Spectator Life

As the pandemic roared through India, I wondered when tourists like me would be able to return to a country so central to the traveller’s imagination. When we did return, would it show the scars of the hideous death toll and extreme burden of suffering? Would we feel safe? Finally, nearly three years since I first wondered this, I went to find out. I flew not long after India relaxed all Covid paperwork late last year. A sadistically bureaucratic nation at the best of times, India had scrapped British e-Visas in retaliation for something that no one can quite work out, making the visa application process somewhat Kafka-esque. The e-Visa has, thankfully, since returned.

When Enterprise Inns closed the Ivy House in April 2012 – with plans to sell it to a property developer – things looked bleak for the south London pub. Its well-established status as a community and live music venue, which has hosted artists like Joe Strummer, Elvis Costello, and Ian Dury, was under threat. What followed is a story of civic triumph.  Nestled in the residential backstreets of Peckham Rye, The Ivy House has the proud title of being London's first cooperatively-owned pub. When its existence was threatened, members of the local community stepped forward, campaigning successfully for a Grade II listing and raising £1 million to buy the freehold and refurbish the building.

‘Remember your training Grace, get the rifle.’ We’re only moments into the opening episode of the superb new police procedural Blue Lights when we are reminded this is a very different cop show. In Northern Ireland, where it is set, policing the semi-skimmed peace still carries the additional risk of being ambushed by terrorists. Being tooled up, even for a traffic stop, can be a matter of life and death.   Any of us who have worn a uniform while wet behind the ears can empathise with the struggle of these three new officers Grace and Stevie, her mentor – and possibly more as the series develops – are two central characters in a six-part BBC drama that manages to humanise the lives of the men and women in the Police Service of Northern Ireland without mawkishness.

Three days on Madeira can feel like a week – not because time ­­drags, but because the place is so varied with its many different weathers. From the aeroplane you could be circling over the Caribbean, an impression given by the lush scrambling vegetation and orange rooftops jostling up the mountains. We landed at Cristiano Ronaldo airport, named for the most famous living Madeiran. Having surveyed the situation from the air, I wondered how he found anywhere flat enough for football. We kicked off with a puncha – Madeira’s ubiquitous rum punch, sweetened with orange and honey. It was our duty and pleasure to try it We headed first for the sunny southwest, to Quinta da Vinhas, a wine-growing farm above the seaside resort of Calheta.

There are many things to be learnt from visiting an airport. A trip to Stansted Airport, for instance, will teach you that Stansted is a really dim place to locate an airport. Meanwhile, JFK in New York City will inform you that America is becoming seriously pricey for European tourists. But a recent trip to Bangkok airport taught me something more profound. There I was, supping some pleasant Singapore Laksa, and I saw this thing hove into view. It was an autonomous robot cleaner, busily keeping all the shiny floors of Suvarnabhumi airport in pristine condition.

The English Breakfast Society has cancelled the hash brown, calling it a ‘lazy American replacement to bubble and squeak’. Guise Bule de Missenden, the society’s founder (sounds European to me), warned that giving hash browns the stamp of approval would only encourage the adoption of other ‘unsuitable fillers like chips’, or worse ‘fish fingers’ and ‘kebab meat’. (Seriously Guise, unless you are an infant or a drunk, the latter two are not part of any normal diet.) The boffins at the English Breakfast Society need to get with the times ‘Someone has to draw the line and say no to hash browns,’ he said. ‘They are served by those who lack pride in the full English breakfast tradition.’ Well, I've had enough. I’m taking a stand.

Berliner Luft is a popular peppermint-flavoured shot downed in the city’s bars. It also means Berlin Air and is a colloquialism for the city’s spirit of unfettered freedom and rebellious abandon. Given what this city went through, reduced to rubble by the furious Russians at the end of world war two, and then rent in two for more than 40 years during the Cold War, it’s not surprising that after the Berlin Wall came down in 1989, the populace needed to let off steam.

Everyone has a story about the stress of moving house. For those buying a new home, the process of exchanging contracts is perhaps even more nerve-racking than loading their worldly possessions into the back of a van. When I started in the property game in the late 1970s, buying a property – that’s when you pay your 10 per cent deposit and your sale becomes irrevocable, not when your agent says ‘well done, your offer has been accepted’ – took roughly eight weeks. It now takes over 20, which is absurd. This extra time contributes the lion’s share of stress and seems to be getting worse.

Though I’m not the most avid fan of her oeuvre, I was cheered recently to see that Ellie Goulding wanted her new album to be less personal: ‘It was such a relief and really refreshing to not be sitting in the studio going through all the things that happened to me and affected me… it’s the least personal album, but I think it’s the best album because I got to just explore other things about myself. I just really, really enjoy writing; really enjoy being a singer.’ What a refreshing take on the creative process, which in modern times can often seem like a cross between a bulletin from the therapist’s couch and a ceaselessly-picked sore. Millennials can’t seem to get enough of spilling the tea, and that goes especially for their most successful singers.

‘There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort,’ wrote the eminently quotable Jane Austen in Emma, in 1815. ‘Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am.’   If the incomparable Regency writer and social critic could see Steventon House, on the site of her birthplace and childhood home in Hampshire, she would doubtless approve. Although it’s not quite on the scale of the manicured estates that feature so largely in her property-obsessed novels, the Grade II listed 1820s home is all Georgian elegance, with 7,000 sq ft of living space, beautifully proportioned high-ceilinged receptions and fine period features including decorative fireplaces, cornicing, and working shutters.