The Review - Tom Hardy Q4

THE LEGEND OF

TOM HARDY ROLLS ROYCE

MERCURY AWARDS

ARCTIC CIRCLE

ROSEWOOD

THE LIGHTS

THE HUNT TRADITION...

THE PHANTOM APPEARS LONDON’S ELITE

ON THE CARPET

REYES IS ON FIRE

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THE

REVIEW ‘LIFE.

STYLE.’

I heard something funny the other day. Proper teary-eyed,

Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll – the idea that politicians

achy-faced, guttural guffaw. I don’t know why I’m telling you

should be impeached for things we all do, or did, or at least

this, you already know the punchline. Heck, you’re in on the

tried during our young adulthood is both egregious and

joke. Think of it as the last hurrah of civilisation, the neatly-

preposterous. Granted, most of us have never romanced a

tied bow around our cultural cul-de-sac, perhaps the greatest

dead farmyard animal, but we need to start considering these

moment of the nuclear age.

things rationally, in context.

Because ladies and gentlemen, the leader of our great

Because as the world burns, as our country regresses, as

nation, the right honourable David Cameron has allegedly

the carpet of liberty is swiftly tugged from beneath our feet,

stuck his dick in a pig. But not just any old pig. Not a regular,

we seem happy to stand apathetically by, yet allow the media

intelligent porker who can sympathise with the plight of the

to evoke emotion in the most inane and inconsequential of

British people. Not a pig blessed with the existential and politi-

matters.

cal awareness to vote ‘no’, or even resist the PM’s advances.

Not even a pig with a working respiratory system.

Except The Review, of course. It’s our job to poke the metaphorical pig so you don’t have to. And this issue is no

No – our PM went and fucked a dead pig.

It all sounds like a great trigger of the apocalypse, one of the seven seals: the white horse, the souls of the martyrs, the great earthquake, the defiling of the bacon sandwich. There’s something that feels so right, so predestined about the whole thing. It’s beautifully synchronistic, with all the poetic completeness of a Shakespearean plot, and all the buffoonery of a Carry On movie. Indeed, the mental image of Cameron doing it porcine-style is only bettered by an overlay of slap bass and Kenneth Williams exclaiming “Ohhhh, Cameron!” in falsetto horror.

If you listen carefully, you can hear the Tory rhetoric in city clubs and roadside pubs alike: “Bah, this country’s fucked. Fucked by socialism, fucked by unions, fucked by foreigners and immigrants, fucked by scroungers and benefit breeders, fucked by political correctness, fucked by taxes and welfare and drugs, fucked by the NHS, fucked by reality TV and best-selling autobiographies,

different.

fucked by calories and sugar, fucked by red meat, fucked by

We meet with Tom Hardy to discuss his new film, Legend,

cancer, fucked by feminism, fucked by Millennials and hipsters

which tracks the rise and decline of Britain’s most famous

and gits who wear jeans to work. And you know whose fuck-

criminal twins, the Krays. Oli Smith, your motoring editor,

ing fault it is? Fucking smug-faced, no-good, sandal-wearing,

road tests the Range Rover Evoque and Bentley Continental.

bicycle-riding, tree-hugging, solar-powered lefties.

Beauty doyenne Gemma Phelan overcomes her fear of the

Still, I’d rather stick my dick in Diane Abbott than Miss Piggy”.

dentist in Munich, and also visits some of the city’s most decadent hotels, while Amy McNichol experiences Japan’s

But Tory jibes aside, the whole episode left me feeling a

balletic hospitality, including a stay at Kai Matsumoto. Our

little bemused – not the bacon-flavoured bestiality itself, but

travel editor, Peter Robinson, does what he does best, jet-

rather our collective response. I mean, do we really care?

setting between the world’s most exclusive hotels, villas and

I certainly don’t. After all, oik and oink are only one letter

retreats. Plus, plenty more food, style, cars and gadgetry to

removed. I could name about two dozen people, including

keep you going until Christmas.

myself, who given the right setting, the right encouragement,

In the immortal words of Porky Pig, as he rolls over, wipes

and the right intoxication, would do the same thing. I wouldn’t

Cameron off his chin and lights a cigarette: that’s all folks.

touch Cameron’s fascistic policies with Thatcher’s cold dead

Laith Al-Kaisy

hand, but that doesn’t mean he’s not entitled to a past.

L A I T H A L - K A I S Y, E D I T O R I N - C H I E F T w itter : @ laithalkaisy F ollo w T he R e v ie w on T w itter : @ the R e v ie w

THE REVIEW 2015 7

CONTENTS

INTERVIEW 16. TOM HARDY 136. Zubin Mowlavi

208. ROSEWOOD LONDON 120. BAYERISCHER HOF 140. CollINEIGE

AUTOMOTIVE TRAVEL 188. THE INCA TRAIL 204. THE HALKIN 46. ARCTIC CIRCLE 184. THE ARCH 130. ASIA GARDENS 124 Mandarin oriental 126. KAI matsumoto 212. casa caesarea 176. MAURITIUS 112. DRYHILL FARM 40. THE CHARLES

72. LANDROVER DEFENDER 78. BENTLEY CONTINENTAL 84. Range ro ver EVOque 68. Aston MArtiN ROADSTER 90. FIAT 500 60. Rolls royce phantom 24. Mercury awards

DINING OUT 214. Oblix Bar 42. Gaucho charlotte st

CONTENTS

34. Quattro passi 38. COQ d’argent 128. KOZUE

PROPERTY 146. FRENCH RIVIERA

FEATURES 172. THE HUNT

STYLE

HEALTH & BEAUTY 168. THE TOOTH FAIRY

CULTURE 154. SOREN RICKARDS 138. MARTYN CROSS

TECH 222. ROKINON 218. Peli 224. KITCHEN COOL

96. THE LIGHTS WILL DRAW YOU IN 148. the man who would be stylish THE REVIEW 2015 13

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Words: ALEXANDRA WRIGHT They don’t come more talented, or indeed more handsome, than Tom Hardy. The 38-year-old has taken on many roles to reach the dizzying heights of Hollywood success that only a few get to enjoy. Hardy described his life as “the worst-case scenario” before he began a course at Richmond Drama School, in 1998. Despite little support from his parents, Hardy was adamant about becoming an actor, and was driven by the challenge.

It wasn’t long before his talent was recognised, and he began landing roles on the small screen, in such shows as 2001’s Band of Brothers. Further television, film and theatre roles beckoned, before Tom received the award for the most promising newcomer for his role in the dramatic play In Arabia We’d All Be Kings, in 2003.

Hardy has since focused on the silver screen, clocking up roles in such box office smashes as Star Trek, Warrior, Dark Knight Rises, and Inception, for which he won BAFTA’s Rising Star award.

But it’s this year’s Legend, written and directed by Brian Helgeland, which sees Hardy take on his tallest task to date: playing both Ronnie and Reggie, the Kray Twins. Based in the 1960s, the film centres on the lives of the infamous brothers who dominated the criminal underworld. The story documents their gruesome ascent to the top, and their equally-gritty downfall.

The stellar cast includes Emily Browning, David Thewlis, Christopher Eccleston, Sam Hoare, and Samantha Pearl as Shirley Bassey. But the ultimate star of this production is Tom Hardy, who sat down with The Review to candidly discuss how he tackled the dual role.

I N T E RV I E W : T O M H A R DY

THE REVIEW 2015 17

Can we just get something out of the way?

behind?

Sure thing.

Ha, yes, you can hide behind glasses – and a wig and teeth and everything else. But he can say the unspeakable in the construct of this film.

James Bond. Is it happening?

Ha. I don’t think so, no. I haven’t been asked. It’s just one of those things. The more you ask, the less chance it’s going to happen.

We’d better stop talking about it then. Okay, so Legend. It looked like a tough film to make, particularly for you?

It was challenging, but once we started working on it, it was actually a really lovely puzzle to solve from a performance point of view.

What made you take on the role?

Just the challenge. I wanted to work with Brian [Helgeland]. It seemed like a natural fit. Part of me enjoys investigating the criminal underworld, and that sort of stuff. It seemed like a natural progression. The challenge would be to play two people. As an actor, that was a bit of a task for me, as well in the training. Well, quite a big task actually.

I didn’t know what I was doing.

That begs the question, who was easier to play – Reggie or Ronnie?

I suppose Ron was more pleasurable, because he had a certain predictable unpredictability, which allowed me, as a performer, to have a bit more fun.

Whereas Reggie, in this story, is written as a straighter character.

And Ron’s glasses gave you something to hide

Did the scenes where you played both roles ever jar or feel stilted?

It was obviously a challenge. Technically, how do you create life? How do you create a true believability between the two? In that way, it was a pure nerdgeek fest, trying to work out how to play two characters.

Legend – it’s not a title we would have picked.

Was there a strong case for it?

It’s kind of ironic, because there are lots of myths that circulate around

“Everybody who wasinvolved set out to make a really interesting film in a short amount of time.” about the Krays. Most of them are made up by people who actually have no story. No one really knows the truth about them. I certainly don’t. I wasn’t involved with them. You do lots and lots of research. There’s loads of material out there, but it’s pretty much open to interpretation – like any good legend.

It’s to do with the mythology around these two brothers. It’s a legend, as in a story, which is built on fabrication in some aspects, but there is an essence, a primary source, which you can latch onto and sell some semblance of truth and honesty within the composition of the story, which we’ve decided to tell.

Did you suffer any hard bumps, any cuts and bruises during this one?

Oh yeah. Totally.

After all these tough guys you’ve played, how about a rom-com next?

No chance. There’s nothing remotely interesting about romantic comedies.

I’ve yet to find one. I’m waiting on a good romantic comedy. The last one I did, I enjoyed, but it doesn’t really float my boat.

Word has it you’re a great improviser on set.

Is that something you like to indulge?

I’m not sure about that. I think they’re throwing me under a bus there.

Legend is set in the 1960s. It’s a great era to be recreating, right?

The 60s was a very beautiful period.

It’s lovely to be part of any period really, and that’s the luck of doing this job. I get to explore that kind of thing.

What is so appealing about gangster pictures?

A lot of people like to go and experience life vicariously through other

THE REVIEW 2015 19

people. So, it’s a safe place to go and watch, because people pretend to do things which they would never do in real life. And they sort of take a load off to entertain you, in such a way that you can vicariously enjoy a bit of naughtiness without actually having to participate in it.

What can audiences expect from Legend?

A cool film. Everybody who was involved set out to make a really interesting film in a short amount of time.

We celebrated everybody’s skill set in a very contained environment. It’s a gangster movie but there’s a lot more to it. I think it’s a really lovely piece.

And did the subject matter appeal to you?

Favourite scene in the film?

It’s interesting. Gangster, crime and horror and all that sort of stuff has always been a compelling fascination for people, hasn’t it? I know that I like to watch or investigate things I would certainly never do in my life. I suppose it’s something about the safety of vicarious living through the actions of others. And watching the consequences of other people’s behaviour, as opposed to acting it out yourself. Plus, I think people are just interested in how the ‘other side’ lives.

How are you finding the premiere?

It’s great. I always love being in London for premieres.

Is it particularly good to see your film with a British audience?

Absolutely, yeah.

Ha, I liked all of them to be fair. And actually, there’s a whole load of scenes that aren’t in the movie, which ended up on the cutting room floor.

How was it filming in the East End, in many of the locations that the Krays actually frequented?

It’s great to have a sense of authenticity, so that was fantastic. Plus, the East End is not somewhere I often travel to, coming from south-west London. I don’t spend a lot of time out there, so it’s really nice to go out and have a look about, and now I really, really like it.

Away from Legend, is there any character you would like to play again, if given the chance?

Probably Stuart in Stuart: A Life Backwards. I enjoyed that.

Some actors have said it’s a bit stressful coming Your dad’s a writer, right? to events like this and waiting for people’s reacYeah, he’s a writer. tions. Is it the same for you?

No, that’s the job, isn’t it? That’s part of the challenge. It’s nice to be judged.

If I’m rubbish, I’m rubbish, and if something works, it works. I really enjoy that and it’s something I hope to continue to do – try things where I could get it really, really wrong.

Are there any books that have an impact on you?

And that comes back to the ‘challenge’ of this film?

You’re starring in a new flick with DiCaprio?

It’s something that I wanted to do, I suppose rather selfishly, just to see if I could pull something off that was just a bit of a challenge for me. Other actors have done it, like Sam Rockwell. Noomi Rapace, my mate, is doing seven characters right now. So I think it’s just one of those things, you know, that’s a nice exercise. And it’s such a fertile ground, with the story synonymous with London and the Krays being so well documented. It was a really nice, contained environment, and a great tale. And we shot in just seven weeks.

There’s nothing in particular. I sort of dip into everything and have a look around. I’ll pick up books as and when I need to.

You know what, we’ve literally just finished that, so I haven’t heard any sort of buzz on it yet. It’s definitely one to look out for. It’s epic. It’s a beast.

I’m really proud. I’ve seen about sixty minutes of it cut together and it looks incredible. That will be out at Christmas I think, so I’m looking forward to that.

Where are you off to after this – the Toronto Film Festival?

Yeah, absolutely, to promote the film there.

TR

THE REVIEW 2015 21

THE REVIEW 2013 3

MERCURY MUSIC

AWARDS Words: PETER J ROBINSON

As far as events go, I have attended my fair share. There are a few on the bucket list, however, that are above and beyond the usual society calendar. The Mercury Music Awards is such an event. Established in 1992 as an alternative to the Brit Awards, the Mercury Awards is a catalyst for album sales and notoriety. Primal Scream, Portishead, Roni Size, Dizzee Rascal and The XX are just a few of the winners of the coveted award in previous years. We dusted off our best bib and tucker, shined our shoes, and made for London.

THE REVIEW 2015 25

I

confess I knew only three of the eleven nominees. It turned out that my favourite was Royal Blood, who I’d never heard of. I decided that the only way to assess whether attending would result in total humiliation would be by holding a straw poll on Facebook.

Nigel Fryer, someone I don’t see often enough, commented that if I had no knowledge of the bands playing or the guests at the table, I might come off looking like “a bit of a twat”. With this in mind, I set to listening to each band’s album on Spotify.

It turns out that they don’t automatically send everyone attending a signed copy of each nominated album.

With my favourite decided and no bets placed (betting should be reserved for casinos only), I headed for the Halkin Hotel in Belgravia. The first question you have to ask yourself is ‘What do I wear?’

I’m sure there are people out there that would attend this event and turn up looking like they had thrown on their sister’s clothes and penned some World War Two facial hair. The reality, though, is that even the I-just-woke-up-and-got-straightin-the-car look requires a stylist to achieve it. It turns out that the bedraggled look, reminiscent of a badly-groomed old English sheepdog, takes more time to achieve than it would if you literally just rolled in from Abbey Road in your Converse and

skinny jeans.

With my total distain for casual clothing at formal events stated, I opted for a pair of straight-cut Brown in Town black trousers with a vicious crease, paired with a Gucci tie, Turnbull and Asser, shirt and a smoking jacket from Angelo Galasso.

The only remaining element was a few well-chosen cigars.

A few hours later and there was a call from the front desk. The car had arrived. Not just any car, I might add: a Maserati Quattroporte. I think it is worth mentioning that my love for Maserati, the GranTurismo Sport specifically, is a real love. It’s not an adolescent love affair or a brief encounter on a tropical break. It’s forever. In fact, I’m thinking of inviting them to the summer ball.

Maserati were, indeed, a sponsor,

E V E N T : M E R C U RY M U S I C AWA R D S

so there is no surprise that the fleet of polished and preened marques was sent out to ferry the great and the good to the Roundhouse in North London.

We arrived early. Too early. In my defence, I had opted to cross central London and collect my partner from Paddington, which was a mission in itself. The drive to the venue, however, was deceptively quick.

We arrived to the usual flashbulbs and red carpet combination that leaves you blind and completely disorientated. It’s a wonder to me that awards ceremonies don’t just turn into a bundle of couture dresses and tailored suits in a pile, given the lack of vision the minute you leave your car.

We arrived at the reception area and decided that we would indulge in a short before the onslaught of champagne. It turned out that the staff at the Roundhouse

might not have been as prepared for the amount of company cards being put in their charge. I waited it out, though, because I have staying power and won’t be deterred by a bar full of A&R guys. After what seemed like an unconscionable amount of time, I returned to the staircase viewing area, armed with enough alcohol to knock Churchill off his game.

My partner decided that it was time to visit the facilities, so left me manning the drinks whilst she slid through the crowd.

To my delight, I was joined by a twentysomething girl in a cocktail dress, so I could avoid looking quite so alone. She smiled, I smiled, the world continued to spin. She leant forward to see who was coming up from the red carpet entrance and knocked her champagne flute over the edge of the staircase and down a few

flights onto the stairs below. She looked at me with the sort of horrified look that mirrored someone being duct-taped and bundled into a transit van. I know that look from films, of course. Her eyes were wide, her expression fixed, I looked at her calmly, raised an eyebrow and said ‘No one saw, I would escape into the crowd’.

She mouthed ‘Thank you’, picked up her clutch and slinked off.

I was quickly rejoined by my partner who had returned from the bathroom by way of the Swiss Alps. By this point, almost everyone had entered the main room and it was down to us to find our table in the dark. Not wanting to go from table to table, I called Georgina from Maserati who very gallantly stood up and waved her arms in the air. It turns out the champagne was flowing early. With our seats found and

THE REVIEW 2015 97

drinks poured, we settled in for an evening of live music like no other. This was a showcase of new music like nothing I have ever experienced. Of course, Nick Grimshaw hosting the event gave some comic relief to the proceedings. This spawned a table-wide debate on whether we liked or disliked the Lancashire-born Radio 1 presenter. In my opinion, Nick

has achieved a level of success that should be applauded. It ought to be that simple. No one at the table had met him, so really no opinion should have been rendered by anyone. Besieged by the pop culture hoards once more.

My standout performance of the night was Royal Blood. When Mike Kerr returned from a trip to Australia in 2013,

he was collected from the airport by friend Ben Thatcher. On the way home, they decided to form a band. The next day they played their first show. Today they’re signed to Warner Brothers and have released their eponymous debut album.

You may, by now, know that they didn’t win. That accolade went to Young

Fathers, the trio from Scotland and Ghana. Their acceptance speech was a longwinded affair: “Thank you. Thank you. We love you all. Thank you!” ‘Well, that was curt’, I thought to myself.

Later that night, when the press pack descended, Young Fathers wanted to make it clear that they weren’t in it for the money. It wouldn’t change their music and

they ‘don’t like being called miserable’.

Perhaps behave a little bit more like you are interested when accepting an award then. I don’t expect you to rub gravel through your hair and weep whilst reciting a list of your primary school teachers whom without you wouldn’t have ‘made it’, but perhaps if you came across as engaged, you wouldn’t be tagged as

miserable guys.

To be honest, even if Young Fathers hadn’t have won and Royal Blood had taken the prize money and award, it was fabulous and I had a bloody good time.

With the award announced, we headed out into the night and, after a few after parties, into the back of a Maserati for the gin-soaked journey home.

TR

THE REVIEW 2015 99

.BLT. The formidably styled and fiercely sartorial, Lord of the Trad clan, David The formidably styled andThis fiercely sartorial, of Fox the Trad clan, David Minns. issue, DavidLord visits Brothers & Co.Minns. This issue, David talks about his man crush on Sir Michael Caine.

Pictures: MANY Photography: MANY

FOOD : EBRINGTON ARMS

A friend recently introduced me to the new owners of Fox Brothers & Co., the last remaining cloth mill in the south west of England. Accepting an invitation to visit the showroom at their mill in Wellington, Somerset (given that I live just an hour away in Bristol), I was keen to learn more of Fox’s provenance.

The mill itself is no longer in its original location, but driving through the country lanes en route, one can see the original Georgian red-brick buildings in the distance – and how majestic they are too.

Fox once employed 5000 staff. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the company employed Wellington, as it was, at the time, the largest employer in the area – not dissimilar to Clarks, also in Somerset, whose shoe empire built the village of Street. a Before I’d even entered the reception of the mill, I could hear the clatter-clatter of some original looms, weaving some of the finest cloths in the world. To the front of the mill is tailor Brian Smith’s workshop. Brian was master cutter for Huntsman for many years, but now works his sartorial magic in the surroundings of this mill, which he is very familiar with (tailor’s nirvana?). And there, in the window of Brian’s workshop, was the cloth that had eluded me my entire tailoring career: the Prince of Wales check flannel. Its mix of autumnal-coloured yarns, ever pleasing to the eye, almost brought a tear to mine.

And the PoW is not the only true British classic that Fox Brothers produce, as their archives proved. To say I was in my element, perusing the tomes of cloths produced over the past hundred or so years, would be putting it mildly. The selection of wonderful worsteds and flannels (for which Fox are renowned) seemed endless, yet so of the moment. It is encouraging to see a business, founded in 1772, not only flourishing and upholding such timehonoured tradition, but also being so relevant to modern style.

Of course, suits are currently enjoying something of a renaissance, and have been for a number of years, but there’s nothing quite like following in the footsteps of some of our greatest sartorial icons. Here are just some of Fox’s discerning and well-known patrons.

Cary Grant: Bristolian, Hollywood icon and greatest sartorial inspiration of The BLT’s patrons. Grant favoured Fox’s plain worsteds. Picture Grant and you envisage Fox Brothers cloth.

Sir Winston Churchill: esteemed prime minister, political heavyweight and cigar aficionado, Churchill favoured Fox’s chalk stripe flannel cloth. Churchillphiles can not only partake in smoking Churchill’s eponymous cigars, but also acquire his favoured chalk stripe cloth, for use in their very own version of his classic three piece suit.

The Duke of Windsor: king, sartorial hero of mine, and once bearer of the title HRH Prince of Wales. Edward VIlI may not have been the namesake of this beloved cloth, but he certainly did much to promote it. So, whether you are a renaissance man (like me) or simply a classic dresser, there is surely nothing more hallowed than sporting a suit made of cloth of such provenance.

THE REVIEW 2013 3

CELESTE - SW1X Words: LAITH AL-KAISY

I haven’t been eating out much lately. I’ve been hiding, avoiding terrorism on public transport, and preparing for global economic meltdown and the third world war. You think I’m pulling your bratwurst, but I’ve never penned a more unsmiling opening paragraph to a food review. Except that one about the maître d’, the chambermaid, the donkey, and the hair in my soup.

Actually, that’s not the reason I haven’t been eating out – but it’s more believable than the truth. You see, I took my brother to Pollen Street Social for his birthday, and it fundamentally changed me. It’s frayed the fabric of my being. It’s left me frigid, ashamed, victimised, confused, unsure of where to turn, or who to talk to.

Every review of Jason Atherton’s Michelinstar restaurant has been nothing if not sycophantic, yet I parted with nearly £500 that night and still have absolutely nothing to say about the food. Sure, it was cutesy and innovative, but the taste? Meh. It wasn’t outstanding, it wasn’t terrible. It was simply

unremarkable. A joyless sigh. The only dish that slapped me round the face was dessert – goats cheese ice cream, which was utterly honeyed and bucolic– but seven courses into the meal, it was all too late. As each course arrived and left, I became more slack-jawed and emotionally destitute. And for the first time ever, I felt robbed.

My brother loved Pollen Street Social, though, and that’s all that matters. So much, in fact, that he bought me a copy of Atherton’s Social Suppers for Christmas – and it’s superb.

Don’t take these words as my review of the restaurant. I’m clearly in the minority, as always. I’d even like to go there again, just to double-check it wasn’t the irony of the anticapitalism march – which brushed past Pollen Street whilst we were eating – that’s left a bitter taste in my gob.

To Celeste then, where I ate a week or so before Pollen Street. It sits on the ground floor of The Lanesborough, the former site of Apsleys, which was headed by Heinz Beck, and

which I gave a pretty decent review to. The Lanesborough has just undergone a refurb, although you’d be forgiven for not noticing.

The place wasn’t exactly a shithole. In fact, back in 2012, when this magazine put me up in the £4000-a-night Buckingham Suite, it was considered London’s most expensive hotel (a distinction that was reassuringly justified).

But with the revamp comes Celeste, which despite having the type of menu that makes the blood rush to your taste-buds, I didn’t have high hopes for. And that’s why you should never listen to a restaurant critic, because I couldn’t have been more wrong.

It was a Thursday night, half-past seven.

The room was serene, with a gaggle of debonair waiting staff mincing around solicitously.

It’s Michelin-star service without the Michelin star: all supply and no demand, where you’re given a glass of champagne whilst deciding what you want to drink, and amuse-bouches that make you second guess everything on the menu.

The décor stays faithful to the regency

DINING OUT : CELESTE

style that preceded it, all overblown chandeliers, ornate furnishings, and glass-dome roof.

Proper pomp and grandeur. Aristocrat’s wet dream; socialist’s despair.

First was grilled leeks with oyster tartare, which isn’t something I’d usually order, but that’s the blessing of a tasting menu: it’s an expedition, an exercise in trust, a journey to the centre of your stomach. The oyster was sweet and salty like the ocean, and balanced judiciously with the charry, bitter leeks.

Creamed and curried cauliflower with parmesan was everything a humble vegetable should be on a fine-dining plate: more than the sum of its parts. The cauliflower hummed with earthiness and tussled with the sharp saltiness of the dairy, with deep undertones of India. Such delicacy, such punch, such cleverness, all from a cauliflower.

I can never resist scallops. It’s my go-to dish, along with rack of lamb, so I’ll never sniff when seeing it on a tasting menu. Fish isn’t served well by flamboyance or complication. Like comedy, it’s simply about timing.

These scallops were middle-of-the-road, perfectly edible pucks of flesh, both well-judged and well-timed.

Cod arrived with undulating ceremony; a gentle white raft sitting on lightly-spiced bouillon. Surf and turf can provide the best of both proteins, particularly if you’re an indecisive eater, but the equilibrium must be just so. This was beyond precision, the bovine bisque providing just the right amount of ingenuity to elevate this ordinary yet obliging fish.

Venison doesn’t always do it for me. I like game, as long as it isn’t too gamey. Too often, bird tastes of pond water and deer tastes of muddy wellies. The venison here was ruddy and wild, like eating an eccentric old matriarch, and reminded me how deer can truly sophisticate a plate of food.

I find things get a little blurry about halfway through a cheeseboard. A sense of waferthin-mint submission sets in. Burps belonging to different courses begin to do the cancan.

Beads of sweat get mopped up by napkins that

probably cost more than my shirt. Delirium taps on the brain. People’s heads morph into talking bread rolls. Persist we must, however, in the name of journalism.

(But honestly, I can’t remember the cheese.)

The curtain call was a combo of Earl Grey, pear and almond crumble, which was far more exciting than it should have been, and a chocolate ganache-type-thing with caramelised cashews and praline, which was utterly rich and regrettable in the best possible way.

Celeste was a surprise, one of the best I’ve had since starting this job. Being “the restaurant in The Lanesborough,” I expected it to be all cock-swinging grandiosity without delivering on the plate. Quite the opposite. If there’s one restaurant criminally eluded by a Michelin star, perhaps even two, it’s Celeste.

Like its predecessor, Celeste is far from the most democratised restaurant in town, but once you eat somewhere this good, the question becomes less about dinner and more about a meal you’ll never forget.

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THE REVIEW 2015 33

QUATTRO PASSI - MAYFAIR Words: PETER J ROBINSON

I

remember watching the restaurant scene in the opening of American Psycho in my late teens thinking, ‘I wonder if the Upper East Side is actually like that?’ ‘Are the plates really the size of a platter?’

‘Is the food symmetrical?’

‘Do the waiters still serve the dishes with silver service perfection and in unison, like well-rehearsed Russian synchronised

swimmers?’

When I perused the menu for Quattro Passi, I decided that it would play host to 2015’s fabled editorial meeting between myself and The Review’s Editor-in-Chief.

One useless piece of information: rarely do you meet an individual with such a diehard appreciation of only one cinematic genre (horror). Laith Al-Kaisy and I have never really been able to share interesting conversations about cinema or music. Our discussions are exceedingly clipped these days as our diaries fill with even more work and life commitments. So the opportunity to sit down, dare I say face-to-face,

and gorge ourselves whilst considering the year was always going to be a salubrious affair.

My first concern, of course, was where the hell I would park a Rolls Royce Phantom on Dover Street. Mayfair is not renowned for its parking. Luckily a space opened up right outside the restaurant. I felt more comfortable having it close as it was loaned to me by the lovely team at Rolls Royce for filming that week.

Upon entering the restaurant, our first port of call was confirming our reservation.

This perhaps took a little longer than it should have. Was it in my name, Laith’s name, was

D I N G I N G O U T : H AW K S M O O R

there one at all. Having just agreed to take a seat and consider the menu, it wasn’t long before they worked out who we were. Not that we demand a certain notoriety, of course, but when you make a reservation for 7pm, you don’t want your name sullied by an administrative no-show.

For those of you not au fait with the timeline of two-Michelin starred chef Antonio Mellino, he graduated from the Naples Hotel School in 1974, worked as a waiter on cruise liners and after working in kitchens around the globe, opened Quatrro Passi on the Amalfi coast in 1984.

Two Michelin stars later, and with the help of some Ruskie investment, Mellino has opened up Quattro Passi in London, the aim being to bring the same Italian fine dining to our fair shores with a focus on dishes from the Calabrian coast.

It’s hard to not do the due diligence when making a restaurant reservation. I like to make my own assertions and then find out what the media lovies have to say. As it turns out, they have mixed thoughts. Interiors seem to feature highly.

My preference is a dimly-lit affair where you can barely make out the other diners. Prefer-

ably with a few feet of concrete in between tables and a few liberally-placed World War 2 mines adorning the no-man’s land. Quattro Passi, however, and possibly the Italian dining affair altogether, harks back to a time of unity and family.

The restaurant is, I am told, laid out over two floors with a private dining area and members club below. I didn’t see this, however, so it could have just likely been a cold storage area for tulips. We were very much centre-stage on the ground floor, and having plumped for a reservation at 7pm, we were not likely to be doing any people-watching. I read somewhere

THE REVIEW 2015 35

that Quattro Passi’s prices were a little high for Mayfair. That is something worth thinking about, given that Mellino and his sons import over 90% of the produce. The fish is sometimes ordered during the night and delivered the following day. I am happy to pay for a fish delivered to my plate from the Amalfi coast, and so should you.

We opted for the beef carpaccio with rocket salad served with nuts and Mediterranean sauce, langoustines flavoured with ginger and served with a blueberry coulis, and a glass of champagne. Try to arrive in a restaurant and order an aperitif, people. Some pinnacles of polite society need to be readopted. How was it? Simply put: perfect.

We moved to an Italian Chianti for nostri secondi. The glassware felt so great in the hand, I spent a week finding it online and ordering some.

We ordered the wild sea bass fillet served with fennel, black olives and mint sauce, and the rack of lamb on hazelnut, cocoa and dehydrated raspberries crumble. Now, if this is all reminding you of American Psycho, that’s you and me both. This is what one can usually expect in a two-Michelin star restaurant: pomp and ceremony at its finest.

I decided that the whole meal would be well capped off with the warm orange tart with bitter chocolate ice cream, and a double espresso. I forget what Laith ordered. Probably

dates and coffee.

Quattro Passi has whet my appetite to visit their founding restaurant in Italy. Let’s see if we can’t get it on the books for 2016.

With the editorial calendar planned for the rest of the year, we headed out into the London night and into the Phantom. And if we’d ended up in a nightclub, we could have easily been in scene two of American Psycho.

‘There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, hut there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping you and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.’

TR

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Coq D’Argent Some years ago, when I was a mere slip of a lad, I met up with an old friend outside the city-slicker terminal that is Bank Station. Pinstripe suit and Hermes tie-clad financial aficionados shuffled past me in neat rows, no doubt heading for a lazy lunch at one of the usual suspects. When my friend Darren arrived, he was sporting his usual trader attire and informed me that there was a great restaurant nearby with London’s best view. It was a massive understatement.

I

n the internal columns of the No.1 Poultry building is a small and unassuming glass elevator that takes you up the seven floors to Coq d’Argent, a French restaurant with serious niveau. Sadly for Darren, he wouldn’t be with me when I reviewed the restaurant; he was merely the financial middle man. He kindly showed me the potential investment, its quarter-acre of rooftop garden, many years in residence, and the credentials of chef Mickael Weiss.

He didn’t even get commission, poor banker (fetch me another white handkerchief lieu-

Words: PETER ROBINSON tenant and ready the firing squad).

I would luckily be dining with my partner, Tabitha. God knows how many times I have said ‘partner’ and seen a raised eyebrow or ten. I only prefer to say partner because I’m 30 and saying girlfriend when you should say fiancée also raises eyebrows. I’m not ‘left’ enough to say ‘life partner’ and be lumped in with the homeopathic medicine spivs: “Mr Smith, I’m afraid it’s stage four limphoma, I have prescribed basil leaves and a piece of volcanic rock I secured myself in the Dodecanese. Good luck”.

But anyway, as usual, I digress.

Coq d’Argent’s location high above the city makes for an enviable location. Giant atlas stones mark out the triangular roof gardens with views south of the river.

If you’re thinking of just taking a look, you can sit out on the circular terrace all year round and enjoy a French martini or ten.

This time of year, the restaurant has an après heated terrace, complete with 80s onesies and music to boot. As this isn’t Eurovision, we’ll give the French style points.

The restaurant is laden with strong toned

DINING : COQ D’ARGENT

wood and leather aplenty. The chairs are more dining room than restaurant, making well aware that you’ll be eating the Mediterranean way – and staying awhile.

We decided to start with the obvious: oysters with a heavy dash of Tobasco, lemon and shallots. Devine. It’s been a long time since I exercised my Elizabeth-Taylor-sized, hautecuisine appetite. Next, King’s caviar washed down with a stiff glass of champagne. It isn’t all 1920s elitism, of course. Tabitha had the cauliflower puree to start, which was wonderful. Presentation is on point, everything was chilled to perfection, and the waiting staff

were attentive and interested without being sycophantic. Philippe bought us our second round of good burgundy from the heavily stocked cellar, whilst Manuel served the crackling pig on a bed of fondant potatoes and chorizo and fish and squid.

The wine selection at Coq d’Argent includes a Chateau Margot and Châteauneuf-du-Pape – two obvious but world class wines. That should give you an idea of the sommelier, Olivier Marie’s, passion for the place. As we whiled away the hours, we took in the atmosphere, watched clients entertained, birthdays celebrated and toasts made to all manner of success.

If there is a financial downturn, Coq d’Argent

isn’t aware of it. Paul Allen’s business card is still in the bowl, and Patrick Bateman’s Oliver Peoples glasses are well in place.

The pork was well seasoned and had a good mix of textures with crackling that makes you tingle. Squid and fish of the day was my lady’s weapon of choice, all washed down with yet another bottle of great red.

Dessert consisted of a re-imagining of the humble Jaffa Cake. Don’t roll your eyes; it was delicious. We finished off the night with a Cohiba from the humidor, a good Armagnac, and our feet up.

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THE REVIEW 2015 39

THE CHARLES Words: GEMMA PHELAN side from being a world-class place to lay your head, I got the unmistakable feeling that the people behind The Charles are fiercely proud to be in Munich. The hotel lays heavy emphasis on its concierge service, an unrivalled source of local information by people in the know.

They are in love with this city and their passion is infectious. Go see them, tell them what you’re into then ignore their advice at your peril.

The Charles is in a prime spot if you like culture as it is perched on the edge of Kunstareal, Munich’s famous museum quarter. For art lovers there are three galleries: Alte Pinakothek, Neue Pinakothek and Pinkakothek der Modern that show old, new and modern art respectively. Then there’s the Glypotothek which houses Greek and Roman sculptures, and the Staatliche Antikensammlung, a neoclassical building which is home to state collections of antiques.

If fancy boutiques and designer stores are more your bag, make a beeline for Maximilianstrasse which

A

is dotted with temptation. If you’re anything like me, you’ll want to round off a shopping spree with something cool. Thankfully, in a city like Munich, a pint of the cold stuff is never far away as there are hundreds of beer gardens. Grab a bite to eat in Maxvorstadt artists’ district which specialises in Bavarian cuisine such as knodel (boiled dumplings).

The Charles itself prides itself on offering Munich’s largest standard rooms at 40 square metres. The Royal Suite or ‘Monforte Suite’ is named after the birthplace of Lord Charles Forte and features original artwork

by Franz von Lenbach. If that isn’t enough to knock your socks off, perhaps the grand piano in the lounge, the precious marble bathroom or the walk-in wardrobe and dressing area will?

Food-wise, Davvero offers an inspired array of Italian dishes made with locally sourced, Bavarian ingredients. I’m told that no matter what time of year it is, Davvero always has something special to entice punters. In the warmer months,

there’s al fresco dining on the terrace that overlooks the botanical gardens and there’s the promise of long cocktails in the shade of leafy trees.

In the winter, The Charles is all about costing up with homemade mulled wine and roasted chestnuts.

The bar, ingeniously called The Bar, claims to be the most cosmopolitan in Munich. It has three types of caviar and serves a traditional afternoon tea as well as expertly shaken cocktails, fine wines and a good old dollop of live music.

On my visit, the cocktail of the month was an exceptional ‘sloe gin bramble’, a tipple I could quite happily knock back night after night for, well, the duration of the month without getting at all bored of it. If I ever head back to Munich, I’ll certainly be dropping in to check out what’s the latest flavor of the month.

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GAUCHO - FITZROVIA

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fter a day running around L o n d o n filming for a client, the idea of a hot meal transcends Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. ..My need to consume was visceral, as if the Londoners going about their lunch breaks, stuffing their faces with falafel and M&S sandwiches were taunting me. We had been filming a new promo for an electric bike company and, of course, the extras had eaten, but I was steadfast in my commitment to developing an aching appetite. Nutritionists have told me that binge eating is a quick route to fat gain and diabetes. Though I am pretty sure diabetes is an American disease and hasn’t reached our fair shores. We still rightly suffer from gout alone.

With the shoot wrapped and everyone sent packing, we had two things to achieve:

Words: PETER J ROBINSON

parking and a change of clothes. We found a suitably shadowy parking area, availed ourselves of clean clothes and headed out into the brisk night. Our destination was Gaucho Charlotte Street.

I’ve made my feelings about red meat pretty clear over the last five years. I’m a cardcarrying carnivore and more than happy to lead the hunting party to blood-stained glory.

If your seemingly-happy vegan or vegetarian demeanour can’t bear the thought of humans using meat for food, then just turn the page. Honestly. I believe that people should be aware of where our food comes from, be it the orangery or the abattoir.

One particular restaurant that remains close to my heart, not only for its sourcing practices, but its steadfast cultural appreciation, is Gaucho. I appreciate that the brand now has thirteen restaurants in London alone, and no doubt at the time we go to print, more will have popped up, but you don’t complain when a new Waitrose pops up next door because you know the brand operates pursuant to good taste and fine

foods. So does Gaucho: a bastion of authentic yet sophisticated Argentinian cuisine.

The Charlotte Street outfit reminded me a lot of an underground lair: the lighting was dark and sultry and the atmosphere at about 7pm was simmering nicely. We decided that as it had been a long day, the most immediate requirement was the imbibement of alcohol. Less Bond ordering a Martini and more the drinking-on-the-piano scene in Lock Stock & Two Smoking Barrels. With a well-manicured and expertly-crafted cocktail in hand, we decided that it was just best to order another one straight off the bat. Just to silence the aching muscles you understand.

I am not new to Gaucho, so after we were seated centre-court, I told James that I would be ordering the selection of specialist sausages. Hard to say after three cocktails.

This consists of Argentine chorizo, chicken and wild mushrooms, beef and cranberry, spanish chorizo pincho, pork and apple, and winter lamb. They recommend you choose a minimum of four. I can’t really recall how many we ordered, but I have

D I N I N G O U T : G AU C H O - C H A R L O T T E S T R E E T

THE REVIEW 2015 43

a taste for chorizo that could probably be characterised as a fetish. So the initial order consisted of twice the recommended amount of anything with ‘chorizo’ in its name, for maximum pleasure.

By the time it arrived we had only just descended upon a great bottle of Malbec. A 2009 ’Dos Rubios’ to be exact. There was something very carnal that night: punchy red wine, red meat, passing through red lights (which came later).

Gaucho’s interior is becoming a modern classic for me. It has a very masculine finesse, reminiscent of a Zermatt hotel. It has enough hide to decorate Errol Flynn’s pile a few times over as well. As a lover of a good pelt, I think they could carpet it wall-to-wall and I would still come back for more. Everything in moderation, except pelts.

Having inhaled the initial sausage platter

like a couple of champs, we moved onto our second bottle of the Malbec. It was clear that there was a veracious thirst and hunger that couldn’t only be quelled by red wine and meat in abundance. After all, we had just wrapped on shooting and deserved some downtime and a good liver assault.

We herded ourselves through the second bottle, at which point the adrenaline of a four-location day shoot began to level me out, leaving me a little like a calm version of Ray Winston, safe in my lair.

If you wish, the staff will parade several cuts of meat in front of you, explaining all you could ever wish to know about a well-chosen and aged carcass. My preferred cut of carcass is rib-eye. It has the perfect mix of texture and richness for me. Ideally a little charred here and there from a Josper coal oven.

My recommendation is that you order your

cut with a side of dauphinoise potatoes and some spinach. I think it would be an insult to the steer to marry it with too many additional flavours. Enjoy this piece of meat on its own at first. Take the time to appreciate the marbling and incredible flavour.

As for what my compatriot ordered, it could have been the fillet, it could have been sirloin, I honestly couldn’t tell you. When presented with a Gaucho steak, the Earth begins to slow and I briefly fall in love whilst being blinkered to my own plate.

We decided that there really wasn’t any room for dessert, so after polishing off a few well-made espressos, we headed out into the night for the long drive home.

If you haven’t attended Gaucho, I urge you to do it soon. There is nothing quite like a punchy glass of red and a well-prepared steak to remind you of life’s pleasures.

TR

ARCTIC

Words: PETER

CIRCLE

J ROBINSON

THE REVIEW 2015 47

N

o children, no partner, no work. But you still have to call and check in, of course, “to confirm proof of life” your partner tells you with a certain sardonic tone.

You obviously have to read emails too, just in case your office forecasts the apocalypse and you aren’t there to say “I knew it, I saw it coming”. The modern holiday has become a Living TV documentary, where you board a low-cost flight and head somewhere ‘warm’ to try and get business-grade drunk. There are only a few differences between business drunk and normal drunk: business drunk means it’s still acceptable to drive. Of course, even if you aren’t aiming for a tourist hotspot destination, chances are you will have to encounter the proletariat ‘on tour’ at the airport. Cue the whiskey and narcotics to dull the ache. So, how does one escape the confines of modern life when effectively off-grid, but still maintain some semblance of luxury. The team at Off the Map Travel have it all covered. Off the Map organise tailor-made adventure holidays to Canada, Finland, Greenland, Iceland, Malta, Norway, Portugal, Spain and Sweden. They cater for families, couples, groups, honeymooners and, of course, three men in need of an escape into the Arctic Circle.

The first decision was who to take on this adventure. And don’t be fooled: travelling into the Arctic Circle is an adventure. The first thing to consider is accommodation. In many cases, this would be tent-based, so you have to think long and hard about who you can bear to share a tent with. Dr Paul Farrow is my oldest friend, which means there is equal measure of laughter and arguments.

When two people have known each other for 25-plus years, you really begin to develop a well-honed arsenal of put downs and snide remarks.

Think of it this way: a friend will calm you down when you’ve been in a fight or you’re angry; a true friend will skip alongside you with a baseball bat singing ‘someone’s gonna get it’. Paul is that kind of friend. I imagined myself backed into a corner in a bitterly cold forest with a pack of feral wolves baying for my blood, armed with nothing more than my camera and perhaps a well-scrimshawed knife. Who would you want there to back you up? Luckily, there weren’t many wolves around, our guide Fredrik told me. Only a

few bears. Great.

I expect most people like to travel with friends, family, well-known individuals – basically people who you’ll have a great time with, and won’t grate on each other. I like to mix this tried-and-tested formula up. James Clarke is The Review’s design writer, arguably wetter behind the ears than a recently-graduated English student when it comes to travel writing. He is our official wood-botherer.

A fine drinks’ cabinet, walk-in wardrobe, or perhaps that walnut desk, James is your man. He is also a thrill-seeker and all round weekend warrior. Someone who I know, when presented with a last minute exhilarating opportunity, will drop any and all to attend. Going aurora spotting in the forests of Northern Sweden seemed like it would be right in his grain. Nothing but wood as far as the eye can see, and a fully-charged iPhone with Instagram at the ready.

So, with my two trusted compatriots in tow, we began our journey. It started with a deceptively early flight from LHR to Stockholm. As we were bringing a few crates of camera gear to document our trip, we had the usual airport security checks to deal with. Having realised that, as per usual, I would have excess baggage to contend with, I queued dutifully at the SAS check-in desk.

Now, my morning demeanour is perfectly fine: I am a morning person, in that I can get dressed and drink tea without falling to the floor. I was queuing behind two people. The slightly morose SAS attendant dispatched the first pretty swiftly, but the second, well, the second was in for the long-haul argument. He has missed his flight – not the actual plane, but the predetermined time the airline sets for you to board. With his best puppy-dog eyes and trying to mask his sullen demeanour, he stood and made his plea for almost ten minutes before I totally fucking lost it. I don’t really know why. Perhaps it was the fact that my cut-off time was approaching and there was no end in sight. I bent down and stood up whilst I clapped loudly three times, as if to cheer on England at Twickenham.

“Okay, plenty of time, no drama, here we go. Left foot, right foot, they call it walking”. The somewhat timid individual turned around and glared at me, picked up his phone and side-stepped left. As a constant traveller, I should probably consider making less of a scene in security-conscious environments. I stepped forward with the smile of

a mental-health patient and politely passed the stunned attendant my passport, company debit card and booking form.

Now, you can look at my iconoclastic actions of breaking down the very British tradition of queuing patiently with a dim view – but the boy got on the plane, didn’t he.

With the first check-in out of the way, all that was left was to board our flight to Stockholm, loiter at the airport and board another flight to Lulea. I could bore you about the UK leg of the journey, the fast-food shops in the airport, James keeping his phone in his pocket whilst going through security, but you get the point – we were a group of 30-year-old boys.

It surprised me how three well-educated and outgoing men could become so debase within thirty minutes. There is a connection between the progress of a society and the progress of the arts. The age of Pericles was also the age of Phidias; the age of Lorenzo de’ Medici was also the age of Leonardo da Vinci. Beer and girls. That’s what it boils down to. Four hours at an Irish bar in Stockholm airport, showing that the mental evolution of man is a myth. Alas, we had regressed to simple pack animals.

Having drank our body weight in beer, we departed for Lulea airport, which is on Sweden’s North Eastern coast. With all our kit in tow, we were greeted by Fredrik Broman, who runs the Aurora Safari Camp in Norrbottens Län. Fredrik was chipper beyond the realms of what you expect possible for someone living in conditions this cold. To be honest, everyone in Sweden that we met was positively glowing. Genuine, heart-warming, honest people. You hear that a lot from travel writers: “They were so wonderful, I named my first born after them”. The reality is that they were discerningly friendly. I assume that there are many people in the country that aren’t, of course, but my astute cultural compass tells me that the majority of Swedish people are really rather nice.

The lovely Frederik, having seen our camera gear, immediately offered to take us over to the port in Lulea to see the icebreakers. If you haven’t see one of these leviathans before, it is quite a sight to behold. There is nothing I can compare it to. At this point, it probably makes sense to point out that you can watch the film of the trip by going to the website, or if you’re reading the magazine online, by clicking this page.

T R AV E L : A R C T I C C I R C L E

JAMES CLARKE DECIDES IT HAS ALL BECOME TOO MUCH AND HE SHOULD ASCEND

THE REVIEW 2015 49

After some more travelling, this time through the snow-laden forests en route to the camp, we encountered deer and snow drifts. As a keen skier, I really felt I should have bought my gear. Worst case scenario, we could have built a kicker on the ice and towed me on the snowmobile. The reality being that, whilst I’m sure everyone would have been up for a little action sports, I have never tried a kicker in my life, and the camp was rather far from a hospital.

Our final method of motorised transport was more my type of ride: a snowmobile with an alpine sled, with pelts being pulled behind. We stopped on the lake at one point as the sun was setting and low fog was moving in just to let the total solitary environment envelope us. It usually takes me a good few days to leave the real world behind, but this conspicuous escapism made any thoughts of the commercial world vanish.

The camp itself is settled on an island across the frozen Råne River. The scenery was breath-taking, not to mention the lack of signal, meaning we were off-grid.

Alternatively, you can just bury your laptop in the snow; I highly recommend it. This could have been the making for a low-budget survivalist thriller, if it were not for the abundance of creature comforts that the camp cleverly conceals. Despite my expectations of

AURORA SAFARI CAMP

frozen sleeping bags and slumber under the stars, the camp has a selection of beautifullyappointed, traditional bedouin tents. Each comes with very comfortable beds, a coat stand, electricity and a wood burning stove.

The yurt was hotter than an otter’s pocket.

Frederik told us we would need to ensure the fire was kept stoked every three hours, otherwise we would wake up in a world of pain.

He wasn’t wrong. With thoughts of sleeping next to an open fire firmly in my mind, it was time for supper.

What do you think the Swedish people eat in this neck of the lakeside woods? Exactly what you think: reindeer. It’s not saunasmoked to complete the stereotype though, but it is delicious – truly delicious. The camp is pitched around a central communal yurt where all meals are served, which meant we got to meet the other Arctic campers that were staying with us. As you would expect in true escapist fashion, the guests were creatives who had escaped London for the week in search for some barefoot luxury. Open fires crackled outside with never-ending views of the frozen lake, champagne flowed, the stars shone, and after a hearty meal, we all embarked on a short stroll out onto the ice for some Aurora-spotting.

Pär, Frederik’s brother in arms and general all round king of Swedes, walked

the troop out onto the frozen wonderland with an array of lenses and tripods. Note to self: your jacket will only work as a blanket to kneel on when erecting camera gear for so long. If you fancy bagging yourself the next cover of National Geo, Frederik organises bespoke photography trips in the region – and take it from me, he knows his glass. The total stillness of the moment was one for the books: just starlight and the closest moon known to this man. The conditions were not exactly perfect for Aurora sightings, Par said.

The fog was moving in, and within a few minutes, we were enveloped in a thick soup of marshmallow-like mist. Pleased to have taken some time-lapse footage, I packed up our gear and headed back to camp for dessert and a digestif. Okay, so we weren’t roughing it, but if Clarkson can get away with driving to the North Pole, then we can surely camp in the Arctic Circle surrounded by champagne and reindeer meat without fear of being axed.

As the season was coming to a close, Frederik and Par were committed to clearing out the drinks cabinet – or, to be more specific, telling us that we should. It was keeping the cold out, I think. With full stomachs, shrivelled livers and new bonds made, we tipped our caps to our new Swedish kin and schlepped the 20 foot across the camp to our

tent.

This is where our survival skills should have kicked in. How would we plan effectively to keep the life-giving fire lit?

“I can go first,” said Paul with rum-fuelled enthusiasm. “Do you have an alarm – or more specifically, do you have a phone with said capability?” I asked in typical cutting fashion. “I have my watch”. Paul held up the Shoreditch favourite that is the Casio F-91W digital watch. A timepiece launched in 1991 that remains totally unchanged some 24 years later. It serves as a nod to 80s revivalism and a badge of honour that hipsters wear to prove that their cheapness is a mark of sartorial confidence. It is also a timepiece warn by no less than 28 inmates of Guantanamo.

Not to mention Al-Qaida’s timer of choice for improvised exploding devices. This is all irrelevant, of course, as the person wearing it still needs to be able to be awoken by its dull alarm.

So, with a total lack of faith in Paul’s ability to keep our body temperatures above freezing, by simply ‘putting wood on a fire’, we all promptly passed out, warm in our beds.

Fast forward some three hours, and I was woken by a nagging feeling that I would soon become a Daily Mail news story. Probably with homophobic and anti-immigration undertones. ‘Three British explorers die in

remote Arctic camp’.

“Has the fire gone out?”

“No, I’m in my underwear on the floor blowing furiously into the fire because I’m bi-polar. Yes, the fire has gone out”.

With that, all I heard was the sound of the Casio F-91W hitting the deck with the mutterings of “bloody watch”. Needless to say, it was cold. Really cold.

Bonded-warehouse-full-of-dead-bodiesin-a-freezer-truck cold. The sort of cold that makes you realise you’re born. Luckily, I grew up in Wiltshire and was taught how to make an open fire by the one and only Blair Shenstone, a man of great character. I had the fire going within about 15 minutes and was back shivering in my bed awaiting the warm cosseted embrace of our little woodburning stove.

After a chaotic but restful night’s sleep, myself and the team were tranquil and looking forward to a breakfast of strong coffee, scrambled eggs and reindeer meat. We had got to the point now where reindeer and deer was the norm.

“Reindeer for dinner darling?”

“Smashing, less antler for me this time”.

When you go from your log-fired tent to your heated dining room tent, you realise that the Arctic Circle is a lot less unforgiving

than it perhaps was in Captain Scot’s time.

The main concern back then, of course, was how much snuff was left and which part of your anatomy didn’t need immediate triage to avoid total expedition failure. Our concerns were more centric to whether there was any coffee left and was it too early to add a little winter warmer. Thoughts of another night’s frivolity would have to wait, though.

Richard had arrived from Isdimma husky adventures. Now, I am a dog person, and I think my record is pretty clear on this one.

It isn’t that I have anything against cats, I just wasn’t raised with them, and I’m not a spinster in my 60s. I also find adults playing with something the size of a small loaf of bread to be slightly disturbing. It’s almost like they have regressed back to childhood. Playing with a dog is different, as its size and strength makes it a formidable partner. Not to mention that dogs are so bloody happy to see you no matter how long you’ve been gone.

As I did the final checks on our aerial drone, Richard arrived on the ice with ten Siberian huskies. I was just about to ask how they were around people, when James rolled to the floor for a grade-A lick. The whole team literally swooned over the pack and, my god, were they well-trained. Richard has trained huskies at his base in SorbynNorrbotten in Lapland for many years, and

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you can instantly see the strong bond he has with his dogs. Crossing the ice by sled has a somewhat mystical appeal to me. The idea of travelling into the wilderness with your camping gear and pack has a certain allure. The dogs were calm and collected and needed nothing more than a high-pitched order from Richard to send them off into the distance.

As we crossed the frozen lake, Richard asked me if I would like to mush the dogs.

There are few experiences in life I will say no to. This one warranted some careful consideration, though. We stopped on the ice for a moment for me to get a feeling for the ‘controls’.

“You have the slow and the hard break.

The slow break will reduce speed, the hard break will completely stop the sled”. Richard’s years of experience were clear, but my lack of knowledge was overwhelming. “How do you get the dogs to steer?” I asked, feeling like it was my first day at school. “You talk to the lead dogs”. Well, even in my own language, I think I might struggle, but so far we had barely managed to work out how to say hello and thank you, let alone control a team of pack animals travelling at full pelt across a frozen lake. The lead dogs effectively steer the rest of the pack and set the pace. I learnt that you have Swing, Team and Wheel dogs

THE ISDIMMA HUSKY PACK - RICHARD KARLSSON

to make up a strong pack, and all of them have different skills and characteristics.

I stood firmly on the sled, hoping I wouldn’t double over and shouted yip in my best high-pitch yelp. Bang, the dogs took off as if released from Valhalla. This trip was turning out to be seriously good fun. I would go so far to say it had cult status. We finished our tour-by-dog with a visit to Richard’s ‘compound’. I say compound, it was obviously idyllic, but the kennels around the property gave it that fortress feel. Pity the fool who decides to visit Richard’s home unannounced.

It has to be said again, though: the Swedes were turning out to be genuinely beautiful people. I expect, if I called Frederik, Par or Richard tomorrow and needed shelter and a hot meal, they would welcome the whole team in with open arms and some roasted reindeer meat.

With the afternoon fast approaching, it was time to leave our new friends behind after less than 24 hours. This really was a whistle-stop tour of everything that the Swedish Arctic Circle had to offer. An hour or so from the Aurora Safari camp, you will find Brando Lodge, a village of cabins located on an island off the coast of Swedish Lapland.

We had arrived at the end of the season, so there was a certain stillness to the place.

Almost as if the previous inhabitants had

either vanished overnight, or were all out on a hunting trip. This did mean, however, that we had the run of the place. Our own sauna, hot tub, cabin, snow mobile and, of course, hunting liaison officer were all readily available.

The list of things to do at Brando is endless. Yes, you have the majestic Aurora to look for out on the pack ice, but why not go crosscountry skiing, igloo-building, ice-fishing, reindeer-sledding, fishing, snowmobiling or show-shoe walking, to name but a very few.

Sweden was turning out to be a group holiday gem. It briefly crossed my mind that Sweden would make a tremendous location for some form of stag-based trip. Perish the thought of shot guns and vile shots in Eastern Europe, Sweden would separate the men from the boys with a quick round of Snus. They love their Snus. This would be a far more refined stag, you understand, complete with helicopter trips and ice-fishing in the middle of nowhere. Then, I quickly realised that it would only be a matter of time before the proletariat would cotton on to the region’s delights, and it would be inundated with the worst of people from god-knows-where.

So let’s try and keep the delights of Swedish Lapland between us, okay?

Our guide would be Tommy Holmberg, a man’s-man’s man. One of the local workers

said “We call him Tommy the Bear Hunter’, he will tell you all about it”. It turns out that Tommy rose to notoriety in Sweden some years ago, as one of the few licensed bear hunters during a period of increased bear attacks. The story goes that a local man had gone missing in the woods on his way home.

Local police were sent out into the woods to search for him, eventually finding the man’s remains in a cave. A police helicopter was dispatched to the scene, but after spending some time trying to find the exact location of the officers, they had to turn back for fuel.

Not before radioing over that they had spotted a large brown bear in the forest, not far from the officers’ coordinates. Tommy tells us that, as the officers were only armed with pistols, they didn’t have a chance. Luckily, the chopper refuelled and collected them a few hours later. Tommy was dispatched into the woods with his arsenal and his faithful hunting dog, Mikko. After tracking the bear back to its cave, Tommy and Mikko lured the bear out and dispatched it as quickly as possible.

This resulted in me endlessly singing “Tommy was a bear hunter, but he never hurt nobody”. I guess you had to be there.

We hadn’t been at Brando for more than an hour before we had put on our survival gear and hopped onto some seriously power-

ful snowmobiles for a little jaunt into the forest. Sweden is action packed. With the crash helmets and onesie-style, black-and-blue outfits, we did look a lot like Arctic storm troopers out looking for radicals.

After a short distance, Tommy realised he had forgot his teapot. I kid you not. I looked at him blankly.

“For the tea,” he stated.

“Yes, Tommy. I understand the concept of a teapot, my friend”.

“I will be back in five, okay?”

At this point, James, Paul and I should have noted we were out in the wilderness with very little knowledge of how to survive or snowmobiling experience. No. We regressed to children left alone in a classroom. Except our classroom was a snow-laden forest and we were on snowmobiles. Cue some Travis Pestrano-style antics.

‘Can you jump that?’ ‘Do you think that part is frozen?’ ‘What speed did you hit?’

With our motoring fix out of the way, it was time to get down to business and build a fire. Tommy took us to a peak where you could see the coast laid out as far as the eye could see. We hitched on our snowshoes and made our way down the trail to a clearing.

Tommy felt this location was right, so we got to grips with building a fire and brewing some pine-needle tea. It was refreshing to say

the least, and we were all in our element. I shan’t regale you with the exact topics discussed, but we were four men in a forest. You can work it out.

As we were starting to lose light, Tommy decided it was time to head back to the lodge for dinner. We would have genuinely been happy with anything at this point. Perhaps some more reindeer. But no, the kitchen team at Brando did a stand-up job that included fillet steak and possibly the best baked potato I have ever had. With the low temperature, you need a decent carb intake covered in sour cream. Well, that’s what I told myself anyway.

After dinner and a few glasses of wine, we headed to our cabin to freshen up and sit down for what seemed like the first time all day. But the day wasn’t over. Tommy had hitched a sled to one of the snowmobiles.

Tonight we would drink and talk as men do across the lake on the banks of a nearby island. Obviously the entire body of water was frozen, so after a short hop across the ice, we had started our fire and settled in for an evening of conversation, whilst we watched the night’s sky transform in front of us. Sweden really is very beautiful, whether it’s the alpine forests, the clean crisp air, or just the people. It ticks a lot of boxes for me.

The following morning, after a hearty THE PACK OUT ON THE ICE

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breakfast, we headed out onto the ice once more, this time to experience Brando Lodge’s ‘Flying Condor’. The lodge has its very own hover craft – and it’s amazing.

What a way to travel. It was everything we had wanted and more. Obviously you couldn’t hear a thing, but the experience of flying across the ice and power-sliding around islands was one that will stay with us for a long time. At this point, I am going to mention the fact that you can share the trip with us by watching the film that we painstakingly shot between drinking and acting like 30-year-old boys.

We were reaching the end of our trip, with just one more night to be spent at the Treehotel. We couldn’t visit this part of Sweden without stopping at this architectural gem. The Treehotel does exactly what it says on the tin. Founded by Britta and Kent Lindvall, the Treehotel is a series of treetop escapes above the forest, interconnected by well-cut paths.

Kent told us that occupancy was low, so if we wanted to, we could opt to stay in a different treehouse. Each had its own distinct look. There was the Mirrorcube, a large block camouflaged by reflective glass, complete with its own roof terrace; The Cabin, which is like a time capsule high in the treetops; The Bird’s Nest, which has been designed to look just like a giant nest and blend into the forest: The Blue Cone, which is actually painted red; The Dragon Fly, which needs to be seen to be explained and, of course, our choice, The UFO. Picture an alien craft coming down to land in a forest clearing, lights blazing down onto the leafy canopy. A metal ladder extend down like something out of Flight of the Navigator. But instead of stranded aliens inside, you find a series of comfy beds, a bar area, and an Xbox. Kent tells me that guests like to have their children stay in the UFO. I can’t tell if he is making a specific point here, but to be honest, it has been a trip revolved around three men being boys and indulging in an action-packed escape. So why not spend the last night in a giant flying saucer. We quickly realise that there is a switch attached to a nearby tree which lowers the saucers stair case and we’re in. There are three single beds and a good-sized double, so obviously we need a ridiculous way to work out who gets the adults bed. Watch the video to see the inaugural game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

Meals are served at the main guest house, which is a lot like the land that time forgot, but with Wi-Fi. The home has been kept to 1930-1950s style. The attention to detail is astounding. Of course, Kent and Britta live for detail. How else would they

Brändön Lodge - Luleå archipelago

WING COMMANDER CLARKE

SCRIMSHAW

THE MIRROR CUBE - TREEHOTEL

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have been able to grow their eco-friendly Treehotel idea into its current form without knowing that the devil is in the detail. From the incinerator toilets to the zero-carbon footprint, the whole focus for the resort is that of environmentally-friendly consumption.

This sends James into an Instagram frenzy: “So. Much. Wood”. After a lovely dinner, we decided that we had to visit one of the two forest saunas. Complete with obligatory moose antlers and a well-stocked wine fridge, we were very much in our element. After a short steam, we all piled, respectfully, into the outdoor hot tub. The place was bliss, sheer unadulterated bliss. We sat and soaked whilst talking about the trip. We agreed that we would happily visit each and every one of the locations next week if given the chance.

The team at Off The Map Travel had outdone themselves. Each location was hand-picked, the excursions and activities captivated us, and the trip in general was like nothing I have experienced. This is coming from someone that clocks up more air miles than most. If you’re looking for an escape but still want a fur pelt and a top-shelf tipple to return to, I cannot recommend Off the Map Travel and Swedish Lapland highly enough.

They are ushering in a new era in modern luxury travel.

A four night, five day Northern Lights Arctic adventure to the wilderness surrounding Lulea, similar to that experienced by the team at The Review, with Off the Map Travel (www.offthemaptravel.com; +44 (0) 800 566 8901), costs from £1999 per person not including flights. This includes a night at the Aurora Safari camp, two nights in a luxury Arctic Lodge, and one night in a treetop room at the world famous Tree Hotel as well as a variety of activities including dogsledding; Aurora hunting and a snowmobile adventure to the Luleå Archipelago.

Independent research conducted by a leading European Aurora forecasting service has commended soft adventure and Northern Lights holiday specialist Off the Map Travel as one of the best Northern Lights travel agents in Europe.

Specialising in Soft Adventure Off the Map Travel create tailor-made holiday itineraries offering authentic experiences not used by many larger travel companies.

For more information about Northern Lights adventures visit www.offthemaptravel.co.uk, speak to a Northern Lights travel exert on +44 (0) 800 566 8901 or email info@offthemaptravel.co.uk

THE UFO - TREEHOTEL

THE REVIEW 2015 57

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Phantom Rolls Royce

Words: PETER ROBINSON

THE REVIEW 2014 61

Be under no illusions: this article will be a competition between myself and our dashing motoring editor, Oliver Smith, as to who can gush the most about Rolls Royce.

There is little to be objective about. In 1904, Henry Royce and Charles Rolls engineered a vehicle of such poise and grace that it ran virtually non-stop for 14,371 miles. It was the Silver Ghost, named ‘the best car in the world’ by Autocar in 1907. Pretty conclusive, if you ask me. Of course, we’re talking about a world in which the Wright brothers had only just flown a powered airplane. Little did they know, Rolls Royce would become a brand so synonymous with luxury that it would set the benchmark for coach building for the next century.

There are many luxury marques silently rolling into the market, but there is only really one that sits in the rarefied

atmosphere of the luxury layer cake. The first incarnation of the Rolls Royce Phantom came in 1925, as the replacement to the Silver Ghost. Arguably the world’s hardest act to follow. The Rolls Royce Phantom, however, secured infamy when it received the royal warrant in 1952, as the then-Princess Elizabeth ascended to the throne.

The Phantom always had an immediate sense of prestige. It wasn’t until the 1960s when it would become the play thing of a new breed of owner. John Lennon famously took delivery of his in June of 1965. After deciding to paint it psychedelic colours, he was attacked by a lady with an umbrella who ran at him shouting “You swine! You Swine!

How dare you do that to a Rolls Royce!”

Whether you agree with her sentiment or not, the world is rapidly rotating on its axis and The Phantom has

AU T O M O T I V E : P H A N T O M seen more obscure paint jobs than the works of Dali. What it has done throughout the years, though, is remained a car regarded as both a waft mobile by gentry and a status symbol by the glitterati, without needing to have all four wheels in either camp. There are many brands that have fallen foul of modern adulation by a societal subset, but Rolls Royce is a marque so engrained in the British psyche, well, ‘You can’t bloody have it, you hear, it’s ours!”

Having toured the factory a few years ago, during Goodwood Festival of Speed, I am convinced that without the artisans at Rolls Royce, England would fall. Mark Court, the single coachline painter at Rolls Royce, hand paints the individual line on each marquee using a brush made from squirrel hair.

I was told that a Middle Eastern buyer had recently taken delivery of his new marquee, only to realise it didn’t have the famous coachline. Not all marques do and evidently, one of the Prince’s footmen had not factored in that his boss would indeed want the coachline. So Mark and his squirrel brushes were flown out to Dubai to paint the famous line. Some serious millage, but when you’re a prince in a place where money talks and status is everything, what choice do you have.

We took delivery of our Phantom on a fairly grey British day, but watching that 5.8 metre beauty cruise up the driveway was a majestic sight. The interior was fitted with a drinks cabinet for the individual rear seats, a rear theatre, and of course the bespoke RR monogram on all the head-

THE REVIEW 2015 63

rests. How else would people know it was a Rolls Royce?

The exterior was called Blue Velvet with a cream and navy blue interior and barrel oak veneer, not to mention the silver coachline hand-painted by Mark.

I quickly decided that, given the seven days we had to review and film this monument, I should curate opinions from the entire senior writing staff. The first stop on my itinerary was to James Clarke, creative emissary of internationally-renowned ‘True Bespoke’, a fine furniture maker and all round wood botherer. In my experience, Clarke has the same level of attention to detail as the chaps at Goodwood HQ. No matter where we go together, if a trim is off or a finish not picture perfect, he goes into a deep silence. He paces muttering, “Show me the blueprints, show me the blueprints”. Arguably, he isn’t quite as bad as Howard Hughes – and the Phantom is certainly no spruce goose. Suffice to say, if anyone is going to appreciate a barrel oak veneer and leather work that fine, it’s going to be Clarke.

I arrived on a muggy afternoon at the True Bespoke workshop. From inside, I could see Clarke drawn to the vehicle like a moth to a flame. Silence. No words were said as his automaton brain whirred and clicked, processing the car and its exquisite splendour. He scratched his chin whilst making facial expressions like he was having a design meeting with three people inside his walnut-encased head.

“Mmmm, well, mmmm, mattteeeeee”. We had reverted to the simplest available greeting sounds available to us as

homosapians. Our brains were just too busy trying to work out how something with a pavement weight of 2560Kg could hit 60 in less than 6 seconds. It sped forward with a sense of urgency and refinement. Heaven forbid your ice should clink in the glass as you recline in the beautifully appointed rear seats. With James’s seal of approval secured, it was time to move onto our style editor, David Minns.

Minns is a man that is torn between traditionalism and modernity. His position as head tailor of Brown in Town (tailors, shirtmakers and atelier) is something I always found contradictory to his youth growing up as a skateboarding aficionado. This is a man that has images of himself in his studio doing a kick-flip in a two piece. Arguably, though, he is one of the most well-pointed people I have ever come across, so what would he make of the pomp and ceremony available to us. And more importantly, where would we lunch?

‘Cheese and rice’. At least that’s what I think he said, as he strolled out of his Bristol studio. He stood with his Fox umbrella, appearing to balance his somewhat lighthearted, musical stance. I do recall him rubbing his hands together at one point with a sense of glee.

“Where are we headed?” I asked. “The Ethicurean”.

Excellent, I thought, let’s drive out to Wrington in a car that opitmises opulence and basically runs on coal. The engineers at Rolls Royce chose a magnificent engine and one that produces 19.1 average MPG, but let’s not kid

ourselves, it isn’t a car that screams “I AM ETHICALLY CONCERNED”. It does, however, whisper “I couldn’t trouble you for another Petit Upmann from the humidor and a glass of Lagavulin, could I?” Words that I am much more likely to utter.

We pulled into the walled garden, parked the land yacht (as I affectionately called her) and strolled up to the restaurant for a light lunch. Conversation flowed, people toasted, and the sun shone, but I couldn’t quite see the car. I wasn’t concerned about security – the Phantom was quite at home in Wrington – only that I was spending time looking at a plate of food and a room full of people as opposed to over 100 years of engineering prowess.

Lunch finished, we were briefly joined by Jack Adair Bevan, one of the brains behind The Ethicurean and winner of the Young British Foodies Award. Bevan was kind enough to treat us to a taste of his new vermouth, brewed from sources on site at the Walled Garden, and we then took him and his cohort for a spin in the Phantom. A good trade.

With Minns returned safely to his tailoring outpost, all that was left was for the final seal of approval from my family’s matriarch. My grandmother is a strong woman, one that grew up in the days of the Raj as her father and his father travelled from central India, consulting on the railways. After the Second World War, they settled in Kharagpur, near two American air bases. My grandmother remembers the Spitfires travelling overhead with the roar

of the Rolls Royce engines being completely unmistakeable.

I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself, had I not taken Grandmother Robinson out for a spot of supper. I can confirm that she disappeared into the back seat, given the cavernous size of the Phantom. Having collected my aunt and mother, we wafted across Wiltshire’s green and pleasant land.

Supper was served in a small but well-formed country pub. Sometime later, my aunt and grandmother, doing their best to remain upright, shuffled out into the night and into the Phantom. However, the entrance to the car didn’t secure many style points. I hadn’t been able to work out how to drop the car’s ride height, so wasn’t able to lower her for entrance. This resulted in a typical move from my family: enter the car on hands and knees, to avoid damaging ones clothes. Obviously in fits of laughter throughout.

I should have been ushering ladies of the night into the back seat and heading for a country pile somewhere, not watching my family crawl into the car whilst trying to keep their Burberry macs unscathed.

All agreed with resounding finality: “They don’t make them like this anymore”. Well, they do, obviously. But no one makes them like Rolls Royce. The Phantom is a motor car so well built that I don’t believe I will ever quite fully recover from its magnificence. It gets my vote as the replacement image on the new twenty pound note.

Long live Rolls Royce.

TR

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I

t all started as I was entering 3:15am into my alarm. Strangely, I was not worrying about the time but whether I would be able to get any sleep at all. The anticipation of test driving the new Aston Martin V12 Roadster, and of all places, in Monaco, made sleep a bit of a non-starter. It reminded me of the feeling I used to get on Christmas Eve as a nipper.

Having secured a few hours’ sleep, it was off

to the airport. It felt odd flying solo for a change; usually I have the Rugby boys in tow.

It made a difference to know that I could sleep on the plane without fear of waking up with black marker lines across my face.

Having secured a double espresso in an effort to wake myself up, I started to peoplewatch. I can’t help but wonder why it’s acceptable to drink alcohol at any time, night or day, purely because you’re in an airport?

There was a group of 70-year-olds drinking

champagne at 5:30am en route to Dublin. I bet they had a great time.

When I arrived at Nice airport, expecting the sun of the Cote D’Azur, it was pissing down and felt more like Wales than the South of France. With my bags in tow, I found my driver and we were off for a short but breathtaking drive to Le Cap Estel, which would be my home for the next two days.

I’m used to a pretty high level of service but wasn’t expected a personal butler for the

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V12 ROADSTER Words: ALIX POPHAM

weekend. That said, the suite was the size of a five-a-side football pitch and had three balconies with a 180-degree view of the Med. It needed a staff. With limited time to stow my gear and have a quick look around, I headed downstairs to meet the group for a light lunch on the terrace, overlooking the crystal clear sea.

Having flown, slept, ate and drank, I was ready to be shown around the new Aston Martin v12s Roadster. We were then put

into pairs and shown how the car worked.

I was tantalisingly close. I could have shot off, outflanked the gent giving the talk, had the keys away, and been on the road before he could have stood up again. I needn’t have planned an attack; we quickly set off into the sun (with no sunglasses). It was a great route through Nice and the harbour, with everyone turning to admire the beauty of the roadster, then up into the chicanes and corkscrew bends and into the stunning

mountains.

After we had ascended the mountain, victorious, it was time for a pitstop of coffee and tarte tatin. It was worth stopping, as during the next leg, there would be a photographer hanging out of the boot of the chase car taking snaps.

The v12s Roadster will take you from 0 to 60 in four seconds. I can personally vouch for it. It made the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end for a straight jaw-dropping

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twenty miles of coastline. The sound was unbelievable; the v12 roars like a pack of lions. You could see people turning their heads in the rear-view, trying to work out what had just shot past.

After a blistering day of both sun and speed, we headed back up the drive of Le Cap Estel to reluctantly give back the keys to the v12s. I strolled around her one last time, thinking which one of my kids I would home school in order to buy one.

Later that night, after another brief encounter with my suite, we were treated to a wine tasting and spectacular supper at Patrick Raingeard’s Michelin-star

restaurant. The conversation flowed and went from how exceptional the car was to the 2015 Rugby World Cup. Also, everyone wanted to know why I had the largest suite, let alone three baths. I quickly changed the discussion back to the car at every opportunity.

After dinner, Marek Reichman, design director at Aston Martin, spoke of how he and his team came up with design for the v12s roadster. This only made it worse for me. At this point, I was trying to work out how I could either make a getaway with the keys back to Wales, or perhaps sell the Harley to buy it.

The next day, I got up nice and early to

enjoy everything that Le Cap Estel had to offer. Post-workout, I took a dip in the salt water infinity pool whilst looking out over the rough Mediterranean as the waves rolled in. I asked if it was possible to have scrambled egg whites, as I had no protein with me. Within 5 minutes, there was a knock at my door and I was again eating on the very large table in the lounge. With a double espresso in hand and my butler on call, it was hard to think about tearing myself away from the suite.

As we were waiting for the Mercedes people-carriers to arrive and take us to the Columbus 40-metre hybrid super-

yacht, there was a lot of buzz in reception with interviews and photo shoots taking place. They all had one thing in common: everyone agreed how special the v12s driving experience was.

Arriving in Monaco, we drove along the marina. Obviously the boats got bigger and bigger, until we were into the serious yachting arena. When we finally stopped, my tongue rolled out of my mouth. The Columbus 40S hybrid was stunning, boasting five double bedrooms, three lounges and a hot-tub on deck. It just kept on giving.

True to form, after ten minutes, some of the Brits were feeling a little seasick

and decided to head back to the hotel.

That left two of us to keep the stiffupper-lip, Aston Martin spirit alive.

Given the choppy weather, the captain had advised that it wasn’t safe to take her out of the harbour. That didn’t stop us enjoying an amazing meal aboard whilst David talked about Monaco, what it stands for in day-to-day business and the experience of living there. He was a really interesting gent.

During the meal, the heavens opened and the wrath of God’s own hand seemed to appear. Kevin from Aston Martin said that Nice airport was closed and all flights were likely to be cancelled.

Happy days, I thought. I could spend a little more time on the €15.5 million super-yacht – if you twist my arm.

Only if they park the v12s next to it, of course, for another spin. You have to properly complete the look, don’t you.

Sadly, a few drinks later, the weather changed and the flights were back on.

I have to say that it was an unforgettable trip, not to mention the team at Le Cap Estel and David for hosting us aboard the yacht. As a sportsman, I can’t say I knew entirely what to expect.

But it’s up there with some of the most memorable rugby games I have played in.

TR

THE REVIEW 2015 71

LAND ROVER

DEFENDER

Words: PETER ROBINSON

Many a motoring writer will tell you that the Loyal Defender has long been considered as a work horse for the countryside set but over the last few decades it’s appeal has crossed over into the mainstream.

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I

didn't grow up on a farm, I grew up in Wiltshire which is far from agriculturally challenged but I was not raised surrounded by farm machinery and livestock. So why is it that the vehicle I long for is considered by many to be either a weekend warrior for the green-lane masses or an aggro vehicle with obligatory Ifor Williams sheep dog in tow?

Well the answer is, it isn't really.

Many a motoring writer will tell you that the Loyal Defender has long been considered as a work horse for the countryside set but over the last few decades it's appeal has crossed over into the mainstream.

With the announcement from Land Rover that the Defender has at the ripe old age of 65, reached it's retirement, many will gasp in horror.

But we might not be waiving goodbye to the old girl just yet. It seems that she may have a reprieve and could indeed be built in one of its European facilities with the whole production line being shipped out to somewhere in the empire.

I first encountered the beauty of the defender whilst filming the Gumball Rally. A plucky team had decided that the 15th anniversary rally should be graced by a column of Defenders. I cant say that it was a vehicle I had paid a lot of attention to but for an obvious reason. I spent my

formative years not doing a lot of driving you see but coming from a family absolutely obsessed with planes trains and automobiles, it was only a matter of time before I would set my sites on a vehicle that I knew had everything I wanted. I have driven many and owned few in my time, preferring to chop and change with the same vehicular tourettes as our motoring editor. What is it this week Oliver? But the Land Rover Defender has qualities that simply cannot be vested by any other vehicle.

It was a cold and wet October day when the 90 station wagon arrived. I wasn't even there. Someone from the office had volunteered to take delivery of the 90, whilst my

flight was still coming in from France.

I was slightly embarrassed that I wouldn't be there to welcome this bastion of England to the fair city of Bristol. I felt like a welcoming party would surely be expected, wasn't it royal protocol?

The Defender 90 Station wagon XS spec is a formidable beast.

A 2.2 litre diesel will tow noah, his ark and all the angels and saints into an oblivion if needed. There is absolutely positively no other vehicle like it that can match the pulling power and looks of the Defender.

Icon is about the best word I can use to sum it up.

My initial jaunt in the Defender would be to Manchester

and back for my oldest friends stag do. I didn’t exactly relish the Friday night drive but I had little choice. It wasn’t a lack of love for the Defender but an aversion to the M5 and M6 at rush hour. I did briefly consider doing the whole journey on the back roads. At least that way, if faced with an obstacle, I could go over it if not around it. But it was what it was. I loaded the amply spaced Defender and made my way towards the Northern bastion that is Manchester.

After about two hours it happened. Birmingham. I wonder how they get anything done, I assume everyone just sits idle in their cars on the motorway waiting to die. Luckily I had found two other defender and

was driving in convoy. If you want to drive at normal estate pace around 75-85, the Defender is more than capable. But if you are weighed down with a horse box, a ton of production gear or a trailer loaded with a house, I tend to stay in the left lane and overtake as appropriate.

As we crawled our way towards Manchester in a relaxed but far from formal convoy, I looked out over the fields on the outskirts of Birmingham. I was mentally calculating a route around the traffic jam.

There was several interconnected fields that I could easily have cut through to get to the River Tame, then along the banks, around the traffic and back onto the

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M6. The trouble was, I genuinely could have done it. I don’t know what the legality is with regards to leaving the motorway on a rural exit or exit of my choosing but I am guessing it isn’t favourable. So despite the fact that the Defender could easily have hopped out of the traffic and out across yonder, I stayed put. It was an altogether different story on the Latvian border a few years back when a column of Defenders faced with adverse traffic did just that, they headed straight over the reservation and into the forest. That is the classic argument with a Defender. The famous sticker says “You can go fast, I can go anywhere. I will take access over speed any day. After another hour, I arrived in Manchester after nightfall. It was a Friday and despite the centre being rammed full of the usual drunken sloths, my group had opted to head to a great little bar not too far from out hotel. I parked up outside and headed in. “Aren’t you worried that you will get a ticket or that someone will scratch it”, “A ticket warden wouldn’t dare and a scratch would only add character”.

Such is my love for the Defender that my partner and I have a tendency to spot a nice 90 or 110 on the motorway as we travel. Do you remember the Show Home Improvement with Tim Allen and the somewhat staged but arguably manly growl he makes when something is the epitome of masculinity. That. She does it without cue and without urging.

The Defender is a classless vehicle and yet it is at home outside five star hotels and a greasy cafe all the same. People do not judge a Defender driver, you could be John the Farmer from Tetbury or Tarquin from Chelsea, the Defender doesn’t care, it just wants to take you anywhere you want to go.

TR

CONTINENTAL GT V8S CONVERTIBLE

Words: OLIVER SMITH

T

ry and recall an occasion where you have had a conversation with a friend and they’ve told you something which you find shocking and almost offensive. You know that it’s been

worrying them and you want to be supportive, but sometimes the issue is so severe that there is little that can be done to hide your feelings. Never an easy situation, and one that I found myself in quite recently.

Friend: ‘What car are you reviewing at the moment?’

Me: ‘I’m very lucky actually, it’s one of the new Bentley Continentals’ Friend: ‘Really? You don’t seem that excited. Is it terrible?’

Me: ‘God, no! It’s really very good, it’s just…’

Friend: ‘Are you okay?’

Me: ‘I’ve got something I have to tell you’ Friend: ‘Really?! What?

What’s wrong?’

Me: ‘Well, I don’t really know how to say this, but it’s, um, well, you know, a, um… convertible’ Friend (pauses and furrows brow) ‘Okay, well it’s not the end of the world. As you said it’s a great car’

Me: ‘Well, you see, the fact that it’s a convertible isn’t the problem. It only becomes an issue when you combine it with the other factor…’

Friend: ‘…which is?’

Me: ‘We’ve been good friends for a while now, haven’t we?

I can tell you anything, yes?

Friend: ‘Tell me. What is it?’

Me: ‘I’m so sorry… It’s white’ Friend: ‘I think you should leave’ Now, let’s not lose the forest for the trees on this one. This car is available in other colours and although first impressions count, let’s dig a little deeper. The car that I have here is the Continental GTC V8S – and I like it. I was of the opinion that

it would be the poor man’s W12, but I have to say that I really rather like it.

It’s in no way left wanting when it comes to sheer oomph, and the noise with the roof down is splendidly thuggish (it’s quite civilised with the roof up, which is testament to the quality of materials used). When it comes to making progress, this car is an overtaking weapon, as even the

smallest of gaps can be exploited to dispatch multiple light blue Hondas and horse boxes.

It feels solid on the road, due to the four0-heel drive system developed by Ingolstadt’s boffins.

Whilst it adds to the comfort and feel of quality, the Bentley is a weighty old girl, and you become aware of its heft if you really press on cross country. It

doesn’t become unwieldy, it just reminds you that it’s a Grand Tourer and not a flighty sports car (although, I dare say, it would embarrass a lot of the latter). No bad thing.

With the facelift and general ‘tighten-up’ of the new shape, it cuts a handsome figure. It has presence, but not menace. It sounds odd, but it also feels loyal and

reassuring, like a cross between your best friend and your most faithful hound. Some of the tech can be a little slow and frustrating at times when switching between reversing camera and radio, but I think that’s a subjective thing, so probably neither here nor there.

A lot of my fondness for this car comes from the fact that I was

lucky enough to have a tour of the Crewe factory last year – and what a wonderful experience. Lots of people bemoan the Audi link and say that Bentley is no longer a proper British marque. Well, as a curmudgeonly patriot, what I saw of the Audi link was a fantastic thing.

Yes, there is a degree of part sharing, but the main contribution from

Audi has been its chequebook. This has allowed Bentley to create some of the finest motorcars in the world.

Its VAG group money, but its British engineering, British passion and British quality. After Fritz and his chums rolled into Crewe, I was expecting to find a sterile warehouse filled with robots and those chaps with clipboards and

frameless glasses. But that’s really not the case. Yes, it’s a smart production line, but it’s housed in the British Cathedral of engineering; a very large shed.

Staffed by many passionate people who really care, it’s the perfect place for the Bentley legend to play out. The detail is beautiful – for example, every hide is inspected by eye because computers can make mistakes. The chap who handstiches the steering wheel uses an old dinner fork to mark the spacing’s for the stich holes on the leather. There are many examples of the

wonderful idiosyncrasies that make Bentley a fabulous brand that embraces both tech and tradition.

My fondness for the Continental is because I fell that it encapsulates these things.

Lots of people regurgitate the old clichés about footballers’ cars (I admit that have in the past) and dilution of the brand, blah, blah, blah. But very often, you will find this rhetoric coming from the mouths of the uninitiated (indeed, they usually breath through their mouths, wear car-branded clothing, and can be seen in the moron storage

facility that is/was the Top Gear studio worshipping their king).

I think that the Bentley Continental GTC V8S embodies the Bentley brand almost better than the flagship Mulsanne (although I’d love to try a Mulsanne Speed Julia). It has tradition and quality on its side, but it’s also fresh and advanced and, dare I say it, cool.

If you want a hand-built British GT car that has character and pedigree, then I suggest that you have a chat with the charming boys and girls at Bentley Motors. They may even help you pick the colour.

TR

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w w w. s a n l o r e n z o m

m o u n ta i n l o d g e . c o m

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AU T O M O T I V E : R A N G E R O V E R E V O Q U E

Range Rover

EVOQUE Words: OLIVER SMITH

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I

was under the (uneducated) impression that it was a trinket. A cynical marketing exercise that would allow a wider audience a slice of the Range Rover pie, so to speak.

Whilst normally never one to let the facts get in the way of a good story, I

decided to have a go in one myself.

A little caveat to start with: there are a million car reviews out there of the Evoque, so I won’t bore you with boot capacities and MPG figures.

I will just say that the model tested was the top-of-the-range SQ4 Autobiography, weighing in at just over £52,000. And it was rather nice.

Let’s not beat around the bush,

the Evoque has a bit of a girly reputation, but I wanted to challenge this where possible. Having a couple of friends who are fortunate enough to own ‘full-sized’ Range Rovers, I went to see one of them as soon as I could in order to assess their reaction. The overall feeling was that it would be ideal for ‘the wife’. Why? Because it’s cooler? Because it’s a bit funky and

doesn’t take itself too seriously? Those don’t seem like negative connotations to me. Is it because it’s a bit smaller and size matters?

Image aside, the car is lots of fun to drive and because you’re not hauling around tons of wood and leather, it handles well. Despite a slightly overzealous gear shift, it performs beautifully. The engine has good torque for

normal usage and does well to hide its smaller capacity. Dynamic mode firms the suspension noticeably (probably a bit too much for Blighty, where some of our potholes have roads), but it does bring a sense of mild impatience which is quite pleasing.

For me, though, the wind is usually taken out of my sails when a

Discovery 4 wafts the other way. Not because the Disco is better, it’s just a bit manlier. You may think me shallow for analysing the feeling that this car gives you, but I think it’s an integral part of ownership – and it is called the Evoque, after all.

I struggled for the first few days to stop doing it an injustice by referring to its bigger brother as a ‘proper’

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Range Rover, but after a while the penny dropped: the Evoque itself is pretty much faultless. It’s the ego thing which is an issue, but really, when all is said and done, do I really need to haul all of the extra wood and leather around with me (not to mention shell out another £50k) for the bigger brother? Is this a statement of ‘I’ve

done well and I like nice things but I don’t need the extra space to haul around my ego?’ Perhaps. But you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. The Evoque is not only a good car, but charming too. It’s nailed together as well as its big brother (and that gets compared to Rolls-Royces!), has all of the tech and toys you could wish for,

including a natty HUD and Adaptive Cruise, and it does have an element of understatement to it. If the ego thing is really too much for you to swallow, though, take heart in the fact that a fully-loaded Discovery Sport is almost £5,000 less. Make of that what you will, but do one thing before you make your mind up: try one.

TR

M AKERS OF THE W ORLD’S F INEST S PORTING S HOTGUNS AND R IFLES & S UPPLIERS OF L UXURY S HOOTING G IFTS AND A CCESSORIES N EW Y ORK +1 212 752 7755

L ONDON

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20 7499 4411

www.hollandandholland.com

M OSCOW +7 495 937 4553

Abarth 595

Turismo Words: OLIVER SMITH

You’ve got to be a little bit careful with the term ‘hot hatch’. For me it evokes images of mouth-breathing oiks drinking energy drink and doing handbrake turns in supermarket carparks. Luckily (and I never thought I would say this) The Italians are here!!!

MOTORING : 595 TURISMO

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T

hey have taken the slightly questionable teenage pregnancy image of the hot hatch and given it a makeover.

Think Lavazza not Relentless. Lose the tracksuit bottoms and trainers and replace them with some ankle-biting linen chinos with buff loafers and sockless bronzed ankles. Burn

the hoodies and sling a cashmere jumper over your shoulders. It Ray-Ban time so grow up, walk slower and smoke more. Bella Figura folks, it’s the Abarth 595 Turismo.

The only manual car that I’ve tested all year, the 595 is quite simply wonderful. Pretty but not feminine, plucky but not cute but most of all its so damned cool.

The engine is a 1.4 turbo charged unit which produces 158bhp at

5500rpm and despite its smaller capacity delivers a decent amount of torque lower down. The handling is hilarious! It hops around in the way that makes road testers with beards moan but I think that it adds sense of enjoyment that make the drive more engaging.

To have fun in more exotic cars inevitably means higher speeds and unless you want the aircraft crash investigators to tell your mum what happened after they’ve

studied your dental records then the Abarth is perfect for the open road. As for the downsides; the gearbox is okay and I don’t like the remote boost gauge but those things are mostly subjective.

On the outside it has just enough badges and skirts to give it purpose without looking like it has anything to prove. I know a chap who has a Ferrari F12 and he uses his 595 Abarth more because he says ‘It’s just great fun’! Is there

any point in me going on?

Not to mention the fact that it hammers the opposition in the style stakes: Golfs GTI - For you inner wild accountant.

Skoda Fabia VRS – Its a Diesel.

Idiot.

Mini Cooper S – You’re not a women, you want to attract them.

Ford Fiesta ST – Council houses generally don’t have garage space.

Peugeot 208GTI – Nice baseball

cap.

Abarth 595 Turismo – The name alone is basically a chat-up line.

Lovely.

So to summarise; if you want to have huge fun behind the wheel, look cool, pull supermodels, have better teeth, smoke with no ill effects and have masses of friends* then buy an Abarth 595 Turismo.

Now. *Benefits not guaranteed.

TR

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FA S H I O N : T H E L I G H T S

The Lights Will Draw you in Stylist: PANAMBI MARTINEZ

Photographer: JAVI SALINAS

Digital Artist: Molly Molly Fashion Edtor: Bobby Reyes

MUA/ Hair: CARMEN MONTORO Assistant stylist: Yoli Garcia

Model: Reda Pilybaite @MADmodels

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skirt - Manderlay Blouse - La Perla Heels - Mascar贸

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Dress - Amen Necklace - Daniel Espinosa Gloves - Paula Alonso Little bag - Barada

top - Escada Skirt - Amen Jewels - Anton Heunis

dress - Amen Earings - Daniel Espinosa

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trousers - Laura Bernal Shoes - Mascar贸 Bracelet - Daniel Espinosa Bra - La Perla Vest - La Perla

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Dress - Lolitas Jacket - Laura Bernal Jewels - Anton Heunis

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Skirt - La Perla Poncho - Liujo Shoes - Mascaro Jewels - Anton Heunis

dress - La Perla Jewel - Daniel Espinosa

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Dryhill Farm Words: PETER J ROBINSON

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he Cotswolds.

An area of south-central England renowned for its ability to attract American holidaymakers who are looking for ‘traditional’ England. Little do they know that ‘traditional’ England is a tourist attraction for the British too. I expect far too few of my countrymen will know the villages of Castle Combe or indeed Painswick. Small, limestone-filled, chocolate-box houses line the small cobbled streets, surrounded by roving hills and farm fields. Having lived in

Bristol now for over six years, driving up to the Cotswolds for a flagon or nine with motoring editor Oliver Smith has become a regular occurrence. This perhaps may have desensitised me to the outstanding natural beauty that the rural affair that is the Cotswolds has to offer.

Believe it or not, my upbringing was far from a typical affair. For a brief period I did live on a farm, or at least from the vague memories of an 8-year-old, it felt like I did. There were chickens, cows, a barn full of pottery, and of course giant inflatables complete with nomadic-looking arts folk. Okay, so it was far from traditional, but it had the constituent parts.

So, having lived in the city for six years, I decided that a little escapism was in order. Not the sort that requires

a visa and a backpack though; the type that involves a leisurely countryside drive and a spot of orienteering. We’re talking about that kind of remote and naturallyfortified location that makes it totally plausible to host the G7. (FYI - The full video of this wonderful property can be watched by clicking the page.)

Dryhill Farm is a former farmhouse built on the site of an ancient Roman villa and vineyard that dates back four-hundred years. It has that historic allure that has the National Geo crowd packing their tiny brushes and miniature trowels. Located near Ullenwood in the Cotswolds, Dryhill is far enough from the real world to be considered a black ops site, but close enough to be able to secure a nice piece of onglet or foie gras from Cheltenham within twenty minutes,

T R AV E L : A S I A G A R D E N S H O T E L

should the need arise (‘when wouldn’t it?’

I ask myself).

I remember driving down the lane towards Dryhill thinking, ‘If I don’t convey the directions to the rest of the group accurately, they might never be seen again’. It isn’t that the property is remote, you just need to make that paradoxical shift out of your city mind and into a countryside-alliance posture. After all, it is surrounded by fourteen acres of woodland and gardens.

The gardens surrounding the property on approach are pristine and it’s clear that the property is kept with absolute attention to detail and a deep sense of pride. Having parked my metal steed in the stables (garage), I began unloading my long-suffering Aspinal luggage and made for the warm embrace of one of the farm’s

many open fires.

The first thing that strikes you about the property is how jolly-well-appointed it is. I later found out that the interior was curated by the wonderful lady of the house. An eye for fine furnishings is far from a whim. From the beautiful dressers to the four poster bed and the fixtures and fittings, the farm has been furnished with much warmth and care.

The farm has five bedrooms, five bathrooms, and sleeps ten. I spent the better part of a day at the property before anyone arrived, so was lucky enough to have the run of the place to myself. That entailed opening the rather perfect hamper filled with local produce and lighting all the fires I could find.

The view over the Malvern Hills is quite spectacular. The house must have looked

like a bastion on the treeline with the fires ablaze, welcoming the armies of the West home. It was the sort of vista that you could behold from a warm armchair and completely lose track of time.

I spent the evening gliding between the reception rooms and the cellar bar. Many a cocktail has been sipped in that area, I can assure you. Beautifully upholstered cushions festooned the seating areas around the main bar. Deciding to gallantly give up the master suite, in favour of it’s equally well-decked-out little brother meant that I was under the covers in moments and out cold within about 15 minutes. There is something about a countryside style bed that will put you out quicker than a locum.

The following morning, I awoke with a sense of vigour, restocked the fire, ensured

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there were enough supplies and partook in a small H. Upmann out in the garden.

Slowly the group began to arrive.

There were five of us altogether, much less than the farm can accommodate, but a perfect group nonetheless. As is so often the case with groups, despite the opulent reception rooms, we all gunned towards the well-stocked kitchen. Later that afternoon, once the champagne and cider had started to flow, we all watched the sunset over the Malvern Hills as the clouds lit up and toasted the Cotswolds.

Had we been a little less lubricated, we would have taken advantage of the Valoriani Italian pizza oven. However, we all seemed keener to enter the music room and try our hand at the baby grand. Some of us were definitely more musical than others (cough, Tom).

The following morning, we all awoke and made our way to individual corners of the house for a little extra quiet time. You only realise just how quiet the countryside is when you come to it at around 10:30am and realise that you can’t hear anyone for miles, let alone the people you came with.

I was exceedingly pleased to arrive downstairs in search of tea to find chef John Farrow cooking up a storm on the AGA. If you happen to have grown up with an exceedingly well-qualified chef, bring them along, otherwise Dryhill’s owners will be happy to arrange a culinary specialist for you. With a proper countryside breakfast eaten, it was time for a stroll. After all, it would be a sacrilege to holiday in the Cotswolds and not take in the scenery. We had 14 acres to cover.

The surprises kept on coming.

Meandering down the hill, you will find a spring-fed pool, a gated glade, and a barbecue area. I haven’t invested in children yet, but I think the whole house could be hired and the kids could be confined to quarters in the garden in a safari-style tent. If your kids don’t instantly find this idea appealing, chances are you should ration their Voss water and replace their entire iPhone contents with pithy lectures that start “In my day”. If they are really against a camping trip, you could always have them stay in the one bedroom cottage next to the property, which does come with its own hot tub.

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I should point out that you could just as easily have them stay with you in the main house, but they may hamper your ability to consume fantastic red wines and local cheese.

One thing I have yet to mention: dogs are welcome. This is a former farmhouse after all, but there aren’t many properties that are dog-friendly in my experience.

If you don’t have a dog, I am entirely convinced that the owners can find you one to call your own whilst at Dryhill.

I don’t know if local estate agents in

the Cotswolds (sprinkles holy water) have a better sales tool than inviting interested parties to just come and see the local area. If you’re considering a mini-break, or staycation as the populous has taken to calling traveling in one’s own country, I strongly recommend taking a week out at Dryhill. Recharge the batteries, sip cocktails in the Moroccan Bar, run a bath and read the beams signed by World War One poet Ivor Gurney, or just enjoy catching up with old friends in the warm embrace of the beautiful farm.

TO HIRE DRYHILL FARM, CONTACT LUXURY COTSWOLD RENTALS www.luxurycotswoldrentals. co.uk +44(0)207 993 6545 +44(0)7989 404 535

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H

BAYERISCHER

HOF

OTEL

Words: GEMMA PHELAN

I

wasn’t sure what to expect from the first of my three trips to Munich.

I mean, whenever me and the other half float the idea of ‘a few days in Germany’ in conversation, it’s always Berlin that comes out on top. Other cities tend to be met with shrugs and ‘yeah.

Orhowabout*insertnameofot hercity?*’ Bayerischer Hof is a gem of a hotel though. Whatever

they’ve got in Berlin, these guys can match it. It first opened its grand doors to guests in 1841, on King Ludwig I’s say so. He wanted some decent digs for his pals to stay in when they came to see him.

Since then, the hotel has welcomed everyone from royalty to Hollywood starlets and rock stars.

It’s grand (and I don’t mean grand in the Yorkshire sense of ‘good’) I mean it is grandiose. As lux as the décor

is though, the place manages to keep a feel of homeliness – no mean feat when there’s a whopping 350 rooms of varying shades of wow.

(Singles start at 268 while suites can set you back 3,800).

Bayerischer Hof boasts impressive conference facilities as well as a cinema lounge that’s regularly used for press conferences and movie screenings but its dining options are the thing to really shout about.

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There are six bars, five restaurants plus the Dachgarten, a sixth-floor roof garden ideal for breakfastmunching and city-viewing.

Then there’s Atelier. The hotel’s haute cuisine dining room has been awarded a Michelin star for its creative, seasonal gourmet grub by chef Jan Hartwig. Guests can opt for a four, five, six or seven course menu featuring meaty dishes such as turbot and pork belly with apricot, almond, Parmigiano-Reggiano and balsamic vinegar, but Atelier also offers a balance of veggie (mostly cheese-focused) and fishy dishes.

If you’re after something a little more substantial, it’s worth sinking your teeth into something Mediterranean or a dish from south Germany at the famous Garden restaurant.

Number three on the list of places to dine brings a taste of things from further afield.

Trader Vic specialises in dishes from the Far East and boasts an equally exotic cocktail list. The Blue Spa has its own bar and lounge serving light meals Out of all of the hotel’s impressive roster of restaurants, the Palais Keller excites me the most. On Sundays it hosts a jazz brunch where punters can chomp their way through a buffet whilst foot-tapping along to live jazz.

Hangover cure, or what?

Unfortunately, sauntering around the buffet car in your pyjamas is frowned upon so please remember not to get too carried away, yeah?

TR

ORIENTAL

ODYSSEY Words: GEMMA PHELAN

T

he Mandarin Oriental is basically a synonym for luxury. It’s one of the leading names in stylish travel and has a presence in almost every corner of the world.

Their hotel in Munich, which is tucked away down a quiet side street in the heart of the city, is no exception.

‘Munich’s most elegant retreat’ as it dubs itself has a rooftop pool, a range of top restaurants and lashings of damn good service to boot.

This is where I stayed during my second trip to visit Doctor Julia in her Munich surgery. It was midday when I arrived and although I had the pick of the Mandarin’s exotic, high-end cuisine, the only thing that would do on that particular lunchtime was a bowl of tomato soup. It arrived, piping hot, and salt and peppered to perfection. It was sweet with just the right amount of tang, as if the kitchen had its own tomato plants with tomatoes that hopped off the vine and into the blender at the precise second they become the right amount of ripe. It was soup so good that there was no need for bread and butter. I wolfed down three bowls during the duration of my twenty-four hour stay.

The roster of restaurants is currently undergoing a revamp and will be revealed in Autumn 2015. I’m told that it’ll include the opening of Matsuhisa Munich, a restaurant from renowned Chef Nobu Matsuhisa, as well as a stunning re-designed bar. In the meantime and throughout the summer months, guests can enjoy light,

al fresco dining on the China Moon roof terrace, as well as 360 degree views of the city.

After wining and dining here, hotel guests can hop into the rooftop pool located nearby. Thankfully, it’s heated so you can have a gander out across the twin domes of Munich Cathedral without shivering in your bathing suit. On clear days, you can see alpines on the horizon.

I’ll be honest, it was difficult to tear myself away from the luxurious comfort of my room. It was special (as you’d expect when prices start at 775 euros per night), the heated, marblefloored bathroom was a particular highlight. If you’re more motivated than me, Mandarin Oriental is slap bang in the middle of the atmospheric old town. From here, you can wander over to some of the

Bavarian capital’s best restaurants and designer boutiques and for adventures further afield, you can borrow a Mercedes Benz bicycle, free of charge. The hotel helpfully suggests three tours of varying lengths and difficulties - just remember to reserve your bike the day before you need it to avoid disappointment.

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Luxury unlike any I’ve ever seen before

KAI MATSUMOTO

Hoshino Resorts Kai Mastsumoto

If you’re heading to Japan, you’ve probably scrawled ‘Tokyo’ and ‘Mount Fuji’ in to your itinerary and circled them excitedly with felt tip pen. You might not have done the same with Matsumoto, a lesser known city in the Nagano Prefecture, surrounded by gob-smackingly beautiful mountains.

Words: AMY McNICHOL

T

he mountains that you drive over (and indeed beneath courtesy of some epic scale tunnels) are tummy-turningly high and belly-flippingly bendy at points. I visited in autumn and despite the dazzling sunshine, the leaves on the towering trees were turning that rich red colour you presume is enhanced in the guidebooks.

We made a beeline for a resort named KAI which is located somewhere within a mish mash of teeny tiny streets. The concept here is traditional craftsmanship meets modern design. In simple terms, KAI is an extraordinarily plush take on a

traditional Japanese guest house or ‘ryokan’.

Car doors are opened for us and our bags are out of the boot before we can splutter an ill-pronounced ‘konichiwa’. We’re escorted in through a narrow entrance which gives way to a high-ceilinged, cylindrical lobby. There’s live classical music here every evening and guests are encouraged to head to the pop up wine bar and foot tap while enjoying some pretty excellent acoustics.

The room itself is generous.

There are two separate loos off a spacious entrance hall and a huge but minimally decorated living area.

After a tour, our guide asks if I have any questions. I peer around, squinting and craning my neck to locate the bed. No sign. I splutter, ‘un, where do we sleep?’ and our guide giggles before informing me that our dinner reservation is at 7pm. This is when someone will set up our sleeping arrangements, futons actually, in the living area. It’ll be like a sleepover without the scary film and the Roller Cola.

The incredibly ornate ‘shoji’ paper screen that leads to the restaurant is a fine example of a difficult Japanese wood fitting technique. I marvel as I’m told that the 2000 wooden parts here, are arranged

in to this intricate pattern without glue or screws, they were just wedged in there by a pair of very skilled hands.

Dinner itself is a private affair.

You don’t just get your own table, you get your own room and the serving staff shuffle between the dining parties. Guests slide their legs

underneath a low table in the centre of their room and dangle them into a hole specially dug out for shoeless feet.

I try the kaiseki menu, a traditional multi-course Japanese dinner. One course is seven, bite-sized delicacies including strawberries with a tofu dressing that shouldn’t work

but does; a chunk of chestnut tofu wrapped in tofu skin which is both creamy and crunchy and a rather more substantial-looking piece of marinated salmon.

The sashimi comes with its own special menu to suggest the perfect seasonings. Matsumoto is landlocked so a river fish, iwana, is served. It is

paired with mushroom, buckwheat seed and grated raddish while the raw, creamy squid is paired with wild sesame miso and crushed walnuts.

My highlight is the course of white fish, deep fried in tempura batter with a side of Matcha green tea salt dip. It’s basically Japanese fish and chips with a posh, mushy pea green helping of salt.

Kai’s bathing facilities are something quite special and are another example of how the resort combines Japanese tradition with modern design. Centuries ago, before houses had bathrooms, villagers would toddle off to the local onsen, or hot spring, to bathe. KAI takes advantage of the nearby Asama Onsen by utilising its 45 degree

celcius alkaline water (believed to be good for gastrointestinal disorders, skin problems and rheumatism), in 13 different modern baths.

There are two rooms for bathing, one for men folk and another for women, because when one visits an onsen, one gets completely, bare-butt naked. Split between the rooms is a bed bath, a standing bath, a collection of outdoor baths of different sizes and depths and a steam bath, as well as dry rooms.

As intimidating as getting your kit off and having a wesh in public seems to the average westerner, it’s an experience I’d thoroughly recommend to anyone seeking the ‘real’ Japan. It’s relaxing, liberating and actually really refreshing to treat

the human body as something other than sexual. For those who still don’t fancy flouncing around with their bits out in public, 15 of the 26 rooms have their very own private outdoor onsen.

Before arriving at Kai I thought I had luxury all figured out – it’s the same all over the world, right? Sure, some places leave roses on your pillow, others greet you with Champagne, but luxury essentially looks the same everywhere. Wrong.

I’ve never stayed anywhere like Kai Matsumoto whose idea of lux is beautiful, Japanese-style class. It stays true to Japanese traditions instead of bending to the western idea of extravagance. And for that, it’s a true delight.

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Up Amongst The Stars At

KOZUE Words: PARK HYATT

M

y knowledge of Japanese cuisine was only a smidgen above zero when I touched down in Tokyo in October. Despite the popularity of machine-rolled sushi flogged in supermarkets and the flurry of ramen houses that have popped up in recent years, the mass market (me included) is only familiar with a narrow cross section of Japanese cuisine in the UK. With this in mind, I tried to widen my horizons and see what the heck else I could trough during my time there. On my first night in the capital I washed barbecued beef, onions and bean sprouts down with Asahi. That was at a street stall with a squatter

toilet a few paces further up the alley.

Keen to bite into a banquet at the other end of the spectrum, Night Two was dinner at Park Hyatt’s Japanese restaurant, Kozue.

Kozue is impossibly stylish. The ceilings are high making it seem airy and sophisticated. Speaking only as someone with a pair of functioning eyes and not as an architect, it would have been easy to have split this space into two floors, two separate restaurants and garner twice the profit from punters. But they didn’t.

Consequently the place oozes class.

The furniture is simple and the décor is minimalist though when you’re 40 storeys above Tokyo’s buzzing entertainment and business district, Shinjuku, throwing money at fancy

interiors would undoubtedly be pointless. Wisely, Park Hyatt seem to have invested their money on gigantic windows to aid their clientele look down, down, down to the neon playground below.

It is with keen curiosity and an open mind that I sit on the chair that’s being pulled out for me. Wine menu in hand, I flick passed the Californian reds and study the Japanese wines.

I’m not talking sake rice wine here, I’m thinking about the familiar, alcoholic grape juice variety. The Yamanashi prefecture which borders the Tokyo district is nicknamed the ‘Kingdom of Fruit’ and its harvest is responsible for around 40% of domestic wine. I try a glass of a very agreeable ARUGA

Retiro Catavento, a merlot, cabernet sauvignon, peti verdot blend from here.

Lights from skyscrapers dance below us and as the gentle and smiling staff waltz away with our order, we’re left hoping against hope that the food can pleasure our taste buds as much as these views are satisfying our eyeballs.

Kozue offer kaiseki cuisine which is a multi-course haute cuisine take on traditional Japanese meals. A

2.

His commitment to his work extends beyond the food he serves right to the recepticle he will present it on. So much so that over the years he has selected thousands of unique pieces of crokery himself.

Next is the sashimi. A king prawn, a helping of tuna and a couple of squid bites are rolled out in a silver bucket of crushed ice. While the tuna is devine, I wonder if wedging the prawn in the ice means that it loses a little of its flavour. I’m new to raw squid but my lipsmacking lust for calamari is huge so I fly in there, chopsticks like pincers. It is so far from calamari. It is creamy and not

kaiseki menu usually includes an appetizer, a sashimi course, a simmered dish followed by a grilled dish and then a steamed course.

The appetiser arrives in a deep box tray. There are mouthfuls including a single piece of sushi and seared duck breast inside. These morsels work to set the tone for what’s to come and the Autumn influence is glaringly obvious in the chunks of roasted chestnuts which are dense, sweet and purple in colour.

The presentation is very deliberate each and every decorative maple leaf is placed with precision. And love.

That’s down to Head Chef Kenichiro Ooe who has been with Kozue since its launch in 1994. Here are two really awesome things about him: 1. He has a special license from the government meaning he’s allowed to serve the potentially deadly Fugu pufferfish.

especially chewy.

This is disappointing on a personal level though nothing wasabi and soy sauce can’t sort out.

For my ‘main course’ equivalent I opt for the shabu shabu beautifully marbelled sheets of Japanese sirloin that are to be dunked in a pot of broth that sits on a posh camping stove on your table. Along with seasonal veg like mushrooms and Chinese cabbage, you fish it out before seasoning with pepper, seasame and soy sauce.

The crescendo of my particular meal was the beef but the menu is very fish-heavy. If you’re not a lover of stuff that comes out of the ocean, lakes and rivers, Kozue might not be

your ideal munching venue.

Thankfully, the 52nd floor of Park Hyatt is home to the New York Grill where you might feel a little more catered for.

If fish is your thing, Kozue will be your wet dream. There are things on this menu so unusual (for a westerner) it’ll send fish lovers into a salivating stupor. There’s everything from snow crab to sea urchin to SIX varieties of blowfish delicacies.

What’s more is that each and every dish that leaves Chef Kenichiro Ooe’s kitchen on his personally chosen platter, is a work of art that demands respect and admiration.

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ASIA IN THE MEDITERRANEAN Words: SARAH MORGAN

As someone who is passionate about travel and experiencing all the wonders and riches of the world’s eclectic cultures, cuisines, people and landscapes I am rather embarrassed to say, as yet, I have not visited as much of Asia as I wish to.

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H

owever, my daily life is enriched with many of the cultural influences that have reached our shores from the incredible food, their historical attitudes to natural health and wellbeing ( I practice yoga, tai chi, meditation and use Asia influences practices like acupuncture for health) , to their Feng Shui design influence and the strong religious philosophies which resonate powerfully with me ( I am sure I am a Buddist at heart).

So given the opportunity to experience Asia Gardens Hotel and Thai Spa Gardens, I jumped at it. Although I admit to a slight cynicism as to how authentic it could really be, given that it is situated in the Costa

Blanca in the hills behind the rather different influences of Benidorm.

But rallied by one of the famous Confucius quotes, I packed up my family for a few nights and set off.

The first delight was the simplicity of the travel. A short flight from London Gatwick of just over 2 hours and we arrived in Alicante to be met and whisked away for a short transfer to the resort.

In the comfort of the air-conditioned car we could gaze on in amazement and slight shock at the daunting high rise developments that clutter the coastline, including being rather mesmerised by In Tempo, the largest residential building in Europe, that looks like something out of the film Tron!

Our gaze then shifted away from this man-made mass thankfully to what can

only be described as a little piece of Asia that has emerged in the Mediterranean.

On entering the main reception area of this destination hotel the size, scale, design and tranquility of the space instantly shift you into a completely different zone and mind set.

The ambience and the staff have somehow been ‘ sheep dipped ‘(in the nicest sense) into an Asian way of being.

The team are genuine, genteel, graceful, humble, and incredibly hospitable.

A refreshing ice-cold hand towel and delicious green tea are offered before we are gentle guided to our room.

Even on the way to our room somehow our pace and mind set is shifting, as all of your senses are treated to more Asian influence. Whilst the hotel offers 291 rooms of 5 different types, the architectural layout

T R AV E L : A S I A G A R D E N S H O T E L

and tropical planting hides the size of the resort beautifully.

As you meander through the most stunning garden pathways through lush vegetation that is interspersed with carp filled fish ponds and streams you are blissfully unaware that there is anyone else in the resort and wherever you are the sound of gentle water trickling soothes and calms the soul.

The rooms are another delight – beautiful designed with every amenity considered to ensure guests have absolutely everything they need and want for their stay.

Our room, a deluxe suite, even has the famous Shoji screens used between the bathroom and bedroom spaces which optimises light and layout but also totally underpins the attention to detail that ensures an authentic Asian experience.

The room then spills out onto its own

discreet terrace that is wrapped with part of the fish-filled streams, somehow making it feel like we have our very own private fish pond – much to our son’s delight!

This attention to detail and desire to make the entire resort a peaceful, tranquil, unfolding space is quite extraordinary.

The design of the resort beautifully supports all the facilities you could ever wish for as a luxurious family or couple escape including;

3. A well run stunning children’s club fea-

turing a spectacular pirates ship and loads of scheduled activities

4. A programme of adult activities including Tai Chi, Chi Kung, yoga, meditation

5. wonderful Orchid gardens

The resort caters sympathetically for families and couples alike by offering certain areas of the 370.000m2 resort over to adults only.

But the greatest achievement by far is the 6 unique Asian design pools ( 4 of them heated and 2 infinity) with bookable pri- inspired design of incredibly well positioned swimming pools and sun bathing areas that vate cabanas for special occasions are beautifully spread through out the imA choice of 7 restaurants ranging from maculate tiered landscaped gardens, all of Asian, Mediterranean or Fusion style which means that although the resort has 291 rooms and 20 suites, you always feel that

1.

2.

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you have your very own personal slice of Asian tranquility.

And all this before we had even entered the Thai Spa .

The Thai Spa is a yet another beautifully well-designed authentic space for mind and body to relax even further. All therapists have been trained at the Wat Po Temple in Bangkok one of the birthplaces of Thai massage ensuring the standard of treatment is the very best. This combined with the fact that the space of the spa is languid and luxurious and that your massage takes place outside in the most beautiful

discreet cabanas is a an absolute treat for all the senses.

The evenings too at this wonderful resort were an absolute delight. The choice and standard of food was exceptional and our son loved to sit and watch the fish in the pond after dinner and listen to the cute frogs allowing my husband and I to just sit and enjoy the peace (a rare gift for us).

After a few days of this wonderful ambience we looked down from our Asia paradise overlooking the Benidorm glow and realised from this space that it was rather beautiful at night rather like a Hong Kong

skyline with a Mediterranean backdrop.

The area outside the hotel is rich with golf courses, a wonderful vineyard called Enrique Mendoza’s winery, there is biking, riding and kayaking near by not to mention beautiful Calpe and Altea, but having found our Asia bubble of tranquillity we were happy to enjoy all of what the hotel and spa had to offer and put the rest on an ever-lengthening bucket list!

Asia Gardens Hotel and Thai Spa Gardens Time to travel : May/June - Sept/Oct www.asiagardens.es

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BREAKING THE US Words: PETER J ROBINSON

You have to get up pretty early in the morning to go toe to toe with me in terms of confidence. People believe that confidence is arrogance or cockiness (if your from my side of the pond).

The reality is that my confidence always came from a sense of self-believe because to be brutally honest, having others believe in you is great but they wont be there when the deal needs to be signed or the invoice needs to chased. Zubin has the sort of self believe and awareness that we admire in a character here at The Review. Entrepreneur, musician and innovator. He is the founder of Lucid Fusion, a full-service digital agency, co-founder of LFPR, a full-service public relations firm, co-founder of myStorey, a social commerce startup, and Departure, an electronic dance band. We took some time out at 45 Park Lane to talk to Zubin about his opinions on how UK companies can break into the US market.aragraph

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Cru mInbtol i n g Dust Stable girls wrestle with twisted limbs and wicked children plot evil schemes. Sexual activity trills in the corn-rigs.

U

pon being invited to pen an article on the arts for The Review, my initial thoughts were to perhaps take a jaunt down to the newly opened and incredibly beautiful Hauser & Wirth Gallery in Somerset, or maybe visit the handsome Hestercombe House near Taunton, itself newly evolved into a contemporary gallery space. This is the type of subject matter I felt sure would be a hit with the cultured readership of such a distinguished magazine.

However, when I suggested this to the powers that be, it was politely suggested that maybe I write something about

Words: MARTYN CROSS toilets. Yes, toilets.

Let me explain. As well as putting pen to paper, I am also an artist. Many would counter such elaborate claims, but it’s true, I make things and I show them in exhibition spaces. Back in 2012, I was invited to take part in the inaugural Bristol Biennial and was given a selection of venues to choose from, all of which were non-traditional spaces.

After scanning the list, my eyes alighted upon the enticing ‘disused toilets on Park Row’ and, in a heartbeat, I had submitted a proposal of my intentions.

The reason for my interest? Well, naturally being a gentleman, I was already aware of said convenience and knew it

not just as a humble lavatory, but actually a glorious Edwardian cloakroom. Commonly mistaken as Victorian (despite the glaringly-obvious 1904 date-stone) the toilet on the corner of Woodland Road and Park Row is an oft-passed building that was reputedly decommissioned back in the 90s. Closed due to lack of use by the weak-of-bladder, yet growing exploits of drug addicts, the cloakrooms fell into disrepair before being rejuvenated in the Noughties by artists looking for alternative and cheap venues to exhibit in.

Spurred on by this somewhat lessthan-salubrious comfort station, I was compelled to create work that could

T H E A RT S : C R U M B L I N G I N T O D U S T perhaps draw upon and seamlessly blend into the seedy, slightly creepy nature of public conveniences. Fitting in neatly with my then current working practice, and combined with an obsession for the great Edith Sitwell’s book English Eccentrics, the toilets felt a natural home for ‘a gallery of weird and wonderful men and women’. And so it was I decided to implicate my paintings, collage and objects into the very structure of this wonderful building; to work with the space sympathetically and hopefully enhance it by merging almost unobserved into its soul.

In the Ladies Cloakroom, I chose to riff off the pre-existing attendant’s room and enclosed washroom area by creating a sense of an inhabited space; the wood panelled walls naturally evoking a suburban home, albeit one straight from a horror film. Paintings and collages of people indulging in curious activities brood silently on the clammy, oozing walls, whilst a domestic altarpiece breathes heavily in the corner. On a marble slab the disembodied hand of a long departed Earl sits waxy in a box; relics of a parallel world reflect ominously in a mirror. On the wall, a janitor’s coat appears to have been recently discarded on a rack and a flag to a forgotten cause sways limply in the corner.

Next-door, in the Gents, things feel slightly lighter due to the double-height ceiling, yet were you to gaze lazily into those pictures resting gently above the urinals, you’d find things weren’t as wholesome as you first thought. Stable girls wrestle with twisted limbs and wicked children plot evil schemes. Sexual activity trills in the corn-rigs. Elsewhere, a recently-used sleeping bag hangs rumpled in a cupboard. Unidentified bones are gathered in the urinal trough and hang-wires dangle sinisterly from the cisterns. I suppose it’s like the League of Gentlemen crossed with The Wicker Man, taunting your worst nightmare.

And so it was that ‘Crumbling Into Dust’ came into existence. Seen by few and enjoyed by even less, this was an exhibition destined to disappear into the annals of history. Like the Sex Pistols at the Manchester Lesser Free Trade Hall in 1976, it will be one of those events where people will claim to have seen it, but in actual fact, most of them didn’t.

Until now.

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THE REVIEW 2014 139

Words: PETER J ROBINSON

Collineige Words: PETER J ROBINSON

H

aving just flown back from France two days prior to my first proper ski trip of the season to attend the wedding of fellow correspondents, Drs. Paul and Lucy Farrow, I was all too aware of just how soul destroying budget air travel is. If you have ever flown in Asia or the US you will have noticed that some of the planes operating are far from in their heyday. Flight used to be about prestige, people dressed for the occasion, cigarettes came with mandatory jade holders, champagne flutes would clink and the

“With a quick wit and a Kiwi passport, she was my kind of guide”. captain might even come and join you for a toast.

Now the ashtrays on planes are welded shut, a remnant of a better time. Do you know when the first commercial flight went

smokeless? 1973. Did you know that in 1969 when smoking was allowed on all flights, we put a man on the moon. Now you cant do a damn thing without someone reporting you to the CAA. You have to whittle your old spice down to three millilitres just to get on the flight. Arguably budget air travel is ‘popular’ however, the halfwitted cousin of prestige. It is in no way enjoyable though.

No one relishes the idea of boarding a budget air flight. You simply count down the hours and minutes until you can rejoin the populace on the ground.

Luckily, I wouldn’t be spending my week

T R AV E L : C O L L I N E I G E

CHALET VALHALLA

in Chamonix, bookended by flights with the proletariat. The smart ladies and gents at Eurostar are now offering rail travel via Lille to Geneva for just £116 return. Bring your skis, bring someone else’s skis, it’s all included. Not to mention that this trip takes around six hours, there is no weight restriction, (so pack that Anvil), there’s leg room for all and logistically it is a breeze.

When you compare the airport travel time, security, passport control and luggage collection, the train is a clear winner. Not to mention a vastly more relaxing method of transport on the whole. Sit back, let Patrice

and the team bring you a glass of Syrah and forget all about screaming children and malcontent flight attendants.

Of course, not living in central London, I would recommend that anyone heading for the city, make adequate travel plans. I thought that three hours would be enough to drive from Fleet into London on a Sunday. However, the sat-nav in the Maserati was all too keen for me to see the last few vestiges of countryside that online our nations capitol. Trust it I did however. I also took the time to pre-apologise to my good lady before recreating scenes from a Jerry

Bruckheimer movie. My journey to St Pancras could be described as erratic. Luckily once I had arrived, said my goodbyes, ran a small marathon to the departure area, Anne Marie from Collineige was there to welcome me, arms waving aloft. There was less than ten minutes to go until our departure and we still had to go through passport control. Luckily however, everything is streamlined to the point of German automotive engineering. We boarded, stowed our luggage and were actually welcomed to our first class carriage by our dining car hostess. One clear difference in boarding,

THE REVIEW 2015 141

the platform didn’t resemble a re-enactment of Apocalypse now. Quite the opposite, no rushing commuters, no screaming children, no malcontent Brompton riders trying to condense a bicycle down to iron filings. As I boarded, the mist of rushing to get to the station on-time began to fall and all that was left was the beguiling scenery of the french countryside, good food and great conversation. The overall journey time to Geneva comes in at around six and a half hours, when you tot up the queuing, checking in and bag drop at the airport, you’re looking at similar journey times for any flight from the UK. I was travelling to Chamonix, the toast of the European alpine pursuits clique and would be staying with Collineige, who are arguably seasoned operators. Those

CHALET TISSOURDS

of our readers who ski regularly will know that every season, there seems to be more and more tour operators offering luxury ski packages. The reality of course is that a website and a phone line, does not a veteran chalet operator make. You expect your chalet company to know the scene, the people, the places and of course be able to react to changes in the holiday plan. So it was good to know that Collineige was founded some 30+ years ago by Colleen and JeanMarie Olianti. Jean-Marie has been a high mountain guide for the Compagnie des guides for over 40 years and comes from a time when the map and compass where the tools of the trade and GPS was more likely to stand for (Génépi Packed Safely).

Having arrived in Chamonix we pulled up to the Maison de Pays that is Chalet Les

Tissourds. The property was built originally in 1924 and refurbished in 2009. Even though I am sure the Pernod signs and old bikes were thrown out, the property retains a chic mountain charm with modern holiday ephemera. If you have never been skiing before, a hot tub in my opinion is almost an essential. That is not to say I wont rough it with the best of them but when you come off the slopes on that first day, a soothing tub is sacrosanct for the thrice a year skier. Obviously the impressive views of the Mont Blanc from the tub and most rooms make this particular property something of a gem. The chalet sleeps eight across four generously appointed rooms and has that quintessential of alpine commodities, an open fire.

As we trooped through the door we

were greeted by the wide eyed smile of Kirsteen our chalet manager. With a quick wit and a Kiwi passport, she was my kind of guide. Supper that evening included a soup that had been poured from the hands of the gods. I am hastily reminded to email Kirsteen and ask for the recipe. With a full day of skiing planned the following day, I retired to my slumber.

The following morning there was still a lack of the white stuff in the town, apparently it had snowed a few weeks back but the proper seasonal downpour was still due. The Chamonix valley is renowned for its off-piste and powder but you still need that base layer, that first serious snowfall of the season. Luckily Chamonix is no more than a 20 minute drive from all manner of snow laden pistes should you come before

the season really comes into full swing.

That morning I was met by Pierre, my ski guide, who had already mapped out a days skiing for us. Even though Eurostar had generously given me more than enough room to bring an entire ski wardrobe, I had opted to hire from the Intersport on the Route du Bouchet. Pierre and I talked of life, love, the pursuit of happiness and his passion for ice climbing in Africa. Pierre, like most ski guides, was seasoned, engaging and passionate about travel. The other benefit of having time with a ski guide one on one is that they double as an instructor helping you to improve your technique.

Even if you are an expert skier, you can pick up bad habits over time so having the occasional critique can be very useful.

Chamonix offers a range of pistes for all

tastes, long groomed runs, freeride, offpiste, beginners slopes and alpine skiing at the tree line.

After your first day on-piste, the appetite is usually more than willing so imagine my delight at the prospect of a menu cooked by chef Carter. The red wine was airing on the table, the fire was crackling gently in the background, all was well in the world.

Dinner consisted of Rascasse or Scorpion fish, it tends to be one of the three traditional fish used in Bouillabaisse and so finds its way into many a French ski resort.

Followed by a Crème brûlée that was lighter than air. Collineige is a gourmet lovers paradise and certainly exceeded my expectations. I decide that another early night might be in order as the following morning we would meet Gilles Claret Tournier.

DINING AREA

LIVING ROOM

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Gilles’ family are the French equivalent of the Kennedy’s. His father was a guide and his father before him etc. Is it the mountain air, perhaps the french diet, or maybe the fact that their day job is ‘climbing mountains’ but every time I meet a French mountain guide I am dumbstruck.

Today we are snow shoeing North from Argentiere to Vallorcine. At four and a half miles, it is hardly an Arctic expedition but nonetheless, very beautiful. Gilles takes us along the Mont Blanc trail, past a family of carved Totem Poles. I can’t tell you who made them or how long they have been there, neither can Google, so this one you really will need to get your boots on the ground for. As we walked through snow covered valleys and over small streams, I realised I was hiking. I had left the comfort-

Gilles LEADS THE PACK

able surroundings of ‘the hot tub’ and the familiar setting of being ‘on-piste’ and was now in ‘the real world’. One of the group even had to stop for a break due to chest pains when we ascended a closed piste. I didn’t know whether to throw scorn or be genuinely concerned. Did we have enough supplies? Would she be medevaced? Perhaps she would just crawl out of the tent that night and we would never see her again in some kind of Oates based heroics?

Luckily we were about 100 metres from a train station so the chances of needing any of these things was slim.

Having completed our scenic trek through Chamonix’s chocolate box perfect scenery, we trudged into Vallorcine to the Cafe Comptoir. I could imagine the place being snow covered with skiers stopping off

at the bottom of the run for a Chartreuse.

We however, were indulging in some local sausages and dauphinoise potatoes, in what I can only describe as a fragrant cream sauce. Heaven.

Having decided to gauge myself on a stereotypical French meal, I had not really put myself in good stead for our meeting with the health team at Le Spa Du MontBlanc. When they asked what treatment I might like my heart told me a full body massage but my head told me something a little less invasive post-meal. I decided to opt for a face massage, how modern I thought.

The masseuse Issabella began to run a series of skin tests before turning to me and saying, ‘you have a perfect complexion Mr Robinson’. That however didn’t make the experience any less worthwhile. After all,

holidays are supposed to be about rest and recuperation, even Ski holidays.

Later that night, having rested and rejuvenated, we felt that we all deserved a night cap. Look no further than Le Cap-Horn.

The main restaurant offers contemporary cuisine with the lower wine bar, ‘Les Caves’, offering the best night life in town not to mention a staggering range of great champagne.

All that remained was to return to our chalet for an expertly cooked supper with our formidable chalet team, Carter, Kirsteen and Kristy.

Chamonix is a resort close to my heart, it offers everything you could want or need for a ski retreat with friends. The team at Collineige are seasoned operators and so should you be inclined to book a week in

the white stuff, look no further.

At Chalet Les Tissourds this winter we have weekend prices (3 nights) from £4720 based on eight sharing the chalet or £7680 for a week.

(Those prices are on a catered basis and include: * return airport transfers Geneva / Chamonix * chalet accommodation * housekeeping * Egyptian cotton linen and towels (and bathrobes for adults), toiletries by L’Occitane * welcome drinks at the chalet * continental breakfast, afternoon tea & home-made cake

Cascade de Bérard

Gilles Claret Tournier

REFUEL AT LE CAVES

totem

* 4 course dinner with wine and coffee/teas, on 5 of the 7 nights or 2 of the 3 nights * early supper for any children if preferred * minibus shuttle service in the morning and afternoon to and from lift stations in the Chamonix valley * representative service to help with lift passes, equipment hire, ski lesson, guides etc ) Self-catered prices at Tissourds are from £1690 and £2950 respectively Alternatively somewhere like Mazot les Tines, self-catered for 2-4 guests starts at £490 for a weekend or £860 a week.

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Pondering property on the French Riviera?

THIS IS THE YEAR TO MAKE IT HAPPEN

A tim e ly c onv e r g e nc e of e c onom ic and politic al f ac tor s c ou ld m ak e ov e r s e as pr ope r ty the pr im e inv e s tm e nt c hoic e f or 2 0 1 5 , e x plains D anie l W e b b e r , c o- f ou nde r and M D at FX c om par e d, the inte r national m one y tr ans f e r b u s ine s s that s pe c ialis e s in ov e r s e as pr ope r ty .

Words: DANIEL WEBBER

B

ricks and mortar has long been an attractive purchase – whether it’s a personal home or a long-term investment.

Now is an opportune time to think beyond the UK and snap up real estate further afield, according to findings from our recent survey.

We asked UK-based property investors what’s driving their decisions to buy abroad – and top of

the list was a strong British Pound. It was the biggest factor in overseas purchases in the past six months and it looks set to have an even greater impact in the future. Nearly half (46%) of investors said they’re keen to take advantage of the Sterling strength to buy outside the UK in the next 12-18 months.

Property prices across Europe have also remained subdued having declined on average 1.9% between

early 2009 and late 2014. This, along with currency rates, means that a lot of real estate is available today for significantly less than even a few years ago.

Take France as an example – it’s the most favoured location outside the UK for those looking at higher end properties. A château costing 500,000 in 2009 would be about £100,000 cheaper today. Meanwhile, Spanish haciendas were 30% cheaper

in the first quarter of this year than they were six years ago.

Political uncertainty in the UK is another point to think about – although the UK General Election results and the non-appearance of initiatives such as Labour’s ‘mansion tax’ have calmed fears down.

Domestic politics is still a concern for some – and perhaps recent changes to stamp duty are partly to blame. If you’re looking at properties above £1.5 million, you’ll be hardest hit by

the rise in costs, which will boost the appeal of buying elsewhere.

Another great reason to look abroad is the potential of the foreign business and residential lettings market, according to nearly a quarter of affluent investors. The challenge with any investment though is that the strong pound makes it tricky to move income back to the UK and retain its value. If your rental income is just covering running costs while you’re not there, then currency

immediately think. If you shop around and use the non-bank providers, you could save around £3,500 against the higher cost - and that saving extends to any money you need to spend to furnish and establish your home away from

home. You can continue saving by setting up recurring overseas payments to deal with monthly mortgage and maintenance costs of your house too.

So whether you’re planning to set up at Lake Como, enjoy the

transfers will be less of an issue.

However, if it’s an investment rental, you’d do well to think about ways of protecting against currency variations.

That’s even more the case when making the purchase. Paying a 20% deposit on a 1 million house could typically incur anywhere from around £2,000 to £4,000 of transfer costs with a standard bank. The reality is there is far more choice available than you might

French Riviera or simply make a savvy investment, now is a great time to do so. And by making smart choices about how and where you move your money around, you’ll protect against unnecessary losses and make the most of a lucrative property climate.

TR

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MAN

THE WHO WOULD BE

STYLISH Words: BARRIE THOMPSON

Online: bookendsandbinends.blogspot.co.uk Twitter: @BookendsBinEnds Instagram: BookendsandBinEnds

Ticket pockets, cigar tube pockets, a fabric heavy enough to feel substantial, light, enough to leave you floating... so much to ponder, but these are the personal touches that elevate the suit and leave your fellow guests discretely seeking out the name of ‘your’ tailor. entleman readers of The Review, a discerning and s t y l i s h audience, will encounter few of the sartorial uncertainties of some midlife clotheshorses. Not for you, the awkwardness of those ‘how do I stand so the tailor can measure me’ moments; none of that ‘what do I say to the barber after the “I’ll have a short back and sides and leave a bit at the front to gel” intro’; and I do not have to check back with you to deduce that you are unlikely to have blushed and hurried through duty free, when the staff ask if you would like any help as you finger a 100ml bottle of Balenciaga Florabotanica, while

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trying to remember if that is what you bought your loved one on your last business trip to the Middle East.

You, dear reader, will, I am certain, stride confidently through your men’s style journey sporting crisp, elegantly-fitted, French cuff white shirts, wearing the finest selvedge jeans from Japan (or west Wales), enjoying hot towel shaves and strolling with diffidence into gatherings aplenty in a haze of colognes appropriate for the occasion, be it summer or winter, daytime or evening.

It is, therefore, with pleasure that I invite you to join me on a journey through the myriad of style choices that often present themselves.

Where should we start? Perhaps as I stretch a little further than is

immediately comfortable to grasp the baton passed to me by Bristol’s Local Tailor, I should start at the beginning. Which naturally brings me swiftly to the inestimably dapper David Minns, that aforementioned purveyor of the pinstripe, and my own most recent adventure in bespoke tailoring. There is a very strong chance that this initial foray may well push me to the front of the class as something of a tailor’s dummy. But nevertheless, let us explore what it takes to make a silk purse for this particular sow’s ear.

As Minns once pointed out, a tailor’s customers can most often be categorised as bridegrooms or businessmen. With a bespoke suit being seen by many to be the most indulgent of pleasures, a luxury too

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far until that special day, it is most often the run up to a gentleman’s nuptials that see him desperately searching out a tailor who can be trusted to deliver the delicate balance between the size of your purse and your desire for fits-like-a-glove elegance? For the occasional sartorialist, daunting choices start to dance in front of you more wildly than an inebriated uncle at the aforementioned wedding.

How do you know what to ask for?

What cloth, what weight, what personal touches to make it truly yours? Serendipity played its part in pairing me with Minns’ Brown in Town; my own induction into the

bespoke Hall of… well, if not Fame, at least a Haul of Very Fine Cloth, took place in the Cigar Humidor at the Bristol Hotel de Vin. Those who know my tailor (as I now cheekily claim him to be) will realise that this was a most appropriate rendezvous, as David Minns is most often to be found with Havana smoke billowing from under a jauntily angled hat brim.

Over the course of a 90-minute consultation, Brown in Town took me on a carefully-guided sartorial tour through myriad choices, leaving me confidently personalising my threepiece suit with peaked lapels, bold lining, but a necessarily modest, neutral back to the waistcoat (you

only have to think of the challenge of matching shirt choices with the eyecatching orange of the suit lining to appreciate the value of a gentle nudge in the right direction) and subtle coloured stitching around working buttonholes – why wouldn't you?

Ticket pockets, cigar tube pockets, a fabric heavy enough to feel substantial, light enough to leave you floating; so much to ponder, but these are the personal touches that elevate the suit and leave your fellow guests discretely seeking out the name of your tailor.

Tailoring tips: readers of The Review clearly need little advice, but

if you are inducting less confident colleagues and friends into the corridors of bespoke suiting, a few Fs come to mind.

Fabric: the trick, undoubtedly, is to find a weight of cloth that will allow you to wear the suit for as much of the year as possible, yet will drape as well as the heavier cloths. As much by luck as judgement, I arrived at a midweight wool/cashmere blend by Loro Piana, the Italian fabric and luxury goods manufacturer.

Notwithstanding the cashmere blend, the suit retains a very British matt look and finish.

Fit: do not fall into the trap of treating this bespoke suit purchase like other parts of the ‘boy shopping’

repertoire. This is not something to give the once over to online, buzz into the store at lunchtime and try it on with the wrong shirt. Take your time; take as many fittings as you need to nail the shape for you. When it is perfect, you have a template to return to for your next suit.

Fat: it makes sense to reach an optimal body shape before subjecting yourself to the tailor’s tape. That said, there is no point in honing a finely chiselled physique for the wedding of the year if that body shape represents too weighty a challenge for ongoing maintenance.

Fashion: whilst that statement suit has you ‘schmoking’ like The Mask, as you slide across the dance floor to

upstage the bridegroom, it may not withstand the sartorial scrutiny of the upcoming Autumn/Winter season.

Pick cautiously.

Footwear: naturally, there is little point in styling the body and soul, if it looks as if you have been shod by the apprentice blacksmith. But perhaps that is the next leg of the journey to travel together.

So, if style is a journey and not a destination, I have my ticket, I am standing on the platform and I am waiting for my exceedingly dapper fellow travellers to finish their chilled Moretti beers and join me before the train departs. Perhaps you might care to join me on the sartorial journey ahead.

TR

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SOREN RICKARDS Soren Rickards is an Adventure and landscape photographer living in Chamonix in the French Alps. “Mountains are my thing, I seek thrill and tranquility. I strive to capture emotive moments, surreal natural events and turbulent weather during my adventures.�

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info@hardermehl.de Praxisklinik HarderMehl Volkartstrasse 5 80634 M端nchen

FLY AWAY TO SEE THE TOOTH FAIRY By gum, we Brits don’t like going to the dentist. But could it be that we just don’t like going to the dentist in Britain? Gemma Phelan pops to Munich to find out the tooth.

Words: GEMMA PHELAN

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ou know when you were little and there was always that kid in the dentist’s waiting room with their lips pursed together, puckered up tight with both hands clasped over their mouth? That was me: desperate to protect my teeny-tiny baby teeth from a dentist and their drill.

Until recently, I’d been the same with my grown up gnashers too. A trip to the dentist made me anxious.

I feared the invasion of my personal mouth space and I feared being conned into parting with wads of cash for cosmetic and otherwise unnecessary treatments.

A few years ago I went along to a super high-end dentist in London’s plastic fantastic Harley Street. Blame it on watching too much Keeping Up with the Kardashians / Gossip Girl / 90210 but I just fancied a consultation – I was curious to see what I could do with having.

The men in the white coats there however were not really concerned with what I needed but rather how they’d like to splice up my mouth.

Anything is possible there, from a gold gangsta-style premolar to the complete and utter demolition of your own set of teeth and the insertion of something else completely. My 26 year old self wasn’t really in the market for a full set of veneers and a procedure to push back my gums like cuticles so I took my mouth elsewhere.

My unease subsided when I went to see German-born dentist, Doctor Julia Basel at Praxisklinik HarderMehl in Munich. Julia’s attitude towards dental work is relaxed and health-focussed rather than style-focussed so she only recommended treatments she thought were necessary.

Her professionalism is only outweighed by her caring attitude towards her clients. There’s a lot of trust required between dentist and patient, it’s a pretty intimate relationship. It’s so important for me to know that the person with their hands in my mouth has my best interests at heart.

Julia specialises in endodontics — that’s root canal treatment — which it turned out I needed. Root canal

treatment is used to save teeth which would otherwise need to be removed.

It is needed when the blood or nerve supply of the tooth is infected through decay or injury. The infection can, in some cases, lead to an abscess. The alternative is for the tooth to be removed. At only 31 years of age, this is something I obviously wanted to avoid.

Root canal treatment is a skilled and time-consuming procedure. My particular course of treatment, which also involved crowning, required three visits to Julia, and to Munich.

Root canal treatment doesn’t always work, but if there is anyone out there I’d trust to perform such a complex procedure, it would be Julia. She has an excellent record of doing amazing things for clients who thought the only option was to lose their teeth.

She’ll never take the easy option of removal when there is even a small possibility that the tooth can be saved.

Really, to anyone sitting there in fear that, that long-awaited trip to the dentist will result in you leaving looking like Worzel Gummidge, get in touch with Praxisklinik HarderMehl and ask for Julia Basel.

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In terms of cost, I would recommend travelling to Munich over seeing a ‘top’ (read: overrated) dentist here in London any day. For the treatment I received over in Munich, I would have paid threefold over here in London, and that’s including the flights.

Don’t get me wrong, Praxisklinik HarderMehl is not a cheap option at all. In fact, they are top-end in comparison to other surgeries in Munich. But as I mentioned before, Julia will only recommend what is absolutely necessary and will do an excellent job, first time, to ensure that you won’t be going back to get things fixed or altered; both of which I have experienced with other dentists.

I will be forever grateful to Julia and the team at Praxisklinik HarderMehl for their care, professionalism and skill in bringing my mouth back up to peak health. I will be going back to Munich for my annual check-up and will certainly be recommending these guys to anyone fed up of overrated and overpriced London based dentists.

TR

The Hotel & Spa Rosa Alpina is a haven of discretion in the Dolomites. Discover the essence of quiet glamour, poised service and elegant interiors. Our approach is both timeless and imbued with contemporary accents featuring informal and family dining as well as Michelin-starred cuisine.

Hunting for our identity W

e’ve all been there, either having not finished your supper or being over expectant with something or another.

In order to highlight the plight of those less fortunate but more likely your wastefulness, one droll person will inevitably chirp up with those most boring of words; ‘…but there are people starving in Africa’. This used to be done through a patronising smile but over time has become a parody of itself and therefore is now used more in jest, but to break that phrase down, the annoyance not only comes from being ‘told’ but more so from the feeling that it has no relevance or bearing on the situation in hand. The fact that you have left a sprout and the odd potato is hardly going to

solve Africa’s problem (besides, who would want to see Bob Geldof out of a job?!).

What I’m getting at is that one must always try to maintain perspective.

In the rural area where I live we see tourists, lots of tourists. Shipped in literally by the coach load on a daily basis, all day and every day. Ask yourself what they’re here to see? Well, I believe that they’re here to see England and to them England is Cotswold stone cottages, the odd cobbled road, horses in fields and the people who live here.

My theory on the reason that they come to the countryside to see this is that our towns and cities appear to be just a showground of a few monuments, washed of their human identity for the sake of not wishing to causing offence and

harking back to the days when England was a great power (only to be acknowledged nowadays whilst hanging your head). A large portion of what remains is homogenised and ambiguously ‘European’. Overcrowded mausoleums that seems to write-off our nation by pretending that greatness was a thing of yesteryear. Times have changed though and we must embrace our evolving country, however whichever way you cut it, to our visitors, some of our cities lack ‘Englishness’. Let’s not open the can of worms that asks the facetious question; ‘what is English anyway?!’ because it’s the sights, sounds and traditions that the living generations know and remember. For this reason I feel that the tourists follow their noses to a place where tradition reigns supreme and with protruding chest and chin in the air;

OPINION: HUNTING FOR OUR IDENTITY

Britannia still rules.

This is absolutely not to say that we should only hold onto our heritage for the sake of tourists to come and look at. Our heritage should be maintained for not only those who are here but those who have just arrived and those who are on their way.

This brings me onto the topic fox Foxhunting. A hugely emotive subject for those in the know and rather oddly an even more emotive topic for those who aren’t.

I was not born in the countryside, I don’t ride, I do have a passing interest in the land, I am not a wealthy man nor am I poor man. I do now live in the countryside, I don’t hunt and I do enjoy the community and traditions of rural life. I would put myself somewhere in the middle

except for one thing; I’ve taken time to look at the facts.

Foxhunting is a prime example of something which is dyed into British tradition. Inextricably linked with our culture, our past, present and perhaps our future.

Before screwing your face up and dismissing it as a relic of a cruel past let me give you some of the facts that I discovered about foxhunting and the countryside in which it takes place:

1. It is NOT ‘Toffs’ on horseback.

The field consists of people from many different walks of life; butchers, bakers and candlestick makers, you simply could not ask for a more diverse mix. Yes, horses are not cheap to run but if you scratch the surface you will find that more

often than not they are mucked out, turned out, fed and watered by their owners and not a cellar full of exploited stable boys. Let me ask you a question though, as the popular anti-hunt argument proclaims that this is not a class war, what’s the problem if it was just ‘Toffs’ on horseback?

2. It is a huge contributor to rural conservation.

Those neat hedgerows you drive between on a Sunday? The well maintained and timber edged dry stone walls? Take a second to think about what they’re for. Meets also alternate the venue and country that they cover so as not to trash the ground and leave lasting damage (walkers and mountain bikers take note).

Things get killed in the Countryside.

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Whilst not unique to the countryside, you do find yourself confronted with death on a regular basis in a rural setting. In the cities death is kept away from the people. The supermarkets keep it from consumers as they find the idea unappetising and people keep it from each other because it makes folk uncomfortable. This is not to say that every Sunday morning people in the country chase chickens with hatchets to ‘secure’ lunch, but it does happen occasionally. Consequently you become more accepting of not only the food chain but also your place on this earth. You become less expectant – take heed. So next time you see someone using the free wifi in Boston Tea Party and idly tapping away on their Mac Book Pro Air Ultraslim 9000, spare a thought for the origins of their humble organic ethically hand sourced fair-trade rocket and Chicken Ciabatta flatbread pannini because sure as eggs is eggs, somebody had to kill it.

It was only the old and the sick foxes that were caught.

Pre-ban when hunts still caught foxes, it was rarely anything other than the diseased and elderly animals that were caught. Hence effective population control and limiting the spread of diseases such as Sarcoptic Mange (a truly terrible way for a fox to go). The fit and healthy foxes would therefore survive through lack of competition for food and territory. Natural selection.

It is not killing for fun.

If you ask anyone why they hunt I would be surprised if a single individual said it was because they enjoy killing. The draws are the superb

social aspect for both the field and the foot followers, not to mention the adrenaline fuelled rush of galloping cross country whilst whistling over hedgerows and exchanging tales of daringdo with others. Nothing appears to be polluted, no natural resources are being consumed and no-one seems to be doing a single ounce of harm in any conceivable way to anyone else. That’s why is called the thrill of the chase and not the thrill of the kill (even though that one rhymes).

It is effective population control.

You may think that tens of hounds with sometimes hundreds of mounted riders in tow is an inefficient way to control the fox population. Well it would be except for the fact that this method allows the hunt to ‘weed’ out the sick and old animals that I mentioned earlier.

Further to this it has numerous financial benefits for the country and community that 150+ paying riders brings.

A person hiding out all night with a rifle may ‘bag’ just one animal and will struggle to identify a foxes condition before taking a shot in the dead of night. Shotguns don’t have the range for a clean kill and snares are just plain awful.

Fun fact.

Hunting with hounds in England pre-dates Roman Britain which was circa 42AD. To put that in perspective, the first iPhone was released in 2007AD. My desire to outline the facts is because I feel that people who are anti-hunting are perhaps not in full possession of them, they appear to just ‘feel’ it’s wrong and therefore everyone

must come around to their way of thinking or be punished (there was an infamous Austrian who had a similar outlook.)

Let’s really push the envelope now and play on people’s patriotic pride (even if their friends think that that makes them a racist). My ramblings about tourists, not finishing your supper and why our cities appear to no longer be ‘Great’ Britain bring me to the following point; without our perspective or traditions we are nothing. If we keep the Cotswold stone cottages and cobbled roads and even the horses in the fields we are still nothing. Because without the people who have these beliefs, traditions and ethics we will become as I see it, just a windswept open-air museum in the North Atlantic, lamenting our fall from grace and before you know it voting UKIP in a desperate attempt to restore our greatness.

I’m not suggesting that we should live in the past. Quite the opposite in fact, I’m saying that we should take our things with us into the future.

The people that the hunts employ are as diverse as the field that follows the hounds. It contributes a huge amount to the rural economy and brings communities together (I won’t list out the numerous charities that hunts also fundraise for). Hunting is a 24/7 activity in one way or another. If it disappeared overnight there would be a huge whole in the fabric of Britain.

However, at the end of it all and in the interests of maintaining perspective, allow me to pose to you this last uncomfortable question; when all is said and done and in the grand scheme of things, is the odd dead fox really that big a deal?

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The

St Regis

Mauritius

Resort

Words: DR LUCY STOTT

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auritius was motherland to the dodo, the dumpy and cumbersome flightless bird endemic to this tropical island lying eastwards of Africa on the tropic of Capricorn. The Theory of Island Biogeography describes the phenomenon of endemic these island species – like the giant Galapagos turtles and the extinct moa of New Zealand – the premise being that sea-locked islands are devoid of higher mammalian predators, thus removing the selection pressure for agility and speed, which rendered organisms oversized and birds flightless. Like the Mauritian dodo, who lives on in its thousands in wooden ornamental form.

I have my own Theory of Island Biogeography concerning humans. It strikes me that every island I have ever been to has

a pervasive luxuriation that is unheard of in the landlocked world. Perhaps it is the absence of human predators, those that adorn suits and ties and fill trains with the smell of mint and musk, but something about island life creates what appears to be some of the most laid back people you are ever likely to meet. From the Caribbean to the Andaman, the Hawaiian and so on, each archipelago is littered with laughter, lazy days and boozy nights. As I approached the St. Regis Resort in the south western corner of Mauritius on a UNESCO world heritage site under the shadow of the foreboding Le Morne mountain, Rhianna pumped from coconut vendors and I could sense matters were horizontally chilled and rum-laced.

The St. Regis Mauritius Resort was the 30th hotel opened by the noble lineage in

2013. Its positioning here, on white powdered beaches and beside a heavenly sea lagoon, makes for some pricey real-estate, which is arguably the best on the island.

Right next to the world famous kite surfing spot, ‘One Eye’, which provides limitless access to tanned, wet athletes acrobating themselves into the air. The resorts back story here is its historical design as a plantation owner’s manor, ‘Le Manoir’, set as a large veranda-enclosed colonial building within a Victorian estate. Indeed, I thought it poignant how the colloquial Creole language was used between staff members, its creation during colonial times as a means of conversing without your masters understanding was echoed in my complete ambivalence as to what the hell everyone was saying around me as the seamless flow of service commenced.

T R AV E L : S T. R E G I S

Le Manoir is strikingly lit and encircled by some of the most flagrant central pool and water features I’ve ever had the pleasure of navigating round to get to a bar. What pleased me most during my first impressions, and indeed on reflection as I sit here in London, where the season turns cold, is how the resort encapsulated the complete antithesis of being hemmed or locked in one place. This compound is huge (but thanks to a fleet of golf buggies and drivers, very accessible) and equipped to satisfy your any desire. There are manor suites (often entirely rented out by wealthy Arabs and their entourages), beachfront villas (brilliantly designed to feel private despite my being surrounded by at least 6 love-making honeymooning couples), libraries, bars, cinemas, conservatories and countless verandas to sozzle a sunset away on. Likewise,

I’ve lost count of the number of dining venues (their number, culinary credibility and range giving the feeling of ‘going out’ even though you haven’t set foot outside of the resort), but will endeavour to describe them in my ensuing essay.

Naturally our first port of call after a 9-hour flight was the spa, which due to the aforementioned high volume of honeymooners, was running at near full capacity. My flight knots were successfully pummelled away and I oozed myself into a dress for that evening’s surprise, the Inspiration dinner at the chef’s table in Le Manoir. After breaking the ice over a few cocktails at the beachside Boathouse bar (politely try the local interpretation of a Bloody Mary: the interestingly tasting Le Belle Creole Mary) we were whisked back through Le Manoir. Staff appeared holding open a

series of back doors, nodding and knowingly smiling as we were ushered deep into the classified core of the resort like we had the golden tickets. The chef’s table is literally that – a table set in the corner of the kitchen, in full view of the art and filtered commotion led by Executive Chef Sébastien Le Gall.

I can’t spoil what followed, as Chef Le Gall redesigns the menu to suit each booking, depending on that days caprice. A favourite of mine was the red tuna carpaccio with caviar served in a skull-sized ice-cave on a plate (a balloon filled with water and suspended in a freezer until frozen – sorry Sebastian! I’m eagerly planning my own home-made water bomb version). Exclusively only catering for 6-10 guests, this, frustratingly, is the best place to dine in my opinion.

The next morning, with our vague hangovers and bikini bods bloating from last

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night’s plunder, we boarded a catamaran to drink rum, I mean, go dolphin watching. Again, cue the Caribbean vibe as the boat knifed its way across the bay, cocktails in hands and riddims pulsating, to catch a glimpse of the resident dolphin family whose residency more or less guarantees a spotting of the spectacular creatures. And sure enough, amongst a flotilla of other catamarans and cameras, there they were in full performance, flirting with us tourists with every one of their synchronised jumps.

A quick dip-in with a snorkel and my fish biologist hat on confirmed the backlog of reading I’d been consuming about Mauritius wildlife – the coral is superb and fish aplenty.

That evening, glamorised, we were back

on dry land, although not really as we were sitting in the Floating Market, the Asian restaurant designed with its moat and water features that quite accurately reproduce the Thai floating market experience, but with scented candles instead of open sewage. As a sushi fiend, I particularly enjoyed that course, as well as the surprise Opera cake served for one of our birthdays – even though the staff knew about it for precisely two seconds. The attention to detail here is impressive.

Morning followed and we cursed our fuzzy heads as we peeled ourselves into wetsuits before dunking into the hotel pool for our PADI refresher, much to the amusement of other guests who appeared to jostle for breakfast table views of us

marching into the chlorinated shallows like heavy-weight penguins. All ‘refreshed’, we plodded to the hotel’s in-house water sports centre and onto our own speedboat, complete with two reassuringly hench divemasters. I always describe Scuba diving like having an acid flashback (tragically, I’ve frequented a few European psy-trance festivals). I spent a year intensively diving all over the Central and South American coast, taking less acid, and will cherish these naturally psychedelic blue memories forever. I was immediately re-immersed during this tropical dive as we slowly sunk ourselves down the side of an underwater cliff, taking in every snapshot of alien piscine peculiarity through our steamy goggles. Maybe it was the gas, or indeed

T R AV E L : S T. R E G I S

the underwater love we had just witnessed, but it was quite a tear jerker when we all surfaced our bobbing heads up.

As the sun began to set, we were back out at sea on the resort’s wonderfully named ‘Sea Lounge Boat’ and, as St. Regis tradition dictates, learning the art of champagne sabering, which is one of the best sentences I’ve ever had the delight of writing. And as my autocorrect has just reminded me, is also quite sobering. Saber in hand, one swipes the blade quickly and confidently up the neck of a chilled bottle of champs and it splinters off, in one clean diagonal before bubbling over itself and into your glasses. This made for countless fits of giggles on our way back across the lagoon and perhaps set the scene of

the night that was to follow. We enjoyed an unsurprisingly outstanding Indian at Masterchef’s Atul Kochhar’s authentic restaurant, Simply India (chose the seafood!) tucked around the side of Le Manoir. We had planned an early post-dive evening in the movie room, but who were we kidding?

After hearing a faint beating coming up from the beach, we sashayed our way to the Boathouse bar where an impromptu night of dancing on tables, barefoot in the sand, chain smoking and rum shots ensued. I can’t stand twerking but think I was doing it. It was a welcome contrast to the normal staleness popular honeymoon compounds can have, where you see couples sitting in lines of twos, bored out of their brains and twiddling their thumbs to the soundtrack

of Spanish guitars. Indeed, one couple even thanked us for ‘the party’. It was my pleasure.

The next morning writes itself – 4 hours after our last round of nighttime pool shots and all troops just about accounted for, we were nervously packed up in transit, planning to leave our safe place for the first time that week. Our hair was tasseled in the way only going to bed with wet swimming pool hair can do, and we were winding up a narrow road, literally narrowly winding back and forth, right then left, back and forth on ourselves to… a rum distillery. Or the ‘Rhumerie de Chamarel’, which sounds much more romantic. Unfortunately it was not. As we draped our heads over the giant fermentation vats before passing more

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shots of liquor between us, it all nearly caused a sense of humour failure, but instead hilarity ensued that culminated in a stop off at the Black River valley. The view was like looking back into the Jurassic – one expected to see a dinosaur’s head poking its way up above the palms, but it would probably be just some gigantic flightless bird. In my post-rummery mist and clutching a 1000 ruppee note adorned with a portrait of Mr Duval – the grandfather of our St. Regis PR beauty, Stephanie, and the man credited with conceiving Mauritius as a luxury holiday destination – I was forced (begging?) to buy a carved, mahogany (MDF?) dodo from a dodo-merchant.

Alright, it actually has pride of place on my drinks cabinet and winks at me when I do a solo shot of rum before work.

That evening, the best of a very, very good bunch, was saved until last. Set aside to the main of the resort, with its own beach access, you will find the much revered ‘Villa’. Well, more precisely you’ll find it’s private gates, but let’s fantasise here. This really is a special place. It felt completely apart from the hotel, having its own security, driveway, chef and plethora of butlers and staff. Personally, and in a perfect world, I would rent it long term for a few weeks a couple of times a year and pretend it was my holiday home, walking around naked without the bother of worrying about upkeep and tax. It’s designed to be lived in – I’m not too sorry to say there’s a practical office with all modern conveniences that is much required nowadays. There are verandas, pool bars, proper

drawing rooms, bedrooms each (bar the kiddies’) with their own plunge pools (as well as the main beach-facing one) and sea views throughout the entire glass-panelled and doored design.

By the time we were 35,000 feet above the Nile on our return flight home, I was beginning to lament leaving Mauritius and my dream stay. I was having the satisfaction but horrible realisation that I had just lodged in one of the most fabulous resorts on one of the greatest islands in the world, and what better could there be out there.

Had I outgrown the planet? Mauritius should be cherished as one of our best islands in the worlds portfolio. But as Dr. Farrow quite rightly pointed out during my droning back at home, there are a lot more places for me to visit, aren’t there Peter?

TR

THE ARCH Words: PETER ROBINSON

Some years ago, when I was seeking my fortune as a publisher, I stumbled across a property in a leafy part of Paddington. Yes, they exist. It was an altogether minimal affair: the entire ground floor of the interconnected, listed townhouses had been flattened to create a Zen-like reception area, complete with people raking sand.

When I returned on business, not too long ago, it appeared the owners had decided the property was worth more residentially than commercially, and turned the whole place on its head. Luckily this isn’t the sort of thing that happens at The Arch London, one of the few bastions of what I would call a boutique service.

T

he first thing I want to say is this: people on Trip Advisor (The Arch has an excellent ranking), if you arrive at a hotel and feel uncomfortable because it might be a cut above the rest, perhaps in future you may want to find lodgings elsewhere. My grandmother maintains to this day that the word ‘posh’ is a term she used to use when travelling to and from India. Standing for portside going out, starboard-side coming home. There are many thoughts on where this term came from, but I like to agree that it started in travel. In those days, a tan was not meant for the upper classes (see daytime TV, or indeed anything on music television after 9pm). If you were sporting a tanned complexion, it meant that you were a manual labourer or field worker. The route to India meant that the steam ship would set sail in the afternoon sun on the right or starboard side. Returning from India, the afternoon sun was on the left of port side. This meant a cooler room and, indeed, avoiding the midday sun.

Why the anecdote, you may ask. Well, our opinions of the world around us are inevitably influenced by our elders. My grandmother is a woman of staunch opinions. A welltravelled lady, she always saw the benefits of staying in places that were considered part of the establishment.

The Arch lies a short stroll up Great Cumberland Place, not surprisingly as the crow flies from Marble Arch. The Arch itself was built in 1827, as the formal state entrance to the cour d’honneur of Buckingham Palace. In 1851, it was relocated to its current position on the former site of the Tyburn gallows. I arrived somewhat later than expected, thanks to the Chinese ambassador’s entourage adjacent to Harvey Nichols on the A4. I almost took out a poor gent on a motorbike, entirely my fault, of course, when looking for the hotel. There is

something to be said for not splashing your logo onto a 20-foot neon sign, establishment whispers.

I was greeted by a well-dressed doorman, who whisked my car away to an overnight car park on Park Lane, leaving me to ingratiate myself with the reception staff.

The interior is lively yet lavish, the reception area affixed with rows of iMacs, and the lounges filled with contemporary art. It’s a great place to see and be seen, if that particular pastime is your cup of tea. I had grander plans.

The deluxe room on the ground floor was more than enough space for me and an entourage, actually. The bathroom looked like it could host a full BBC make-up team.

As always, it’s the little details that count: an actual DVD library, coffee machine, complimentary drinks, and a policy of personally showing guests

to their rooms. Having gone through my usual routine of arriving in London and trying to wash off the disdain I have for the atmosphere, my guest had arrived, complete with rucksack and trainers.

Dr Paul Farrow is a lifelong friend: school, college, jobs, marriage, we have seen each other grow as people. As he reaches further into his 30s, we can only hope he develops a penchant for fine tailoring. As a working doctor, he typically arrives in whatever he wore that day and leaves a jumper, headphones or occasionally a shoe in your possession until the next time.

We immediately joked that it might be strange for a male friend to visit a male friend in his hotel room, with the staff knowing that I would only be staying one night. Then we remembered that conservative stereotypes are archaic and we had

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reservations at Hunter 486, the hotel’s restaurant.

When you have seen London and dined at a wealth of hotels, sometimes you just want to be able to walk down the hallway and into a chair. It had taken me a few hours to get here, so the prospect of slumping into a stiff drink was appealing. I started off by trying the house cocktails. Refreshing, and a welcome distraction on an empty stomach.

Hunter 486 has my kind of ambience: private, quilted leather booths, velvet chairs, and lots of very stylish looking women dining together. Don’t get me wrong, I like the masculine as much as the next man, but I have no fondness of brash City boys and recruitment types drinking their body weight in beaujolais.

The restaurant’s general sense of poised calm was perfect. No more than twenty minutes later and we were knee-deep in a ribeye steak. I presume they either had a Jasper Coal oven, or were individually flamegrilling each piece of perfectly-cooked steak. It was that good.

Arguably, The Arch is a venue for those that like a debonair and central base.

City break, shopping, our American cousins flying in for a visit, etc. The service is up together without being too invasive. The hotel has a full turn-down service, concierge and – oh, yes – a gime, no a gyme, sorry, a gym. Whatever that is.

The Arch is my pick for location and service.

Boutique doesn’t have to mean self-service. The right balance has been struck – take heed one and all.

TR

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WALKING

FATHERS F

Words: SARAH

In memory of Robin V 6th August 1930 – 10t

T R AV E L : P E R U

G IN MY

FOOTSTEPS

H MORGAN

Vaughan Morgan th February 2013

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M

y love affair with Machu Picchu started when I was in my mid twenties whilst working with an American airline to promote the richness, diversity and beauty that Central and South America has to offer.

Hours of putting brochures and ads together to promote this part of the world meant that the iconic image of Machu Picchu was imprinted on my soul early in my adult life.

Even before “bucket lists” were derigueur I knew Machu Picchu was on my list.

My desire grew in my 40’s when, having just had my son, my amazing 74 year-old Dad announced that he was going to walk The Inca Trail. Something he had always wanted to do. Some families may have wanted to talk him out of it at 74, but given the same man took up tennis at 60, skiing at 65 and paraglided at 70, we knew he would do the trek regardless of what we said.

My Dad believed in the power of “want to” that is, if you really want to do something, nothing will stop you.

So feeling incredibly proud of him, I wished him well on a journey that I would have dearly loved to have done with him.

My Dad passed away in 2013 at 82 having lived a healthy and full life following his heart and his dreams – the loss is still immense.

One of my most treasured things I have is his diary of The Inca Trail trek, a detailed account of his gruelling physical and emotional journey through the testing 4 days to Intipunku , The Sun Gate, the entry point to the mystical city in the clouds.

So, last October I finally set out on my own personal journey to follow in his footsteps and walk The Inca Trail, to give myself the gift of time and a connection with a place that I know he adored and also put a massive tick against one of my earliest bucket list destinations. pilgrimage a journey or search of moral or spiritual significance Like any pilgrimage part of the journey is in the planning and preparation. Re-

searching the best times to travel, companies to travel with, equipment needed etc.

But finally once the precious Inca Trail pass was purchased (in 2002 Unesco restricted the number of passes released to ensure the preservation of this World Heritage Site) there were just a few more months of training as well as raising money for my Dad’s favourite charities.

Finally the day came and I set off with many mixed emotions: Excitement, at the prospect of walking in my father’s footsteps and finally seeing the mystical Machu Picchu.

Fear, of the dreaded and rather random altitude sickness.

Anxious, at leaving my husband and son for the longest period since our son was born.

I am definitely not an adventurous spirit by nature more of a luxury junkie, so this whole experience was definitely taking me out of all of my comfort zones.

My anxiety was further fuelled at checkin when the stewardess stated “ didn’t some famous DJ walk The Inca Trail and die!” so

with this ringing in my ears and my son’s last words to me echoing in my head “ Mummy please don’t fall off the mountain” I embarked on the next stage of the journey.

There is no direct route to Lima so it’s a rather arduous journey over a European stop. My route took me from London-Paris, then Paris-Lima, and after a glimpse of Lima at night on the drive to the wonderful Miraflores hotel there was just enough time to grab a light snack before a wonderful short sleep in fresh white linen sheets, before being up again with the sparrows for the final flight to Cusco – the city nestled at the base of the Andes where we could prepare for the trek.

Landing in Cusco you do feel like you have left the 21st Century and all its demands, technology and hustle behind you and stepped back into a place that time has forgotten.

The cultural shift is striking. The buildings are eclectic, ranging from stunning opulent cathedrals and churches built by the Spanish Conquistador, who arrived in 1532 and squashed the entire Inca Empire,

sitting alongside the simple Inca structures that mingle quietly but confidently with the lavish. The lack of people and pace is also quite extra ordinary. Cusco was the heart of the Inca Empire and is still feels like a living breathing influence even today. The city sits wrapped in the stunning Andes mountains that erupt behind the manmade statements of very different cultures.

Jacada Travel, had advised me to leave Cusco, which sits at 11,200 feet above sea level, and head straight to The Sacred Valley to Ollantaytambo to take it easy for a few days as the valley sits a little lower at 9,000 feet making altitude acclimatisation gentler.

The drive was spectacular and overwhelming, it’s raw and beautiful landscape a feast for all the senses. We encountered our first Inca descendants or Quechuans, Inca was the name given to the kings of this ancient civilisation, the population that lived here around 1428 to 1533, were known as the Quechuans.

After a short journey we checked into the stunning Belmond Rio Sagrado Hotel in the heart of The Scared Valley. As we

arrived there was a powerfully reminded of how serious altitude sickness can be , as a guest was being seen by a doctor after spending a few days in hospital on a drip.

Altitude sickness is the main risk that trekkers face and it is totally random as to who and how it affects you.

One of the biggest mistakes trekkers apparently make is that after an arduous journey to get to Cusco travellers set out to explore all that it has to offer – wonderful sights, sounds, historic, architectural riches as well as great food, having not allowed their bodies to adjust.

Perhaps like many things in life if we race to the destination we sometimes miss some of the delights of a slower paced journey.

I was fortunate to spend a few days at the hotel that sits next to the Urubamba River that cuts through The Sacred Valley of the Incas. Named by the Incas they felt the entire area was sacred due to its lush, natural beauty and vitality. We were mesmerised by the scale of the mountains and the view from the bedroom and its glass walled bathroom was totally captivating.

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Alpacas were grazing on the lush riverbank and humming birds darted from flower to flower in this natural haven.

However, even at this lower altitude the altitude sickness started. A crushing headache, no appetite, nausea and an eerie feeling of being disconnected from everything including your own body crept over me.

Copious amounts of water and the mystical coca tea, which is brewed from the leaves of the coca plant, seemed to help as did the “Altitude adjustment massage” at the hotel spa. The massage is geared specifically to release the building tension caused by the lack of oxygen that the body is experiencing due to the altitude shift.

Laying on the massage table with my head pounding hideously and doubtful

thoughts creeping in about whether I could actually do this trek I was given a very powerful ‘sign’ . From the soft background music of Peruvian pan-pipes one of my Dad’s and my favourite music tracks started to play and I instantly knew that I was where I was meant to be and all was going to be well.

With one more day in The Sacred Valley to further acclimatise we were treated to a magical introduction to this inspiring Inca culture by 2 incredible guides Diego and Cesare.

Our first stop a traditional weaving site where the Andean women showed us their ancient art. How they use the wool of the hardy Lamas and Alpacas, colour it using natural plant dyes, then use it to weave

beautiful traditional cloth for clothes, blankets, table linen etc. Each skill handed down from mother to daughter generation to generation.

Then onto a church, constructed on an ancient Inca religious site, with breath taking views of The Scared Valley. A site , that clearly highlights the early struggle between the Inca’s faith and the imposed Spanish Catholic faith.

In time the Spanish realised the importance of harnessing the support of the Inca’s through their faith and harmonised both religions. The religious art from this period demonstrates this fusion of faiths with Christ being shown with darker Quechuan coloured skin and in one famous painting of the last supper the Incas favour-

ite dish of guinea pig is part of the feast!

From here, we travelled on to the stunning Moray - a unique concentric circular agricultural experimentation ground that was designed to use the gradient of the valley and a natural earth bowl to carve out circular terraces, at different heights over 30m, where the temperature varies as much as 15 degrees Celsius (27F) from top to bottom!

The top was cooled by the glacial wind from the mountains and the base warmed by the earth and sun. Each level, allowing different crops to be grown according to their preferred temperatures. If that isn’t astounding enough, the terraces themselves were hand crafted out of thousands of stones that kept the crops cool in the heat of the temperatures but also protected

them from frosts at night as the stones absorbed heat from the day and acted like a warmth barrier. Such sophisticated farming techniques from the 13th century is both astonishing and humbling.

Its believed that it was this agricultural engineering that gave the Inca’s there amazing reputation and arguably their power in the region, as they were able to offer food and protection to weaker tribes and so their numbers swelled. This experimental farming gave rise to over 3000 types of potatoes and 150 types of corn each engineered to withstand and thrive in different conditions across the Inca’s increasingly varied empire.

My respect for this empire grew by the moment for their ability to work in harmony with such a powerful landscape.

We then visited Maras the site of pre Inca salt evaporation ponds that are fed from a single source that is emitted from a subterranean stream with a water that is so mineral rich it delivers some of the richest salts in the world. These spectacular fields with their complex irrigation system are lovingly tended today by the ancestors of the original Inca culture, farmed the same way as they have been farmed by generation upon generations inherited father to son.

Then onto Wayra for a Peruvian lunch that included a selection of the famous potatoes and corn cooked in traditional ways whilst we watched a display of the Peruvian Paso horse – an indigenous Andean horse that was cherished by Peruvians and Spanish alike for their stamina and comfortable

gait.

The final treat of the day was a musical interlude with a Peruvian family who invited us into their home and shared with us the unique musical instruments, dances and clothes that are such a powerful part of this inspiring culture.

So much of the rich Inca culture seems alive today and is still engrained and entwined in the total respect and reverence for nature. The Inca’s worshipped many gods but the most significant was Pachamama or Mother Earth.

The descendants of the original Quechan people even today use the famous Coca leaves as part of their offering to Pachamama - usually mixed with something gold coloured and something silver

coloured. The offerings are then burnt and the wishes carried on the wind.

Gold represents the tears of the sun and silver the tears of the moon. Interestingly during the Inca Empire whilst rich in both gold and silver they never used these riches to trade as they were considered ‘of the gods’. Something unfortunately that made them very attractive to the Spanish who loved precious metals.

A powerful part of the Inca belief system was and is based on what they call “Ayni” or reciprocity – ie to receive from the gods one must first give. Hence even today although over 80% of the population of Peru are Catholics many still carry out ancient Inca offerings to give something to the gods before they ask for anything.

By the end of the day we had glimpsed into the world of an amazing people and culture, a civilisation that appeared to grow in power and stature not due to force or aggression but by harnessing their intellect and respecting and working with nature to ensure they thrived as a race and became healthy, powerful and strong.

Next morning at 5.30am Carlos, the lead guide for Enigma the specialist trekking company, picked us up and introduced us to our 11 fellow trekking travel buddies. An international mix of English, Australian, American and Japanese with ages ranging from late twenties to early 60’s but all with the same sense of nervous excitement.

Our 22 porters most of whom are small powerhouses of about 5ft 3” load the heavy

Pilgrimage: 1. A journey or search of moral or spiritual significance

55kg back packs (my entire bodyweight) onto their backs that will form our lifeline for the next 4 days – our food and entire mobile campsite.

After breakfast and a briefing, our Inca Trail passes were stamped at the entry point and we started off on the 42 km (26 miles) trek a marathon in more ways than you can imagine at this point.

My heart was racing from either the excitement or the altitude but I set off like a hare on a race only to find that after about an hour of steep climb that the lack of oxygen is a great way to slow your pace. This 3-night camping and 4 day adventure had begun. We all settle into a gentler pace and started to discover more about the Incas from Carlos, more about each other, and more of what we can expect of ourselves on

the trek.

The first thing I learnt is that the day we start our trek is called the Day of the Living – an ancient Inca day to celebrate life, whereas tomorrow is All Saints Day or the Day of the Dead, a very auspicious day in the Inca calendar where they celebrate those that have passed on – how very fitting!. Carlos offered to help make an offering at the highest point of the trek, an offering to Pachamama to thank her for my Dad and all that we shared and all the gifts that he passed on to me.

The next thing I learnt is that altitude sickness is swift and random – my travel companion who had been doing really well suddenly started to really struggle to walk and get her breath. The lack of oxygen was causing a crippling headache and cramp-

ing in her stomach. At lunch the guides assessed her and gave her the option to return to the start point or take a mule for the next part of the journey to conserve her energy.

She refused both, dug deep and soldiered on after a few grains of boiled rice washed down with lashings of coca tea. The afternoon trek was particularly challenging and demanding and what should have taken a few hours took us over 5 hours. We had allowed the main group to walk on and ended up with our own personal guide Raul who was incredibly supportive and patient as every step that my companion took she had to stop and gasping for more breath.

Finally after 10 hours walking just 16 km we fell into our little tents and awaited for the temperature drop to below freez-

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ing… but with multiple layers and my Dad’s sleeping bag wrapped around me I drifted off for a few hours sleep .

The next day we were woken at 5 am by the porters, with more Coca tea and hot water to set us up for the toughest climb.

Having not seen the views the night before I stepped out of the tent to the most awesome sight.

Our campsite looked out across the most stunning valley. The sunrise was breath taking. The mood in the team was tenacious, as we all knew that day 2 is the most challenging – the weather was volatile and the terrain unforgiving. But we were all committed and determined to reach the highest point at 4,200m (nearly 14,000 feet) at the end of Dead Woman’s Pass.

I remember my Dad talking about Dead Woman’s Pass and I was spurred on by the fact that at the tender age of 74 my Dad’s ‘want to’ got him to the top!

The climb is incredibly steep and the steps are giant-like. How did the Inca’s build this trail and manoeuvre such massive rocks to create these steps using manpower and animal strength alone? It is unfathomable. The rain made the trekking even more challenging. No one chatted that day as we all focussed on each step and dug deep to find our very own flavour of ‘want to’ battling the inner voice and your body screaming out to stop as the oxygen reduced further.

My own particular strength came from 2 songs that buzzed continually around in my head; The Lighthouse Family – Question of Faith and Postcards from Heaven. I was was further supported by the knowledge that Carlos had shared that the Inca’s believed that when a soul passes onto the Upper World they can revisit this world as a humming bird or a butterfly and , as if on que, whenever I felt my own ‘ want to ‘ wane I was visited by these precious signs that drove me on.

The elation as I reached the highest point was overwhelming. The view matched it.

You only live once (YOLO) and it will be a moment that I will remember for the rest of my life. I was totally in the moment, so grateful for this massive connection with such raw powerful natural beauty and the power of the human spirit to strive to achieve its hearts desires. My Dad was with me at that moment I know.

Having caught my breath, at a slightly higher point discretely guided by Carlos away from the group we create an offering to Pachamama to thank her for my Dad. I am more spiritual than religious and to me this simple Quechuan act of thanks was very incredibly powerful.

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The next part of the trek is a decent which is equally punishing to the body in other ways – whilst the slightly lower altitudes starts to allow the oxygen to flow more easily your skeleton and joints are put to task. Another hard days trekking and others in the group started to suffer. But there was never any doubt that the journey will continue.

Each night over dinner Carlos shared some more insight into the Inca people and what they believed and how they lived their lives.

About the Chakana or Inca Cross the symbol of the Incas and a representation of the Tree Of Life. It’s 12 different steps representing key foundations to their belief:

1. The core elements of Sun, Water, Earth 2. The 3 laws or regulations Love, Learn, Teach;

3. The 3 levels of the Inca world - the under world, this world and the upper world

4. The 3 animal symbols of each world,

the snake (under world) puma (this world) and the condor (upper world).

The Incas’ believed that Qosqo (Cusco) was the centre of all worlds, the heart connecting everything. Permeating from it were many significant spiritual sites across the region that the Quechua people were encouraged annually to pilgrimage to for physically and spiritually cleansing. Machu Picchu was just one of these sites but archaeologists believe that there maybe 100s more to be discovered.

Machu Picchu was considered to be of such spiritual relevance as it was so close to the clouds and the Upper World.

The third day started at 6am with the most beautiful sunrise and is defined by a more relaxed energy in the group as we all knew that we have walked the toughest part of the journey but joints are hurting, blisters are bleeding and altitude sickness is still a blight for some and with little or no food for some strength was also waning.

The terrain was still tough and ever changing. Raul, our personal guide explained that there are 3 levels of terrain on the trek – Andean Mountain, Cloud Forest and Rainforest and we are approaching the Rainforest – every level has its unique personality but we had more time to absorb the beauty here – Andean orchids in every shape and colour, incredible trees and mosses and of course, stunning butterflies that seem to be particularly attracted to me and often settle on me for a brief moment

that disappear as fast as they arrive.

Having let the main group move at its own pace I walked a lot on my own this day.

The peaceful rhythm of walking and listening to your own breath and the absorbing beauty of this part of the trek was hypnotic and I found myself at one stage on the most beautiful precipice all alone looking out into what is probably one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen – and whilst I stood there a huge wave of emotion rushed through my body as I really connected to the fact that I was standing in the same spot that my Dad would have stood looking out at the same view and in that moment something shifted for me. Two butterflies landed on my arm and sat for what felt like eternity. I lost my Mum 6 months before my Dad but yet it felt like there was a connection here in this place in that moment that I cannot begin to explain.

The 3rd day half day trek is a combination of 1.5 hours hard trekking up treacherously narrow steps then 2.5 hours decent on paths that are so steep and slippery that I am again struck by the pure strength both emotional and physical that my 74 year old Dad had to do this trek. I am both in awe and so proud of him. Along the path we start to see evidence of Inca terrace farming and when considering how far we have walked, and in what conditions, I am also in awe of a people that lived here over 500 years ago and farmed this country and walked this path in a pilgrimage themselves.

One of the trekkers was struggling badly with altitude sickness so I shared with her my Dads mantra and his ‘ want to ‘ and how he would often morph it into more of an army march i.e. one two one two… want to want to…and she smiled and committed to her want to.

Once we arrived at the third and final camp we are all exhausted but elated to have arrived in one piece. We had the most amazing lunch and then all take a few hours to relax and reflect on what we have achieved so far. Over our last dinner Carlos shares some more of the history of the Quechua Incas who lived around 1438 to 1533. In 1532 the Spaniards came across the empire and realised how rich they were both in lands and in gold and silver.

Having battled over Cusco and other major cities the Spaniards felt they held the strongholds but Machu Picchu, as one of the sacred sites was never disclosed to the Spaniards and the people living there simple left and dispersed and the site was abandoned to natures natural cloak to hide it. It was only discovered some 400 years later in 1911, when a farmer happened to mentioned to an American archaeologist (Hiram Bingham) about the city in the

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clouds.

With the stories whirling around in my head and knowing that our 4th and final day was to start at 3.30am, my last night was spent tossing and turning reflecting on the trek itself, the raw natural beauty along the Inca Trail and being so grateful for the people that have brought me here to this point and of course my Dad. My thoughts of all the different landscapes we have seen so far on this journey and how each one shapes into the next and the parallel of how our own life events shape our internal landscapes too. This really had an extraordinary pilgrimage to get to this point and I was so excited by the final part.

Finally the last day arrived. In pitch dark we packed away the campsite and started off to Intipunku, The Sun Gate, the entry point to Machu Picchu. The structure was built as a natural symbolic gateway above the city to announce to the pilgrims that

they had arrived at this spiritual place. The hope for all trekkers is to arrive at The Sun Gate as the sun comes up and that Machu Picchu reveals itself through the top of the wispy clouds. This last part of the trek is hideously testing yet I think pure adrenalin was coursing through my veins at this point.

When I finally reach The Sun Gate wearing a t-shirt that my dad had also worn on his arrival there, the feeling was of complete and utter exhilaration and pride – proud to have done it, supported by so many amazing people but even more proud of my Dad who did it 10 years before at the amazing age of 74.

This place is totally inspiring but so is the ‘want to’ of the human spirit driven to achieve extraordinary feats. And that’s what this place is – an entire city built with passion, determination and a commitment to create something out of this world – and that’s what it feels like when you arrive.

The trekking fraternity who have all been walking the trail all sit waiting in an eerie quietness waiting and hoping for the clouds to part to reveal their hidden treasure. There were moments where something not quite distinguishable or visible peeps through the clouds teasing us all and then evaporates like a vision. So after a long wait we agree to start the final decent down to the heart of the city - a walk that will take another 1.5 hours.

And like many things in life it’s when you least expect it that it happens and as if wanting to completely take us off our guard as we rested after about an hour the clouds parted and we are exposed to the entire glory that is Machu Picchu. No picture will ever be able to capture the feeling when you see it – there is a magical euphoria.

And as quickly as it revealed itself it disappeared like some apparition.

Exhausted by the early mornings ardu-

ous trekking and lack of sleep the pilgrimage is over for me. Whilst I soak up some of the knowledge that Carlos shares as we graze on the history of the stunning manmade citadel built above the clouds – it’s almost like my senses cannot take any more in.

I have often seen the quotes “happiness is not a destination, it’s a way of travelling” or “travel is as much about the journey as it is the destination” and on that day it could not have been more true. The richness was the entire journey to get to this place - a pilgrimage that felt like it had started in my twenties and ended in my 50’s. I was at peace with a life long desire that had driven me to see a place that I would loved to have shared with my Dad in his living years yet feel I have still shared it with him in a deeper spiritual way.

After a few hours at Machu Picchu we took the bus down to Aqua Calientes and

shared a final group lunch – including for some guinea pig! I was happy with an omelette and a cool glass of white wine. But then all I wanted was a hot shower and a bed of white crisp linen. Some sad farewells and the trek was over.

This journey proved that I do have an adventuring spirit but for now this pilgrimage was over and my luxury junkie was back – so we checked into the Inkaterra Hotel a stunning resort situated in its own lush rainforest with orchids, birds and its own Peruvian bear conservation project.

We ordered room service and jumped into a divine shower. In my Dads diary I remember his comment after his first shower and his cherished single malt whiskey, and it was “ God is in his heaven” and I know exactly what he meant.

After a sleep fit for an Inca King we packed up and caught the train destined for Cusco. As the train pulled out I fought

back a few tears. There is something quite magical in this place – for me it was a connection with myself, my Dad, but also with a pure energy source and nature that I have not experienced anywhere else in my life..

For most of the train journey my travel companion and I were silent as we absorb and integrate some of what we have experienced and felt in this incredible place. The Inca’s may have lived 100’s of years ago but in the simplicity, connectivity and harmony they lived a life that was so much richer than ours in so many ways.

I thank the Inca’s, Quechua people and Machu Picchu for showing me so much.

For the importance of Ayni or reciprocity, the importance of giving thanks before we ask for more; the 3 powerful regulations to lead your life by Love, Learn and Teach and I thank my Dad for showing me that with enough ‘want to’ you can achieve all that you want in your life.

TR

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THE REVIEW 2015 203

The Halkin

The carpets were deeper than a Phantom and the curved wooden-panelled corridors emanated a musk reminiscent of Tom Ford’s neckline.

Words: PETER ROBINSON

W

hen you’re invited to the Mercury Music awards, chances are, whichever London hotel you book won’t see hide or hair of you. If your nights gone well, that is.

Having driven down from Bristol in the Defender 90, I was intrigued to see what the hotel staff would make of the countryside mainstay. I have unwillingly travelled across Central Lon-

don in a whole host of marques over the years, but my favourite is still the good old Defender. You know where you stand, and more importantly, so does every pedestrian, cyclist and bus driver. Broadside me and the likelihood is that I will drive away whilst you call a recovery vehicle. Suffice to say, pedigree and breeding do still count for something.

The Halkin is set in Belgravia, a part of London known to many as

a societal enclave that luckily is not festooned with shops, entertainment venues and the like. By its very nature, it’s elegant and discreet. Discretion is indeed something that is lacking in many new London hotels these days.

But the Halkin is far from new wave, opening its doors in 1991 on a quiet street close to Hyde Park Corner. Its aim was to offer uncompromising standards of service and style.

Arriving solo, there was plenty of

T R AV E L : T H E H A L K I N

time to enjoy the contemporary space afforded to the deluxe rooms. The carpets were deeper than a Phantom and the curved wooden-panelled corridors emanated a musk reminiscent of Tom Ford’s neckline.

A knock at the door briefly distracted me from laying out a selection of smoking jackets, the likes of which I reserve only for media events, where you know you can just about get away with brash tailoring. Let’s be honest, where else can you get away with purple piping.

“Good evening Sir, your marmalade cocktail”. That’s right, marmalade. A

beverage so fine that it has become my staple tipple to lift the fog that occasionally presents itself in the early hours of the morning. There is, of a course, a rhyme and reason for this definition. The anti-fogmatic was a prescribed medical beverage circa 1821. Gum-ticklers warm the gums after sleeping, to be taken immediately on awakening, or at farthest, on getting out of bed. While phlegm-cutters remove hoarseness from the voice, to be taken between dressing and breakfast. Should there be no fog, take as preventatives, lest there should be fog in the course of the day. Other

categories include gloom-lifters, eyeopeners, pick-me-ups, morning jolts and, for when all else fails, corpserevivers.

As this evening would present itself as quite the shindig, a healthy antifogmatic was a good choice. The bar team at the Halkin make quite a beverage, I can tell you.

With my attire laid out and warming libation in hand, all that was left was to cleanse the skin, shave and apply a liberal dash of aftershave.

The bathroom was fit for a publishing director. Something I consider a continual annoyance, but which

THE REVIEW 2015 205

some might characterise as trivial, is the production of incredibly thin bathroom doors. When one is bathing and refining ones aesthetic, it should be conducted in private and without interruption. The Halkin, in addition to its use of fine marble, has a thick hardwood door. This may seem like an peculiarity on my part, but what are we without our principals.

As the Maserati pulled up outside and the concierge kindly notified me of my driver’s presence, all that was left to do was toast the Halkin’s magnificent space, finish my marmalade cocktail,

and head out into the night.

Sometime later: “Young Fathers, really! I thought Royal Blood were a shoo-in,” I said with no previous knowledge of either group.

When surrounded by the industries finest A&R men, you need to at least placate them and create the pretence of knowing who the groups are.

As our driver delivered us safe and inebriated back to the clean, cream halls of the Halkin, there was little else to do but climb into what is undoubtedly the world’s most comfortable bed; a bed that I have since contacted the

manufacturers of. Egyptian cotton and a bevy of pillows secured me for a fine night’s sleep.

The following morning, after a delightful breakfast of eggs benedict and a stiff Bloody Mary, it was time to head out into the daylight and wish the warm and calming surrounds of the Halkin goodbye. With our Ray-Bans squeezed tightly to our faces and our loyal Defender waiting for us outside, we stepped out into the composed tranquillity of Belgravia.

TR

100% SHERRY CASKS 100% NATURAL COLOUR 100% THE MACALLAN

THE MACALLAN GOLD The Macallan 1824 Series has been created to showcase the beautiful range of natural colour found in our whiskies – each expression becoming darker and more complex.

The Macallan Whisky Maker, Bob Dalgarno, has handpicked 100% sherry casks to deliver the rich, 100% natural colour and the full bodied aromas and flavours for which The Macallan is recognised and famed.

THE MACALLAN GOLD, A SINGLE MALT OF EXEMPLARY CHARACTER AND FLAVOUR

DI SCOV ER THE M ACA LL A N 1 8 2 4 SERIE S AT THEM ACA LL A N .COM P L E A SE SAVOUR RE SP ON SIBLY

THE REVIEW 2013 3

ROSEWOOD LONDON

Words: EVAN JONES You might be forgiven for not knowing about Rosewood London. It’s one of London’s elite hotels that have managed to strike the balance between promotion and discretion. I always like discovering a new bolthole in the city, especially one that is on High Holborn, one of the city’s most historically-prized avenues.

THE ROSE BRONZE GALLERY

T R AV E L : R O S E W O O D

C

onstruction of the building began in 1912 on the instruction of the Pearl Insurance Company. It was designed in Edwardian and Belle Epoque styles by H. Percy Monckton. The first phase of the buildings design was completed in 1914 and it remained as the headquarters to the insurance firm until it was acquired by HPI around 1989.

When the hotel reopened as the Rose-

wood London in 2013, under the supervision of English Heritage, it was clear that many elements of the buildings historic charm had been dusted down and rejuvenated. The principal facades, East and West Banking Hall interiors and the Grand Staircase exude character and charm.

We had arrived somewhat late in the evening, having driven down from Bristol. We hustled our way past the crowds of tourists and city slickers into

the relative papel conclave of the archway that transfers you from the streets of central London into a grand Edwardian Courtyard. I haven’t had a project come up yet that needs a grand entrance like that of the Rosewood, but when I do, you can bet they will be my first call.

The courtyard area is almost a cocoon, hidden from the perils of modern city life. There is a neatly laid out seating area, which I can imagine would be quite beautiful with the sun pouring in on a MIRROR ROOM

morning. It proved equally useful later that night, when I light up a cigar post supper.

The doormen are efficient, courteous, and bloody well-dressed to be fair. I am pretty sure they were wearing a combination of Burberry and tailored garments.

Either way, sharp gents, very sharp.

Our entrance was the same as always: remove the tourist trait of standing, mouth agape at the size and style of the reception area, and move straight to the desk. From that vantage point, we casually surveyed the space.

Italian Marble appeared to have been laid quite liberally alongside Cuban mahogany and French walnut fittings.

All trimmed with what appears to be the sort of objet d’art that wouldn’t be out of place adorning a Mulberry handbag.

It’s stunning. Also the reception area is filled with people, something that always turns a hotel into more of a destination.

The sort of place you come to for lunch and then end up being carried into a suite by an affable doorman.

The Rosewood boasts 262 guest rooms and 44 suites, all of which are designed

to convey a sense of a typical London residence. The first thing that took me aback, apart from the stunning rose brass coloured metal work and detailed tiling in the entrance corridors, was the main staircase. It’s a solid Pavonazzo marble staircase that rises to a soaring 166-foot high cupola.

I have long considered producing a review of hotel suites. Or indeed mounting a campaign to remove ‘rooms’ from hotels and leave only suites. Even if you are just spending one night at a location, a suite is much better at lulling you into a MIRROR ROOM

THE REVIEW 2015 209

relaxing state of mind than a room. You have space to move around, to entertain and to generally take in total silence of a soundproof room overlooking High Holborn.

Interior designers Toni Chi and Martin Brudnizki have clearly worked their magic here, as the space is as inviting

and invigorating as it is sleek and sophisticated. I briefly consider cancelling our dinner plans. Briefly.

So, with 30 minutes to spare as my partner powdered herself in front of the Broadway-style mirror, I settled in for a beautifully-appointed macaroon and a few pages of The Rake. I can read other

magazines; it’s allowed people.

Having tripped the light fantastic and had some supper, we returned to a much more subdued Rosewood Hotel.

The lights are dimmed outside and the bar and restaurants are entering the witching hour. Rosewood has Scarfes Bar, The Mirror Room and the Holborn

T R AV E L : R O S E W O O D Dining Room to choose from, not to mention having their own delicatessen and terrace.

We sat outside in the courtyard seating area, sipping champagne and enjoying the beautiful architecture of the space.

Rarely do you have time to sit down in central London of an evening and gaze

upward at the heavens unabated. The hotel really manages to balance both grandeur and comfort in an unassuming way.

Having sunk several cocktails, we decided it was time to head back to the suite for slumber. One item that was particularly impressive was the bathroom.

It could easily have been carved out of a solid marble cavern. I would say the sinks and taps were made from pewter, as they were that intricately finished.

Altogether, the suite was beautiful. All that remained was to pull the blackout curtains and pass out, top hat and tails ‘n’ all.

TR

GRAND MARBLE STAIRCASE

PREMIER SUITE

HOLBORN DINING ROOM

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BOUTIQUE B & B

A bottle of local wine was waiting for us on the table but it will be the homemade biscuits my girlfriend Marina and I will remember more. As is often the case it’s the small things that leave the greatest impression.

Words: ROB PRITCHARD

T

he storm raged across the golf course, battering hail against the big French windows, but with the A/C humming away, we didn't care.

Casa Caesarea in the thunder and the rain is very cosy. With plenty of books

to read, tea to make, films to watch on the huge flat-screen TV, or a bath to take, wrapped up after in the sumptuous towels, we were home from home in this luxury homestay.

Ex-New Yorker Anne will welcome you into this unique property, about half-an-hour north

of Tel Aviv on Israel’s Mediterranean coast. “I want my guests to feel more than welcome,” she said. “I want them to feel pampered.” A bottle of local wine was waiting for us on the table, but it will be the home-made biscuits that my girlfriend, Marina, and I will remember more. As is often the case,

it’s the small things that leave the greatest impression.

The marble floor and cream décor creates an elegant and classic feel. Two bedrooms flank a central common area, both with access to the

for more than a couple of people, but it’s well-appointed with a coffee maker, hot water dispenser and microwave, plus there are a few places just a phone call away that deliver meals if you don’t want to go

facing, so your evening out on the balcony will start with watching the sunset over the Mediterranean.

I had a serious bout of man flu, so wasn’t going to do much sightseeing in the nearby Roman ruins in the

property-wide balcony that overlooks the golfing green and the neighbouring house (which seems to be a scale replica of the Parthenon).

The room on the left is all white and would be perfect for aspiring princesses. The one Marina and I went for had a nice big bath to lounge in, and we both loved the wild garden scene carved into the king-sized bed, which was massive. So big, in fact, that Anne had to get custom linen made for it.

You might be a bit pushed for space in the kitchen to cook a meal

out to a nearby restaurants. You definitely won’t be short of space in the bathroom though. The tub was big enough to get my 6’4 frame in and listen to the thunder outside, as the local Dead Sea products did wonders for my skin. The locally-produced soap, shampoo and moisturising creams all help to remind you that you’re in Israel.

If you are here in more clement weather than we were, you’ll have the huge terrace to enjoy, as well as the pool, which will pretty much double your floor space. The villa is west-

rain, but true to her word, Anne made sure that we had enough breakfast and tea, and anything else we needed.

And something special here – far and beyond being made to feel welcome as a guest: we felt so looked after, it was homely. “I’ve loved running this place since the moment we opened, and I love most of the people who come through. And if you’re going to do something right, you have to do it with a full heart.”

Full-hearted is exactly what Casa Caesarea is.

TR

THE REVIEW 2013 213

Libation Words: PETER J ROBINSON

There’s an equal measure of pros and cons to not living in London. For instance, I’m always last to know about a new launch in the city: con. I can travel at leisure through Bristol without having to delouse: pro.

What it does mean, though, is that our London-based editorial team get the pick of the litter when it comes to new London eateries. Before I could even pick up the phone, our voracious editor and his digital girlfriend had already explored and reviewed every restaurant that The Shard has crammed into its lofty 72 floors. Arguably, this doesn’t happen often. There are indeed enough comestibles in London for us to share the chow-based turf. Or so one would have thought.

I do not often visit the city. When I do, an invitation that reads “The last days of Rome’ is usually required, along with a lengthy sojourn at any one of the capital’s respected hotels. My preference on this occasion was Rosewood, a delightful fivestar establishment on High Holborn.

As our supine editor has fully-devour the variable buffet of eateries at The Shard, I had decided that instead we would just drink our bodyweight in cocktails and watch the lights. Be under no illusion: the view is fucking epic. I choose not to swear often in print – however, it really does punctuate my point rather well.

The entrance was fairly unassuming as we arrived. I nodded to the driver and made for the doors. The door staff were very, very friendly for central London.

You can appreciate, though, that most security staff in the nation’s capital have to contend with being stabbed daily. I expect this would try anyone’s friendly demeanour. But the security at The Shard are well-built tour guides of sorts.

“Is this the lift to the Lounge at Oblix?”

“Yes sir. Head up to the 32nd floor and take a left to the front desk of the restaurant, they will look after you”.

London has a reputation of being hard-nosed and unforgiving – and it is.

But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t

room for charm and disarm.

The lift whistled – actually, whistled very quietly – as we ascended the 32 floors to Oblix. We hung a left and were welcomed into the Aztec corridors of the Lounge by a suitably modelesque receptionist. A few moments later and we were cruising through the bar and not really able to take much more in than the stratospheric view.

The Shard has eight football pitches worth of glass adorning its complex steel core that makes a rather stellar impression. The clientele seemed to be a mix of well-heeled Londoners and tourists.

Not an oligarch or barrel of oil money in sight. Surprising, I thought. No doubt the £1.5 billion investment to build The Shard came from the Middle East or somewhere.

If I avoided every London establishment because the investment came from a country with concerning human rights laws, I would be dining in Bristol. Oh wait, I do. I digress.

My partner and I sashayed through the bar, which had the atmosphere of a 1920s

L I B AT I O N : O B L I X L O U N G E A N D B A R

THE REVIEW 2015 215

gin joint in Manhattan. Low lighting, a solid back bar and a svelte interior give it that edge, but also make it the sort of bar I could get very lubricated in and forget the time.

We were seated at a perfectly lovely high table, near a window with a view of the low stage and piano. Music. Actual music. I am

sure I sound like someone who is seeing the ocean for the first time, but a bar that hires musicians to play and singers to sing is tapping into something timeless and effective.

We sat for a moment with the drinks menu, whilst my partner stared out the window saying “Wow� a lot. I noticed a well-dressed, tall, dark and handsome gent

making his way to our table, skilfully slicing though the busy patrons with an air of grace and confidence. Not unlike myself, but perhaps a little less self-aggrandising.

He leant in to talk to the girl who had shown us to our table and made some slight gestures before walking past us to a window table close enough to smell the Windowlene.

After primping and adjusting the setting, he turned, composed, and strolled over to us. “My apologies, your table is ready”. I liked him instantly. I try and remind myself to make a mental note that, if I ever run a bar, everyone that comes in should be graciously handled in this fashion.

Ayon is either the Oblix bar manager or

assistant manager. Or perhaps some form of collegiate angel sent from Sinatra’s bar in the heavens. He’s far too overqualified to be anyone’s PA, but I briefly wondered if he’d leave the Lounge and come and work for us. Bromance to one side, he was formidable.

The cocktails were, no surprise, raptur-

ous. Order a Negroni, if you have missed this classic, or a Habanero. They know their stuff.

With a great drink in hand, a view that deserves congratulations from the gods, and subtle sounds drifting over from the piano, the Lounge is worth visiting and worth showing off.

TR

THE REVIEW 2015 217

TECH

ROUND UP

Let’s be honest, whether it’s your body weight in gold bullion, blood diamonds or just the sat phone, security is your main priority.

You didn’t toil with that despot in the far-flung jungles of wherever just to walk away empty-handed. You want your prize.

Words: AMBER EDDILSTON If it were an employee being sent on a fractious investment deal with a tin pot dictatorship, it would be beaten relentlessly, get the deal signed, turn up at HQ bloodied and battered and ask “Do you need me to do it again?”

When we turn up on set for a photo or video shoot, it can arguably look like we are setting up an FOB. Case after case comes out of the transport, making it more likely that the talent agent might call in the National Guard, rather than ask for more money for his client.

Pelican was founded in 1976 by Dave Parker in a Cali garage. Not so much Silicon as Polypropylene Copolymer Valley. Okay, that might be a step too far with the metaphors, but they’re tough dammit. The reptilian part of me still goes onto their site and wants to buy just enough to build a base.

They’re dependable.

When we transport high grade ‘glass’ – lenses, for those of you not familiar with cinematographic vernacular – and camera gear that makes the insurance company strap on trackers, we need to know that it will arrive in one piece and ready to go.

Here, we review what is arguably the industry standard in professional and military application transport and storage systems.

TECH : PELICAN CASES

THE REVIEW 2015 219

0915 Memory Card Case: It stores 12 cards in a casing so snug it makes you wonder how you ever survived before. SD cards aren’t expensive these days, until you’re up and over 30GB (we are). We all know it’s the data that is most important though. That’s your high value asset, and you are probably just keeping it in a top pocket or briefcase. Well, Peli has a solution for that too, but that’s a different story. Afford your high value data the security is demands. The insert liner absorbs shock and it has a IPx4 water-resistant seal. Remember that time you were moving gear to a second location, the cases sat in the rain before the gaffer could get them in? Who cares. Let us not forget the mini SD card for those of you clinging to GoPros. The 0915 has a second layer under the main card slot for 6 micro SD cards. It wins all the sports.

If we are still working in the studio and sending rushes to writers or clients, or transferring RAW shots to a retoucher, we are sending SanDisk Extreme Pro 64GB and 128GB CF flash cards. They retail for up to £177. Once again, the hardware pales in comparison to the value of the data as we know. Luckily Peli Case has the 0945 for that. www.peli.com

1495CC2 Laptop Case Now let’s move to laptops, a standard on any occasion and full of company destroying confidential data, or just a nice pack of Cubans. The point is the same. The 1495 helps you pull off that handcuff strapped to your arm and makes you look less like your carrying launch codes. One of the things that we find travelling over the pond is that a plane’s pressurised hold can be a brutal location for expensive kit. The Peli case pressure equalisation valve means that three crew don’t have to open the drone case with an axe that your Swedish tour guide has gladly handed you at arrivals. I say get it in black, but who doesn’t love desert tan. I don’t roll with the 82nd Airborne too often, but I get a sense that they know what they are doing. www.peli.com

1740 Long Case One of my favourite things when arriving at a shoot is hopping out of a Defender and unloading big black Peli cases from the back. It sends a clear message to whomever is watching, be it the client, location manager or parking warden.

Occasionally people ask ‘What’s in the case mate?’

‘It’s a kilo of blow. What’s with all the fucking questions?’

The 1740 is a long case, and at over 112cm, it can take a tripod, a set of lights or two, and three assault rifles.

The US listing for the product names it as a rifle case.

In the UK, it’s just a case. Either way, it’s nice to arrive on set with people wondering if you are a film crew or selling small arms. It makes the traffic warden think twice before saddling up because we have parked for longer than ten minutes in a loading area. As always, the 1740 is made with the same polypropylene body, three micron hydrophobic no-woven PET purge vent and is watertight, crushproof and dustproof. It also comes with a lifetime guarantee of excellence. I think that says it all. www.peli.com

1690 Transport Case When you are moving lots of equipment, having several small cases is great, but sometimes for overseas projects, you don’t want six pieces of luggage when one large piece can do the job. I thought our existing Peli lens case was large. The 1690 transport case is 84.9 x 72.1 x 44.8. Stack two on top of each other and it is basically a chest freezer. It comes with a selection of interior storage options that are modular, so you can safely cushion just about anything. To be honest, it’s so big that it’s basically replaced our small cases; the sort of thing I would be happy to padlock and then ship out to another country. Obviously though the case can only do so much, and still requires you to not throw it about in the back of a van. The cases graduated deflection ribs mean that it will take the punishment of bad loading and still deliver everything safe and sound. If you aren’t salivating yet, you should be. Even if you have no need to move equipment for your job, just buy some for home, garage or shed storage, and to make the neighbours think you might be an arms dealer. www.peli.com

THE REVIEW 2015 221

ROKINON CINE DS NEW

Glass. Surely it can’t all be about good glass, can it? Well, it depends if you have used cinema prime lenses before. We historically shot all our film projects with variable kit lenses from the Canon range, slowly building up a range of better and better prime lenses. The price can quickly escalate into the upper echelons of ridiculous. So, we

wanted to see if there was an entry-level set of prime lenses available to the starter and the lifer alike.

Cue the team at Rokinon, who’ve been making lenses since 1972 from their head office in South Korea.

Rokinon is giving its Cine lenses an upgrade with the Cine DS line-up. Starting

with a brand new manual focus 50mm T1.5 AS UMC Cine DS Lens, film shooters are now provided with a standard cinema lens option compatible with full-frame cameras.

This second generation of cine lenses offers a few notable benefits for video shooters, in addition to the use of de-clicked aperture rings and gears. First, the focus and aperture

ROKINON CINE DS ROKINON CINE DS ADVANTAGES • Unified focus gear and aperture gear positions

A C

B

HR

ASP

High Refractive Index

Aspherical

• De-Clicked aperture for smooth, seamless and silent adjustment

H-ASP

ED

Hybrid Aspherical

Extra Low Dispersion

UMC

D

• Dual calibrated right and left side distance and T-stop Scales

Ultra Multi-Coating

• Calibrated in T-stops to provide accurate and consistent exposure • Tightest color matching to Samyang’s Cine Standard ensuring consistent color rendition

Focus

Aperture

10mm T3.1 CINE DS

109.5° (APS-C)/ 93.4° (4/3) Ultra Wide Angle of View Nano-Coating System Focuses to 9.45 Inches Built-in Petal Shaped Hood 6 Bladed Diaphragm

NEW 12mm T3.1 CINE DS

FULL FRAME 180° FISHEYE Angle of View Focuses to 3.21 Inches Removable Petal Shaped Hood 7 Bladed Diaphragm

14mm T3.1 CINE DS

FULL FRAME 115.7° Ultra Wide Angle of View Focuses to 11.0 Inches Built-in Petal Shaped Hood 6 Bladed Diaphragm

16mm T2.2 CINE DS

83.1° (APS-C)/ 67.6° (4/3) Angle of View Focuses to 3.27 Inches Removable Petal Shaped Hood 77mm Filter Thread 8 Bladed Circular Diaphragm

Engineered and optimized for cine and video, Cine DS lenses offer new features including: 1) Unified focus and aperture gear positions for reduced follow focus system adjustment with faster lens changes.

2) Dual calibrated right and left side distance and T-stop scales enable an assistant to pull focus and aperture from either side of the lens.

3) All of the Cine DS lenses are tested to be tightly color matched to a standard for consistent color and contrast in video production.

ROKINON LENSES | Page 1

TECH ROUNDUP : LENSES

PRO RIGHT • PRICED gears PERFORMANCE are unified, meaning that swapping

When used on a C100 Cinema EOS Camera, the lens proved to be quite sharp, showing only slight softening at T1.5 with the cropped Super35 sensor size. It does increase in sharpness when stopped down and, during my time with the lens, I noticed it was best between T4 and T8. The click-less aperture was also very smooth and when

LENS SYSTEM out lenses will not require adjustments to your rig. Second, for convenience to the user there are dual focusing scales, one on each side. Third, all of the Cine DS lenses are tested to be colour-matched, ensuring that your footage will feature the same colour and contrast throughout your production.

compared to Canon’s standard EF 50mm f/1.4 USM lens, it was a welcomed improvement. The lens also has 77mm threads to attach filters, such as a Vari-ND filter, as well as a bayonet-style hood.

If you haven’t made the move yet, you should definitely consider the Rokinon DS range.

TR

ROKINON CINE DS LENS FEATURES INCLUDE

24mm T1.5 CINE DS

FULL FRAME 84.1° Angle of View Focuses to 9.8 Inches 77mm Filter Thread 8 Bladed Circular Diaphragm

35mm T1.5 CINE DS FULL FRAME 63.1° Angle of View Focuses to 1.0ft 77mm Filter Thread 8 Bladed Circular Diaphragm

Internal Focus

De-Clicked Aperture

Low CA

Low Flare & Ghost

Nano Coating Coating Nano System System

Low Coma

NEW 50mm T1.5 CINE DS

FULL FRAME 46.2° Angle of View Focuses to 17.7 Inches 72mm Filter Thread 8 Bladed Circular Diaphragm

85mm T1.5 CINE DS FULL FRAME 28.3° Angle of View Focuses to 3.3ft 72mm Filter Thread 8 Bladed Circular Diaphragm

NEW 135mm T2.2 CINE DS FULL FRAME 18.80° Angle of View Focuses to 2.62ft 77mm Filter Thread 9 Bladed Circular Diaphragm

With non-rotating front lens elements and pleasing bokeh, these high performing prime lenses unleash the full imaging potential of Full Frame, APS-C and Four Thirds sensor cameras.

Manufactured in Korea, Rokinon lenses utilize an aluminum alloy chassis, specialized glass types and coating techniques, including Nano Coating, to produce serious tools for photographers and videographers who appreciate high image quality with quiet, silky smooth and complete focusing control.

See pages: 37-45

THE REVIEW 2015 223 ROKINON LENSES | Page 2

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Tefal Jamie Oliver Professional Series 28-cm stainless steel frying pan, £53 24-cm stainless steel sauté pan with lid, £62 These pans prove that you don’t need to spend the earth to get quality. Apart from the weighty aestheticism, the heat distribution of this cookware is excellent, with even cooking and consistent results. These pans also have exceptional wear resistance – but only if you treat them lovingly (always hand wash and dry). The pans are supremely comfortable, despite being a little heavy; their sturdiness is reassuring and never become too hot to hold.

We were even shocked to prefer this Tefal model over a number of higher-end brands.

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The Review looks at the products that’ll make your kitchen exude class and cool.

THE REVIEW 2015 225

M A ST ER

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S U R P R I S E

MASERATI QUATTROPORTE DIESEL FROM £69,235 ON THE ROAD Maserati has a long tradition of surprising the automotive world with innovation and unconventional thinking. The introduction of our new state-of-the-art V6 diesel engine in the Quattroporte is just the latest example. This 3.0 V6 unit produces 275 HP and the performance that befits the company’s flagship, whilst clever engineering has managed to reproduce the distinctive and much loved Maserati exhaust note.

For more information on the new Maserati Quattroporte Diesel, call 01943 871660 or visit maserati.co.uk Official fuel consumption figures for the Maserati Quattroporte Diesel in mpg (l/100km): Urban 36.2 (7.8), Extra Urban 54.3 (5.2), Combined 45.6 (6.2). CO2 emissions 163 g/km. Fuel consumption and CO2 figures are based on standard EU tests for comparative purposes and may not reflect real driving results. Model shown is a Maserati Quattroporte Diesel at £71,647 On The Road including optional metallic paint at £660, electric sunroof at £1,560 and extended key-less entry at £192.

Q U A T T R O P O R T E

www.maserati.co.uk