Oh Highcliffe! (Contemporary Bed and Breakfast, Falmouth)

Most people who know me (and if you've had a chance to peruse my About Me page) will know I’m a brazen London devotee.

This city courses through my veins. I fall a teeny bit more in love every day in a giddy, pubescent kind of fashion. Oh, the history, the people, the sights, the sounds, the smells (OK, at a push) and the pumping non-stop, 24-hour-accessibility of it all! Swoon. 

But even the most passionate of lovers needs a break every now and then to stop things getting staid. Often I hear myself think 'God, I'm knackered with city life! I need to get off for a bit!’ So, the other weekend me, hubby and bump did just that; we hopped off the revolving London ride and headed to Falmouth on the South coast of Cornwall for a long weekend of salty sea air and much needed R&R. 

After working late the evening before, a 6-hour car journey at first light, an exhaustion of Spotify playlists ('no more Madonna!') and yet another wee break it's safe to say we were a little tightly coiled upon arrival. So arriving at Highcliffe Bed and Breakfast to, genuinely, the warmest welcome I've ever been given was just the tonic. 

Owners Simon and Vanessa and their lovely daughter pulled up outside the guest house at the same time as us; and no matter it was before official checking-in hours or that they were enjoying a family Friday afternoon. We were greeted like habitués rather than too-early strangers. Friendly chat ensued, help with bags dished out and we were gently ushered into the warm sanctuary of their contemporary B&B. Setting the scene for an absolutely incredible weekend. 

I cannot recommend Highcliffe enough and here's why in no apparent order.

Firstly, the bedroom. A long weekend provides an advantageous head start to Saturday and, for me, guilt-free permission to laze about and do exactly what you wouldn't usually do on a Friday. Watch Netflix at 4pm with a hot chocolate (in lieu of wine)? Why the heck not. Ideally you need a great room to do this, like sumptuous Room 8…

Room 8 is a premium super king double delight at the top of the guest house. It is snug but not poky and tastefully decorated with subtle touches of sunny yellow that seared through the cold February rain outside. Stylish and plentiful lighting illuminated all the features and the giant bed with Egyptian cotton linen was so comfortable I fell into a deep slumber each night - completely unheard of in recent weeks. Everything was cleverly thought out - handy bottle opener (woefully unused; I miss PROSECCO *sob*) hot water bottle tucked away in drawer, yellow and grey cashmere blanket casually draped over a chair if it got too chilly (it didn't), generous bathrobes and ample spotlit wardrobe space for people who pack a week's worth of clothes for a weekend.

The sparkling ensuite bathroom hosted a curved, roll top slipper bath and fleecy white towels and was kitted out with Orla Kiely products. I had to be pried out of the powerful shower each time, usually with food as bait (see below). The harbour view from the Velux bathroom window was a joy each morning. Unfortunately we chose to visit Falmouth at the same time as #stormimogen, who raged outside fiercely. It really didn't matter, the hatches were battened down and we were tucked up in a chic bolt hole - Imogen and her tantrums were no bother to us. Besides, we managed to wedge in a Gyllyngvase Beach walk or two over the weekend, as well as a swim and a massage at the local spa, so everything was not lost.

Secondly, the decor. Highcliffe's guest and dining room are simply gorgeous. The owners, although only ever a buzz away and always conveniently around just when you needed them, live downstairs. With your own key, guests can come and go as you please. Vanessa had previously worked for a well-known glossy interior magazine and Simon held a top role in Media, and this is reflected in the sophisticated and high-standard interior design and well-finished furniture.

There's motion-activated lighting when you're too sleepy to flick a switch and striking modern colour schemes. They've done a great job of ensuring it is personal and welcoming rather than identikit. The guest lounge is beautifully furnished and stocked with back catalogues of fashion (hello, Vogue), travel and lifestyle magazines – for which I am a complete sucker. In my head, Suitcase magazine (a magazine that embraces the eclectic and adventurous appetite of a generation of creatives and entrepreneurs) is a visual representation of my every day life. Sadly, and realistically, it is not. There are lovely little touches; a table with sweets for adults, an honesty tuck box bursting with bars of Green and Black's Chocolate, Tunnocks Teacakes and Tyrrell's Crisps for midnight feasts. The dining room is kitted out with beautiful homeware from Willow and Stone, with a shop just down the road on Arwenack Street.

Thirdly, the food. There's an age-old saying that when you're preggers you eat for two. That weekend I possibly ate for four. The breakfast is a delicious feast. Think crunchy homemade granola and seeds, thick Greek natural yoghurt, delicious natural cereals, chilled juices. Fresh fruit and hot, buttery toast and a vast choice of condiments (including Vegemite! Streuth! A hangover from my Sydney days and one antipodean habit I've been unable to break, sorry Marmite). Unlimited pots of Cornish Tea's Smuggler's Brew and locally supported coffee. That's before you've tackled the Full English (veggie and non-)or the daily special, which during our stay included garlic-smoked field mushrooms and sautéed spinach with a poached egg on door-stop granary toast. I'm not kidding, I would literally crawl up the stairs to Room 8 on my hands and knees after a 3-course breakfast. I would love to blame the bump and the mild vertical ascent but it wasn't, it was just me being a great big greedy guts. 

Fourthly, the proprietors. All the fancy pants stuff is marvellous and don't get me wrong, I'm a fan of the glitz. But with style you must have substance and when paying to stay away from home, to be made to feel you're a wanted guest. Simon and Vanessa genuinely want to ensure you have a really, really great stay and pull out all the stops without making it feel forced. Nothing was too much trouble. Their warmth and ebullience also filters through to their breakfast crew who were incredibly friendly and chipper. Simon's encyclopaedic knowledge of Falmouth, it's charming local gems, restaurants and characters was invaluable and everyone spoke so highly of them. The Wheelhouse, Hunkydory Restaurant and Bar and Beerwolf Books were highlights, sadly we didn't make it to Dolly's Tea Room and Wine Bar but this provides a perfectly valid excuse to return.  

Alas, I have one grumble.

Time went way, way too quickly. Being comfortably ensconced at Highcliffe for some inexplicable reason means that time passes at double the normal speed. In a flash, we were on the A39 homeward bound, driving through Storm Imogen and feeling a bit sorry for ourselves. It's back to the grindstone now and Highcliffe is but a distant memory, but every now and then I allow myself to imagine being tucked up in contemporary Room 8 with a cup of Cornish brew, a well-worn Du Maurier and the prospect of both a Highcliffe breakfast and a glorious Falmouth day ahead.

Until next time...

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Thank you 2013, it's been a blast.

Thank you to each and everyone of my Material Whirl followers. The likers, the admiring head-nodders, the laugh-out-louders, the sharers, the forwarders, and the retweeters.

You make... late nights after long (real job) days surviving only by the power of Diet Coke, standing on the tube with my face way too close to a stranger and typing on an iPhone, the solitary coffees in cafes with just me and my Mac, and the begging, emailing, researching...absolutely 100% worth it.

With your help and support 2013 has seen Material Whirl take a small but noticeable step (in uncomfortable, but new shoes). I am lucky to have reviewed some fantastic acts for Jazz FM, have guest reviewed for some smashing London hangouts with their support (and retweets) and some inspiring fashion people have even been in touch with me. Right this minute, I have 139 Facebook likes, 100 Instagram followers and 411 Twitter followers with numbers rising - not bad but definitely need more.

2013 was kind to Material Whirl. Did you know a New York City subway train holds 1,200 people? Well, this blog was viewed about 8,000 times in 2013. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 7 trips to carry that many people. That makes me smile and keeps me motivated to do more in 2014. - have a quick read of my report below (with fancy images, thanks Wordpress)

Here's a little report of Material Whirl's progress in 2013.

It is a great start and I am absolutely over the moon; but 2014 needs to be bigger and even better (with more NYC subway train trips. Or, even better, Tube trips if I knew the stats on that). Hopefully this is just the beginning.

Thank you so much to each and everyone of you who made it happen.

Happy New Year. I hope 2014 brings you everything you want and deserve... I have a feeling it is going to be spectacular.

xxx

Stanfords Bookshop, Covent Garden

Stanfords is an incredible travel bookshop located on Long Acre in Covent Garden.

Samuel Johnson once said ‘when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford’. I couldn’t agree more. That said, it is nice to dream of visiting far-flung places every now and then. Or, you may choose to use your precious time in London as a springboard to visit other European destinations for a weekend. Whatever your inspiration, escape the hustle and bustle of tourist-laden Covent Garden and transport yourself anywhere you desire in the world – care of this amazing travel bookshop.

Stanfords is bursting with maps scaling every inch of the globe, stylish city guides, an abundance of Lonely Planets and clever gadgets to satisfy the geekiest of gadget lover. It stocks a fantastic range of modern travel fiction and non-fiction to take the place of a backpacking buddy and browsing the shelves is a global adventure in itself. You can also pick up some truly unique gifts and go on, treat yourself to a beautiful  journey to capture on paper all of your own travel tales. It opened in 1901 and past customers include Florence Nightingale and even Sherlock Holmes (in The Hound of the Baskervilles) adding to the sense of history and quintessential London.

Stanfords has an in-store Sacred Café, serving typical New Zealand organic fair trade coffee roast and a range of teas. Hearty food adds to a real Antipodean experience in London.

I love whiling away a few hours in Stanfords because, like travelling itself, entering through the doors is an adventure into the unknown and always inspirational. You may only intend to browse or buy a gift, but guaranteed you will leave with a head full of dreams and solid plans for your next trip.

Although you won’t be able to stay away from London too long of course.

An ode to the X68 bus

Oh X68, or eXpress 68 to give you the full title you so gallantly deserve. Travelling aboard your blue speckled double decks is such sweet sorrow. You are the bane of my commuting life yet you know all too well I would be lost without you.

There are countless reasons why the seemingly uneventful journey from West Croydon to Russell Square is so eventful, my current route to work now that I am living temporarily in the Crystal Palace area, but here are some of the reasons why I love you, X68.

1. You laugh in the face of the bus timetable (helpfully available in PDF form on the TFL website). You are a free spirit, the nomadic pilgrim of South London. You are not restricted by life's inane structures or plans. You drive to the beat of your own drum. You turn up when you feel like it, preferring to operate by the timetable of life. What I really mean is you are usually sodding late.

2. Sometimes you choose to terminate short of your final destination and instead of concluding at Russell Square, as advertised on the overhead destination board, you stop somewhere else en route. Like Kennington. Or Camberwell, setting us a Krypton Factor-esque challenge to get to work via alternative means - on foot, by tube, via a hitchhiked ride for the more desperate. This presents another problem to solve ahead of an already full day and is both stimulating and good for developing my navigation skills. Thank you.

3. In the nicest way, your drivers are mildly psychotic. Cyclists in the bus lane, traverse at your peril. Passengers who speak to or obscure the driver's vision while the bus is moving? I wish you luck. Running for the bus in a frenzy, perspiring and cursing along the way? Chances are they will wait until you are an inch away from making it and then close those whooshing doors, laughing maniacally like Vincent Price at the end of Thriller. I have seen it with my own eyes. I have also been that passenger, keeled over gasping for breath and shaking my fist at the back of the bus. (Swearing).

4. Said drivers have rather a penchant for the brake pedal. This creates a jolting, bumpy jaunt with repeatedly abrupt stops and starts and leaves poor unsuspecting passengers flying all over the bus, flailing their arms wildly and hanging onto a pole for dear life. Composing a text or reading at least one page of a book is virtually impossible without the use of Hyoscine to ward off extreme travel sickness. Some poor woman the other day ran off with her hand over her mouth ready to spew, the roller coaster ride too much to endure. I could feel her pain. Wedged at the back last week between two hefty gentlemen I had to take deep gulps of breath and fix my glare on a stable object to avoid my own unfortunate puking incident.

5. The commanding announcement 'this is an express service and will now run non-stop to Waterloo' always, without fail, prompts the Theme from S-Express to whirl constantly around in my head for the entire journey. Despite this announcement that confirms the service runs continuously to Waterloo, there is always some poor b*gger who does not know the drill. They are an X68 virgin if you will. They want to get off in West Norwood please, they do not require the onward hour journey to Waterloo, thanks very much. They innocently ding the bell in good time, ready to disembark. Ding. As the driver continues past their stop they press it again, a little more firmly. Ding. Perhaps the bell is not working. Ding. Oh dear, maybe the driver hasn't heard, oh well never mind I'll get off at the next stop. Ding. Then sheer panic sets in. They are not getting off this bus anytime soon. Ding. I am going AN HOUR out of my way and will be horribly late for work. Ding. My boss will never believe me. Ding. Perhaps I'll never get off. Ding. OH GOD. They realise no amount of 'DRIVER, LET ME OFF!'s are going to work here. Ding. Ding. DING. (For those Breaking Bad devotees, think of Tuco Salamanca's uncle Hector and that incessant bell). Someone bravely whispers 'you can press the emergency button to open the doors' and someone else says encouragingly 'go, run for your life'! As they press the red button heroically they are released into the fresh air and we wave, smiling sadly, as we continue on our jerky way.

Yet, how can I possibly moan? You take me all the way from home to Waterloo (usually) without stopping. Thus, you are slightly superior to the 68 or even the 468, parallel services that run along the same route more or less but have to stop. Ha. Inferior route sisters, we laugh at your perpetual stopping. You offer unbeatable views of amazing London town and all it has to offer.  As the brilliant Phil Earle quoted in his article for The Guardian 'one minute it's the electric buzz of Elephant and Castle, the next time I look up, I'm in the shadows of the glorious South Bank and Big Ben'.

Your passengers are true heroes. A quick peek on Twitter reveals that you already have your own admirers, your bus groupies, throwing themselves at you and queuing up to get on board. The X68 has a unique passenger community of its own, amazing individuals with an unbreakable spirit, a strong stomach and a cracking sense of humour. I have noticed some passengers embark, courageously say hello to the (psychotic) driver and take their time to wave at people they know, say hi, as if it they were among great friends rather than fellow commuters.  I love these guys. Some of them also tweet gems such as 'Honestly, the X68 bus never fails to entertain. Always a drama!', 'The mighty X68 bus is like warp drive to S London'... and 'Power to the people! X68 bus driver goes off course, his passengers start shouting directions. #humansatnav saves the day'. This makes me smile a lot and feel part of a high-achieving team. I'm an X68'er and proud of it.

When I move back to the East End next year, I am not ashamed to say that I will miss it - the unpredictability, at times the downright cruelty of it all, the jerkiness, and the drama.

X68. I've got the hots for you.

 

Pre-Holiday Rules

This bank holiday just passed, Material Whirl jetted off on a fantastic hen weekend to sunny, sunny Spain with a group of six lovely hens.

I had planned to have my size-appropriate suitcase packed in advance and to rest well in the days leading up to the hen to counterbalance the indubitable sleep deprivation ahead. I envisioned a relaxed me wafting effortlessly into Gatwick's North Terminal poised and calm - the embodiment of airport-chic.

HA HA HA. I was the last in the group to arrive; running wildly from the airport terminal shuttle, apologising and slightly clammy and feeling unprepared. A schoolgirl error had been made; I had failed to apply the rather substantial experience gained from many years of holidaying.

I had forgotten my very own Pre-Holiday Rules.

PRE-HOLIDAY RULES

Without fail, I will always...

• End up packing the night before and until at least 1.30 am wailing 'I AM JUST SO TIRED, I CANNOT DO THIS' while hand washing three bikinis, meticulously selecting matching accessories for every single item of clothing and making mental lists out loud, such as 'morning top, top for the pool, top for post-beach cocktails, pre-dinner drinks top, emergency top' etc rather than actually filling my suitcase. All this while my long-suffering and very dear husband looks on despairingly. Or lies on the cool floor, hoping sleep will come soon.

• Add Holiday by Madonna to my iPod track list (sometimes going berserk and adding the You Can Dance Extended Remix) and listen to this en route to the airport or at 6.30 am at home, still packing, and delirious through lack of sleep (see above point).

• Spend a fortune on toiletries prior to the holiday, enough to warrant a possible remortgage of our house, most of which goes towards poxy rip-off miniatures. This also includes the purchase of a complete range of new sun care products in SPF50 - Moisturising Sun Protection with Insect Repellent (in both spray and lotion formats), High Protection Face Moisturiser, Sun Care Balm for Lips, Sun Care Spray for Hair, Moisturising After Sun, Hydrating Tan Optimiser - before finding a replica set on the bottom shelf of the bathroom cabinet the night before. All of this despite the fact I have not had a tan since 1984.

• Purchase at least six vest tops with a stylish 'capsule wardrobe' in mind, even though only questionable colour choices remain as part of a 2-4-1 offer (hello, turdy brown and pallid lilac) and subsequently finding the 'Vest Top Drawer' the night before departure. All of this despite the fact I will bring them all home unworn and put them straight back in the drawer ready to forget next year.

• Run out of room in my suitcase leaving me with no choice but to take unwanted overspill in my hand luggage. I would love to be one of those women who sail through departures with a minimally packed Michael Kors Tote and their passport always conveniently ready to display. I am not. I am the girl with a beach towel stuffed into an already full Oasis holdall, blocking access to essential travel documents, that requires re- packing every time I need to get my sodding purse out.

• Pack enough cosmetics to make up not only my fellow holidaymakers but the entire outward bound flight, forcing the airport security staff to enquire, quite reasonably, if I am a makeup artist by trade. This includes superfluous bronzed-shimmer products and shouty new summer collections such as the must-try eyeshadow in Daisy Yellow or flattering eye pencil in Plum (it's not) even though I will wear my 'work makeup' for the duration of the holiday.

• Obsessively check for my passport and tickets at least nine times en route to the airport, convinced I have neither or have scooped up my expired passport instead, where the photo of me resembles a pale '90s Goth who has listened to far too much teenage-angst rock music.

• Seriously consider purchasing a new padlock at the airport, even though there are at least seven of the little buggers hidden somewhere in the house, possibly in the abyss that is the spare drawer. Or the Vest Top drawer.

• Solemnly promise to myself that drinking before or on the aeroplane is unnecessary and, if the truth be told, uncouth. Cave in after the slightest hint of turbulence (take off) and down a complimentary Vodka and Diet Coke or three. Thus ending up absolutely legless and revealing to Billy and Francis from Jersey my entire life story, deepest secrets and recently developed fear of flying, sobbing into my beverage while they smile politely or pretend to be asleep.

Note to self for next trip: Never forget the holiday rules.

Ever.

Who is Material Whirl?

Who is Material Whirl?

I am a thirty-something London girl. Fashion lover / blogger / music maniac. CPFC South Londoner residing in E17, London. Music is in my blood and so I am very proud to write gig reviews for the prestigious Jazz FM.

Samuel Johnson once said that when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford. I agree with Sam - London through my eyes is extraordinary and so I document all the exciting things it has to offer.

What is Material Whirl?

My blog started as a A Collection of Thoughts in 2010 and evolved into Material Whirl in November 2012. It was intended to be only a fashion blog, but instead became the platform where I could capture my adventures in life and the thoughts, ideas, memories and inspiring images that constantly swirl around in my head.

Material Whirl is where I share my love of fashion, photography and art and where I channel my passion for music and literature. I am a loyal London lover but also an intrepid traveller and so my blog is also my travel diary.

What do I promise?

As a blogger, I am fortunate from time to time to receive gifts and products to review. I promise that I will only feature stuff that I really, truthfully like and that fits with my interests and beliefs.

We are living in a Material Whirl - so essentially this blog documents life and all it has to offer.

Thank you for sharing it with me.

Contact me

For all enquiries - nicolagreenbrook@hotmail.com Follow me on - Facebook - Twitter - Instagram

 "The only real elegance is in the mind; If you've got that, the rest really comes from it"

Material Whirl claims no credit for any images posted on this site unless otherwise noted. Images on this blog are copyright to its respectful owners. If there is an image appearing on Material Whirl that belongs to you and do not wish for it appear on this site, please do e-mail me with a link to the image and it will be promptly removed.

Delicious words served on paper

I am completely addicted to reading all kinds of literature. I am also rather partial to a bit of technology and depend on my range of i-Gadgets to survive the perils of modern life. However, I have not introduced two of my greatest passions to each other and they remain as two separate love affairs. In other words, I am yet to fall for the beguiling charms of the eBook reader.

Call me old-fashioned. Label me out of touch. Go on, hit with me with your best insult, I can take it. I remain defiant in my love of real-life books and I refuse to budge. You will not find a Kindle nestled in the depths of my handbag, or a Kobo peeking out of my clutch. I am utterly devoted to paper.

Admittedly, e-Readers provide some urgently needed extra room in fit-to-bursting handbags and can spare a few blushes on the tube when reading Fifty Shades of Grey. They are sleek, chic and store a magnitude of McEwan, heaps of Hemingway and acres of Allende. Yet, despite the benefits, I still prefer delicious words served on paper rather than on a screen and I am concerned that the beautiful book will soon become in danger of extinction.

Book-love, I just cannot get over it. Books feel comforting in your hand with their just-printed intoxicating scent and the crisp sound the pages make as you turn them is inimitable. They have beautiful, embossed covers that tempt you like new clothes on a rail, and create an orchestra of colour and height when lined up on a bookcase. Books are very personal; they can be adorned with a carefully crafted note to complete a gift, a simply scribbled date that automatically marks a place in history, or even by the style in which they are read. Are you a front page folder-over? Or does the mere sight of such destruction make you want to cry out in protest? Maybe you have a special bookmark, postcard, or old photograph that you use to keep your page and transport it from book to book, author to author? In comparison, all e-Readers look identical.

Then there are the bookshops themselves; whether polished stores selling the latest new releases, second-hand havens packed to the rafters with historic gems, or a fantastic combination of the two. In my opinion, nothing beats exploring the hidden treasures in a bookshop and finding rediscovered novels from centuries gone by, that new best seller that everyone is talking about or even better, stumbling across a book with a mysterious note on its inside cover. On my recent travels, I picked up a deliciously battered old copy of Stephen King's classic IT in Endeavour Books in Kaikoura, New Zealand. It is literally falling apart; the cracked spine hanging on to the contents for dear life and the pages yellowing at the edges from years of exposure to light. The note reads: 'Dear Shelvin. Thought you might appreciate this book to add to your horror collection. Good luck with your future plans. I await to hear the stories of your trips to Egypt. Enjoy Auckland. You have shown much personal growth this year. Remember - life doesn't put things in front of you that you are unable to handle. Go well, Ms Mallinder.'

I am haunted by that note and itching to know who the devil Ms Mallinder is, how Shelvin fared in Egypt and Auckland and if he continued to grow personally. (For those who have read the book, I am also haunted by that terrifying clown brought to life by King's extraordinary storytelling).

We all need a place to indulge our passion for paperbacks, somewhere peaceful and just that little bit special. So, to add some weight to my evidence in the case of Humble Book vs. Gargantuan e-Reader, I've handpicked some of the unique bookshops I love where you can while the hours away over a good book.

Gertrude & Alice Cafe Bookstore

46 Hall Street, Bondi Beach, Sydney, NSW 2026, Australia

Named after Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas, this is a slice of heaven discreetly nestled on Hall Street, a few minutes walk from the beautiful but brash Bondi Beach. The owners were influenced by their backpacking years spent in Europe, and their dream of combining good books and good food has come to life in this charming bookstore crammed with fiction, non-fiction and collectibles. Comfy sofas, ladders leaning nonchalantly against the generously full bookshelves and plenty of browsing space provide solitude away from the surf-crowd. The stylish cafe serves modern, restaurant-quality food that will keep you here much longer than you expected. I visited here many times when I lived in Sydney and made a welcome return back in March this year. I stayed much, much longer than I planned...

Shakespeare and Company

37 rue de la Bucherie 75005, Paris

Probably the world's most famous bookshop, I aptly fell in love with Shakespeare and Company when I visited la ville de l'amour a few years ago. An independent bookstore on the Left Bank that is as rich in history as it is in books, it serves as a regular bookstore, a reading library and a literary events space. It has a distinctive yellow front, with Shakespeare's head on the sign and books in wheelbarrows out front, from which I made my choice. The books are piled beautifully over two floors - the ground floor is open and crowded, with cool Parisians and tourists alike, and stacked with new titles. The upper floor is reserved for second-hand volumes and it was up here in la bouquinerie where I stopped for a moment to soak in my surroundings, breathe in some of the history and lay down to read within the serenity for quite a while. Magnifique.

Ampersand Café & Bookstore

413 Crown Street, Surry Hills, NSW 2020, Australia

Based over two gorgeous sites in Sydney, I have chosen the Surry Hills branch as my favourite although I frequented the Paddington branch just as much. It is in this haven of tranquility that you can ponder over an old favourite or get to know an antiquarian book while drinking delicious coffee or eating gourmet food. There is even cocktails and live music and sangria on Sunday afternoon, and why ever not? There are cafe-style tables to eat and read on downstairs, or a library-feel area on the upper floor where you can sink into a comfy chair or perch at a communal table and chat to some fellow literature lovers. Not simply a bookstore but a Surry Hills institution.

Stanfords

12-14 Long Acre, Covent Garden, London, WC2E 9LP

Escape the hustle and bustle of tourist-laden Covent Garden and transport yourself anywhere you desire in the world - care of this amazing travel bookshop. You cannot move in here for maps, travel books and accessories and it is a global adventure in itself just to browse the shelves. In additional to the essential Lonely Planet Guides, there are maps that plot every inch of the earth, photography and illustrated books that provide breathtaking images, and modern travel fiction that acts as your backpacking buddy. Grab a coffee from in the in-store Sacred Café and let your chosen item take you to a far-flung destination.

Skoob Books

66, The Brunswick, off Marchmont Street, London, WC1E 1AE

Time Out once described Skoob as 'a temple for secondhand books', and it is here that I pray to the God of reading. Housed on the Marchmont Street side of The Brunswick, Skoob is a 2000 square foot space crammed with over fifty-five thousand of London's broadest selection of titles including modern fiction, classics, academic books, art and photography and specialist collections. It is warm with bespoke lighting and knowledgeable staff who blend into the background rather than disturb the quietude. If you are also a seasoned shopper, check out the bookstall on a Saturday in The Brunswick itself - be warned, you could find yourself perusing for a while and so may need to fuel up at the surrounding Farmer's Market.

So, in my eyes there is no real contest between e-Reader and real-life book - the paper edition wins hands down. I hope you are intrigued enough to check out any of the above, or perhaps you have your own favourite place to browse and choose a hidden gem. You may find a special note of your own - something I bet you wouldn't encounter within an e-Reader case.

A dolphin encounter of the calamitous kind

Last week I sustained a mild but unfortunate injury after a freak accident involving a Lonely Planet New Zealand guide.

As I flopped into bed and pulled the duvet cover over my tired body, I failed to realise that the hefty book was laying on top of the covers and inadvertently managed to flip it up into my face, where its hard spine met my right eye with a thump.

Fortunately, I have never been punched in the face before but I imagine the feeling is similar to the sensation I felt that very minute. I cried a bit, applied a cold compress and then woke up the next morning with a lump that has now been cleverly camouflaged with makeup.

Another bizarre injury to add to the list.

You see, travel and calamity always seem to go hand in hand with me, as a flick through one of my travel diaries in 2006 reminded me…

Monday 23 October 2006

Riverview Lodge, Christchurch, New Zealand

8am

What an awesome start to the day! Slept well here in the Riverview Lodge as the bed is soft and comfy with a gorgeous verdant throw and huge fluffy pillows. The owner Ernst (great name) had prepared a breakfast of fruit salad and homemade granola and said I was Queen Nicola. Hmm, should I be worried, is that weird? Anyway, I can see the sleepy River Avon out of the view from my window and I have grown quite attached to Christchurch with its old-English feel.

I’m now on my way to Kaikoura for whale watching and the booked-in-advance Kaikoura Swim with Dolphins, something I have always wanted to do since I was a child. It’s just me and two very pretty Japanese girls so far. Due to a mild fear of being in the water, I am feeling a little nervous but very excited. I’m sure everything will be absolutely fine.

11pm

Oh God, how is it humanly possible to still feel nauseated. I now remember exactly why I am not, and never will be, a water baby.

Travel to the town of Kaikoura was fantastic. It was snug and warm on the coach as we travelled along the coastal route and I caught sight of its incredible vista – the captivating mountain range provided some dramatic scenery and the peninsula that jutted out towards the Pacific Ocean was majestic. It created an incredible back drop to our view of the humpback whales lifting out of the water and crashing back down again with a graceful thud.

We had an hour to look around the small settlement of Kaikoura, the base for our dolphin swimming, so I made use of some perusing time on the Esplanade, and bought some very nice Roxy jeans. I have absolutely no idea where I’ll wear them in good old Blighty in fear of looking like an extra from Home and Away, but while in Australasia, do as the Australasian’s do. I met a very nice American couple, Sharon and Dean, who I sat next to during the pre-swim educational video. I paid attention to every single word of that video, wanting not only to know everything I could about these amazing marine mammals in their natural habitat but also to be fully prepared for a full-blown aquatic disaster.

When we were told that we needed to be ‘confident in the open ocean' and 'it is an advantage to have had previous snorkeling experience’ I nodded along confidently with everyone else, not wanting to share my fears with Sharon that I still hadn’t quite got over a traumatic experience in the Lazy River at The Water Palace, Croydon, in 1991 and if the truth be told I didn’t really like to get my hair wet.

We took a small bus to our boat, Delphinidae, a charming white and blue vessel. The sight of it bobbing up and down on the water prompted my stomach to do a small but noticeable flip, but I overlooked the flip and boarded the boat ready for my adventure.

Safety checks complete, wet suits zipped up tightly and snorkeling equipment distributed, we set off on our open ocean experience, across the choppy Pacific. Our instructor – British, very tall, with floppy Hugh Grant-esque hair and bags of enthusiasm - loved the sea, unlike me. 'Jeez it’s a bit rough today!' he said enthusiastically with a mildly irritating inflection suggesting he'd been out of the UK for a while. ‘You’re not kidding, Hugh’ I thought as the waves crashed against the boat and sprayed the back of my head with sea-foam. He repeated the very important instructions we'd heard in the video that I tried desperately to listen to as the bumpy ocean threw me from side to side, up and down off my seat and nearly over the edge. 'When you hear the siren that's your cue to go in the water slowly. Don't get too close to the dolphins, and if you need assistance just put your hand in the air and I'll come help you, no drama. Enjoy!’ shouted Hugh. Loudly.

Was it me or were the waves getting larger and more powerful? The open ocean experience was making me feel a little unnerved. That jutting peninsula was nowhere in sight and all I could see was miles and miles of ocean. A quick peek around at my fellow wetsuits revealed no other panicked faces so I tried to push to the back of my mind that I was feeling a bit crook. The Swedish girls looked tanned and blond, the epitome of ocean chic. The Aussies looked completely relaxed in their wetsuits, as if they were wearing a second skin.

I was so pale I was translucent, but at least I could be used as a makeshift buoy in case anyone needed something to hang onto in the water to attract attention. The wailing shriek of siren was our cue that Flipper and friends were here to play, so I flipped on over in my flippers and pulled the slightly too-tight mask over my head, creating a very interesting bouffant.

We headed excitedly to the edge of the boat and I prepared to lower myself down the boat's ladder into the water. All was going well until a wave of nausea rose up inside me, without warning. I desperately clambered back up the ladder and past the others as quickly as is humanly possible in big, wide fins where I proceeded to throw up in the nearest bucket. Four times. Yep, four.

It is quite possible that I have never been so ill, or so embarrassed in my life, as my fellow crew members splashed gaily around in the sea with the acrobatic dusky dolphins and I retched in a bucket as the boat bobbed up and down relentlessly and Hugh patted me on the back.

I like dolphins. I don’t eat tuna, but if I did, you can bet your life it would be dolphin-friendly. When I was a child I adopted a dolphin, Sundance, for Christmas (for life of course, not just for Christmas. Well until I was at least nine). Being a slightly less naive and far more cynical adult, I now realise of course that me and five hundred other kids had the same certificate, but in my eyes my £2 per month gave me sole ownership of Sundance. I have always dreamed of swimming with dolphins, so why oh why did my sea legs decide to wobble on this day?

The vomiting eventually ceased and I stood up slowly on teetering legs, looking out to the ocean. I talked to myself inwardly, a little motivational talk if you like. Nicola, your trip to NZ is going to be over soon, this may be your last chance to do this. Hold your head high, put a mask on it and shove that snorkel in your mouth. Get in that water!'. So I staggered determinedly to the sea, reassuring a concerned Hugh that I was indeed OK.

I lowered myself in and tried to put the sickness episode behind me. The ocean was cold and tasted salty in my parched mouth and I was finding it hard to kick my weak legs to stay afloat. Then it happened. A dolphin swam towards me and momentarily stopped; its sleek body just about visible under the wavy water. It looked at me, I looked at it and then it leaped above the water and started to swim away so I followed, remembering not to get too close. I swam alongside it, just for a couple of minutes but it was a perfect moment of solitude. I couldn't hear anything around me and I felt very at peace, like time had literally stopped. I was the dreamy nine-year old girl again, swimming alongside what may just have been my beloved adoptee. Then it was gone.

In its place my nausea returned to taunt me. I quickly realised I was far, far out to sea and I couldn't touch the bottom. The cold water shocked my body back to the present and I could feel the sickness rising up again to make yet another appearance. Hugh’s words echoed in my head 'put your hand in the air and I'll come help you, no drama'. So I waved my hand in the air frantically as I swam to the boats edge. Realising there was in fact a drama, I was ungracefully pulled onto the boat by one of the other instructors like a slippery, wet fish head first. I lifted my face, distorted by the huge snorkel mask, and whispered 'please can I have the bucket' before flopping back down again in defeat.

For the next five minutes, Hugh had the unfortunate task of emptying the bucket ready for the next onslaught, whilst simultaneously making small talk and congratulating me on my short but successful swim. He gently suggested I remove my wetsuit, as we both knew I was done for the day and we had at least another hour to go before being back on land. I was so ashamed, surely it couldn't get any worse than this.

So I attempted to get undressed as the boat continued to sway and I gulped down deep breaths of oxygen to overcome what was surely the undefeated world record for seasickness. I tried to get my fins off, but one big flipper refused to pop off my foot despite me ungracefully bending over and pulling on the bugger for dear life. I gave up and started instead to pull down the zip on the top half of my wet suit, when I heaved once more and signalled frantically for the bucket. As I threw up, I noticed that my bikini top had unhelpfully slipped off to one side, exposing my naked chest to Hugh, the crew and the poor dolphins. Hugh held my hair back while I freed myself not only of my breakfast but any last remnants of dignity that I may have one had. Where were my girlfriends when I needed them?

Boob flashing aside, and in an attempt to see the positive, the trip back to land was great. I was wrapped in a fleecy blanket and given some sweet tea and chocolate as I watched the land finally coming to view in the distance. I lived my dolphin encounter vicariously through my group and listened to their excited chatter as I got waited on hand and flipper and had some photos taken for me. I really did feel like Queen Nicola - Ernst would have been proud of me, although maybe not so much the exposure part.

Back safely on land, I slept on the coach home and made it back to Christchurch early evening. I checked my emails, replied to Lauren who I met in Peru and the girls back home who hopefully will see the funny side of today's goings on. I'm now in my room, with my backpack stuffed with clothes, and I'm shattered and trying to forget that I still feel like I'm on a boat. Bleurgh. I am meeting Ernst at 6.50 am for another royal breakfast and then have a taxi booked to take me to Columbo Street to meet my fellow travellers for our trip to the majestic Mount Cook. Excited, and relieved that I'll be trekking around a mountain and not swimming with a mammal.

Goodnight xx

So, it was a day to remember but unfortunately for all the wrong reasons. In May this year I am travelling to New Zealand for five weeks with Alex. Any encounters with dolphins, unless accidental, are not part of our itinerary.

Nor is wearing a wet suit.