new Aquarium. This is a masterpiece, and if you're heading down the West Coast of France at any time of the year is worth stopping for. Hundreds of tanks ranging in size from water feature to Olympic swimming pool and containing three million litres of seawater support marine life from the five major oceans in a highly realistic environment. You enter through a perspex underwater tunnel while ethereal milky jellyfish float all around you. A massive cylindrical core tank runs through the middle of the 3-storey building from top to bottom and contains sharks, stingrays, and other behemoths of the deep. There are several spots where you can sit in darkness and observe through a transparent wall the sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly, and sometimes downright weird undersea world of Jacques Cousteau. If you think some of the creatures in Dr Who are bizarre, go and see what's lurking about on the ocean floor.

One interesting fact I learned about fish was that in many species, it is the male which incubates the eggs until they hatch. And many fish change sex several times during their lifetime. Bearing in mind we evolved on the same evolutionary scale, it is hardly surprising that a number of humans are, to say the least, confused about their gender.



The sea life was so lovely and graceful that I briefly thought it a shame that most of them tasted so delicious. But strangely, at the same time, I was starting to build up an appetite for something with tartar sauce and chips. What the hell, I reasoned, they eat each other anyway. A short documentary film showed how the animals are fed. As you might imagine, this being France, the aquarium has a proper kitchen where the fishes' meals were lovingly prepared. If you are a fish who has the bad luck to end up in an aquarium, make sure it's in France.


After the fun, the lecture. A room full of exhibits devoted to the biosphere and an explanation of how the damage we humans are doing on land is impacting on the oceans. Being a fully paid-up eco-warrior now, in my African trousers purchased from a friendly Senegalese chap on the Ile de Ré, I spent a long time studying the exhibits and recalled the sage words of the eminent marine biologist Billy Connolly, on swimming in the North Sea: "We don't belong in there." I then emerged into a mini-rainforest, with a waterfall, a tank of piranhas, and a, er, penis tree.

Dammit, I'd just straightened my hair

Say hello to Doug and Dinsdale

I couldn't quite believe my eyes

Having completed the educational visit, I spotted my two Friends of Scrumpy, suitably refreshed on my leftover victuals, banging on their bongos on the harbour wall as I set off in search of a nice fish restaurant. I gave them a raised fist, but I was still thinking about that tree.

Some guy called Robin has made a nice little film about La Rochelle and the Aquarium, in which you even see the Tchou Tchou chugging into port. I'm sure he won't mind me sharing it with you.

QUELLE HORREUR, QUELLE HORREUR (PART DEUX)

The next morning I got up early, jumped in the car and set off to explore the environs. The "hamlet" was nothing more than a collection of crumbling barns, some of which had been converted. Not a shop, not a café, nothing. It was literally the middle of nowhere. The café in the nearest village was apparently British owned, and judging by what I had seen so far, to be avoided. I found the local Intermarché, which was open on Sunday mornings to cater to the resident Brits, evidenced by the large size and poor quality of the wine section and the cases of beer piled high near the checkout. I spoke French and avoided eye contact with my Primark-clad fellow-shoppers as I presented my can of flykiller, bottle of bleach and scented candles to the cashier.

I drove for miles and miles in search of something French, and apart from one very pretty village, Nanteuil en Vallée, a good 50 km away with a preponderance of Type 1 Brits and an excellent restaurant (l'Auberge de l'Argentor, where I treated myself to an al fresco Sunday lunch), found nothing to commend the area. It looked a lot like Northamptonshire, with fields of sunflowers instead of rapeseed stretching for miles. Nothing particularly French about it at all.

L'Auberge de l'Argentor, Nanteuil-en-Vallée, Charente

The other side of Confolens was a village called Lesterps, where La Fête de l'Accordéon was advertised that very day. After miles and miles of deserted roads, I found a couple of thousand aficionados had assembled from all over France, and even Europe, to judge by the registration of the many camper vans parked in the adjoining fields, to see the stars of the "piano à bretelles" and trip the light fantastic. They had certainly dressed up for the occasion, often in his 'n' hers matching outfits. I am a great fan of the accordeon and couldn't resist dropping in for a couple of hours. I heard some virtuoso performers, although none of it in the whimsical style of Yann Tiersen (who did the soundtrack of Amélie) or any kind of wider world music element - such as Louisiana cajun music, or Eastern European bands. This was pure, traditional bal musette, the sort you get at 14th July village fireman's balls, and each number accompanied a particular dance style which was announced formally. "Et maintenant, tout le monde en piste pour un pasadoble!"

Talented young Julie Blocher (14) was one of the stars of the festival

The dancing was fascinating. This was "Strictly French Strictly". Each couple had their own particular dance style which made them stand out from the others. I was particularly fascinated by one couple dressed in matching lime green, whose trademark involved breaking apart shortly after the music had started and twirling individually like synchronised doner kebabs. They didn't manage to stay together for one single dance. I overheard someone ask them, during a pause, why they did it. "Because we like it!" Mr W.Dervish replied happily. The French also seem to have discovered line dancing, which was performed with typical French nonchalance, gazing unsmilingly into the middle distance as if waiting for a bus whilst executing precision footwork. I wished Peter Mayle had been there to see it, he would have painted a scene of rural lunacy, probably with dogs running amok on the dance floor and somebody being taken away in an ambulance.

I returned to Royston sur Vasey, my head filled with more escape plans than Richard Attenborough in The Great Escape. I managed to kill the smell in the kitchen with a combination of chemicals and cigarette smoke, but the bluebottles were proving more tenacious. Sitting outside with my glass of wine, I tried to dislodge one reluctant bluebottle from my arm where he was hosing up my blood from the two neat holes he had pierced. I ended up breathing in so much flykiller that night that I was violently ill and spent a second bad night in the house of horrors, lulling myself to sleep with Scarlet O'Hara's mantra "Tomorrow is another day". Although I certainly wouldn't have been seen dead in the curtains.



The next day I drove West for two hours until I hit the Atlantic coast and was relieved to discover I was still in France after all, in La Rochelle to be precise. The English - and the occasional Irish - were still much in evidence, but in a much more upmarket way, and there were a majority of French holidaymakers in their cut-offs and Vuarnets. I took a decision to up sticks, whatever the cost. I spent a very pleasant day in La Rochelle before returning to the gite to inform Reg that I had, regretfully, changed my plans. He asked if there was anything wrong with the accommodation. Having not yet negotiated the cancellation charge, I lied. He said he would talk to the wife and "sort something out".

An hour later he was back to tell me that they would not refund any of the money I had paid up front. I spent a third semi-sleepless night battling with the bluebottles, who had by now decided they loved me and wanted to move upstairs with me and take turns to sit on my nose all night. I was starting to feel like Pig Pen.




The next morning I was packing the car when Reg and Beryl returned from walking their dogs. She barely acknowledged me, and gave me her best Corrie scowl before disappearing into the house. God knows why, they'd received full payment for the week and now had the place free for the next four days. With nothing left to lose, I told Reg what I really thought about the accommodation. He was less than gracious, even defensive, as I had expected, but carelessly revealed that they had been "kicked out" by the French gite rating system. Hardly surprising. He did at least return my deposit (cheque drawn on a bank in Bury - which was pretty much what I wanted to do to Reg and Beryl) and I departed, taking every last tea bag and nobly resisting the temptation to hide the remains of a very ripe Camembert somewhere in the furniture. I was £200 out of pocket, but as Keith Richards wisely said, it's the price of an education. That'll teach me to spurn the advice of Gites de France.

It was depressing to reflect, as I drove away, that the very worst of England was now seeping down into my beloved France. They're even broadcasting "Shameless" to the French on a satellite channel. We must be mad or masochistic, or both, to give the French even more reason to feel superior to us - as if they needed one. So when you notice a particularly unsavoury foreigner in your area, speaking no language known to man or goat, with traces of unidentifiable food in his beard and smelling like an old Afghan coat, rest assured that we are exporting even worse examples of our race to foreign parts. If we carry on like this, the French will be paying us to pull out of the European Union.

My hols got radically better within two minutes of leaving Royston sur Vasey, but I'll save that for next week. I didn't, in the end, renounce my British nationality.

Frank Gallagher - proud to be British

(N.B. A Blue Peter badge to Mr McChé for the nifty bit of bilingual photoshopping at the top)