Did I ever tell you about the time I went camping on a Sicilian beach?

I'm not a high maintenance girl. Honest. My make up bag consists of four items; foundation, Bourjois eyeshadow (which doubles as an eyebag concealer) eyeliner and mascara. My wardrobe fits on two rails and four drawers and a few piles on the floor of the spare room. I don't need to get my hair blow dried every week, or my nails done every fortnight. I don't care about owning a designer anything, and although I won't say no to a bit of luxury, I don't actively seek it.

So camping on a beach is excellent, right? A grand idea? Full of japes and merriment? Perfect for someone like me?

No way man. No way.

If you don't already know, I'm half Sicilian. My family came over to England in the fifties, leaving only my aunty (who married a crazy Sicilian man) and my nonni's brothers and sisters. The ones with thick Sicilian arms from years of making their own passata, and strong Sicilian legs from years of the midnight after-dinner walk/gossip. These people are made of strong stuff, having weathered the war - Sicily was a strategical gem, thought the Nazis and the Brits - poverty, earthquakes that reduced their simple stone villages to rubble, and the loss of the young who leave as soon as they can for the bright lights of Milan or Rome.

Every year from age one to age seventeen mum, dad, Lou and me would pack our blue Austin Montego and make the journey from Cambridgeshire to Sicily for six or seven long weeks. See what I mean about low maintenance? You don't know discomfort until you've sat in a car for a week cross-legged because dad wants to bring home four vats of olive oil. For reals.

When I left school and started work the long, blissful, carefree holidays stopped, and I chose other destinations in place of Sicily. Thailand. Gran Canaria. Africa. Europe. Asia. Sicily fell by the wayside because who wants to spend all their time in one place? It was just a gorgeous memory full of laughter and sun-kissed hours playing in the surf.

Anyway. Fast forward about five years. It must have been 2007(ish). My now-ex and I wanted to visit my aunty, who thankfully kept her house out there after nonna decided to sell hers.

We flew out, meeting my sister and aunty after a day or so. They'd already been out there for a week and had made loads of awesome plans.

One of which was to go camping on the beach. I wasn't convinced.

"Oh go on Laus," my sister pleased. "It's the one night of the year we can!"

Now, Sicilian beaches are hit and miss. There's no sleeping on them, and no fires. Usually. The west coast is battered by the wind and currents that squeeze through the gap between Spain and Morocco so the water is always cooler and full of medusa (jellyfish that give off a wicked - if harmless - sting). Better beaches are found on Castellammare del Golfo, or south by Ericlea Minoa. We were headed to Triscina, on the south coast. It was the one night of the year a beach booze up was allowed.

The night started well. We ate at home with the family, packed the car with a two-person-who-am-I-kidding-it-barely-fits-a-child tent, my aunty's duvet and started the short drive. It was a huge group of us, including aunty, uncle, their three kids, me, the ex, my sister and extended family I'm not 100% sure are even related.

The party was in full swing, with loudspeakers blaring cheeky Italian pop tunes, and barbecues sizzling with steak bought from the butcher that day. At first it was fun. We played beach games, had a swim and a right larf.

Getting to midnight, there was no sign this was going to end. An hour later and it was still raving. I tried to sleep, but the tent was so small and two of my cousins had decided to sleep with us. It was crowded. The scorching sun had made me sleepy and all I wanted was a few hours of rest. EVERYONE else was flat out, but there I was, Italian music from the last 2000s filling my ears. It's not good guys.

I gave up and tried sleeping in the car. The bass thundered through the cheap plastic, vibrating with ever WUAMP-WUAMP-WUAMP. I felt like I was losing my mind. Now I know why sleep deprivation is such an effective form of torture. But why? Why were they torturing me? Wasn't my family supposed to CARE?

After what seemed like hours, I gave up. I begged my aunty for the keys to their house, kicked the kids out of the tent and dragged the ex out of his slumber. I then demanded he drive us home, whereby I fully collapsed in the air conditioned heat and comfort of a good bed and no noise.

The next day my sister returned and laughed at my diva-like behaviour. I took the jeering well. Though they did pay me back by waking me up with a glassful of water the next morning.

Writing this back I can completely see how snobbish I looked. But what can I say? I just love my sleep.

Interested? Read on...

My next travel destination: Tunisia

Africa’s never been big in my travel plans ever since I discovered Asia (DJ would agree to this after an evening in Wahaca where I convinced him to give Thailand a try). But I keep reading travel blogs, and I keep thinking perhaps I’m missing a trick here. Perhaps I don’t need to think about ‘travelling’ in Africa. Perhaps I should just think about a holiday. After all, I loved my all-inc break to Egypt a few years back.

Standing on the beach in south west Sicily, my mother’s homeland and the place I spent six weeks every summer as a child (and a teen. And adult if I can get away with it), you can actually see the coast of Tunisia on a clear day. Relaxing on the beach was almost always interrupted by a smiling marrochino or tunisio selling gorgeous rings and bracelets scored from their homelands, or cooling coconuts cut into halves. You couldn’t help offer them a cool drink after watching them pace up and down the scorching sand for hours on end touting their wares.

I would sit on the sand at Ericlea with the pine forest behind me, facing that mysterious and elusive land, wondering just what it was like in Tunisia. What did the people do? What did they eat? Could they see us here in Sicily?

My Sicilian family has made Tunisia their holiday hot spot for over thirty years (5,000 camels my uncle could have got for my aunty) and why not, with a Grandi Navi Veloci – literally meaning big fast ship - from Palermo being £80? After a lifetime looking at Tunisia from across the sea, I think it might be time to pay it a visit.

When to go to Tunisia

Tunisia is perfect as a winter destination resort, with First Choice giving some helpful advice about average monthly temperatures and rainfall. Even in January temperatures rarely fall below a breezy 17C - this time of year is best to visit the sand dunes as it's far too hot any other time. We have Jamaica booked for January, but as a cheeky little week away in November or December we’re thinking of Djerba island, which has absolutely stolen my heart.

Culture

Tunisia is steeped in history, with Queen Dido founding Carthage around 3000 years ago. Through the years (and the wars), Arab, Roman, Sicilian, French, Greek, Jewish and Turkish influences all shaped Tunisia into what it is today - there used to be a huge Jewish, French and Italian community in the country up until the 1950s. The main language is Arabic, but a little French and Italian is spoken. Oh, and did I mention their national did is couscous? Scrummy!

Carthage

These ruins are a massive tourist attraction, and for history buffs (like me) would be a must-see. The Ancient Roman Baths are seen as a great little place to watch history stand still against the backdrop of palm trees, the sea, and Sicily in the distance. Unlike here in the UK, where everything is hands-off, you can explore the vaults and chambers to your heart’s content. For fans of What Once Was, this would be top of the list.

Djerba Island

Around one corner you’ll see an octopus. The next will be a frog. The next, a lion. Street art takes on a new meaning on this pretty little island, with the whitewashed walls and cobbled streets home to traditional religious art and surreal paintings. Even old gas containers and doorways are a canvas. There’s a reptile farm on the island too, as well as Tripadvisor’s 2014 Travellers’ Choice Winner Guellala Museum which gives tourists an insight into the island’s history.

Beaches

Hammamet has a castle by the sea, Sfax is right next to a massive shopping centre, Tunis has the Pedruchillo ecological centre, and Monastir is the most famous beach. Lazing at the beach is great for a few days, but most beaches around Tunisia have plenty of things to do around them, perfect for keeping fidgety travellers like me entertained.

So, for now Tunisia will still be that mysterious country I would stare at while feeling the sea breeze over my sun-kissed skin. Well. Until I book a getaway due to the harsh English winter, that is.

Have you ever been to Tunisia? If so, where did you get to? And what are your must-see places?

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Covent Garden, Spitalfields and wedding rings

The other week I finally spent some time meandering around the capital and getting to know my lovely city again (I live in Essex but London is near enough so shhh).

Work, as I'm sure you're pretty tired of reading about because I'm pretty tired of writing about it, has been manic. Yes, it's doing so well, and we're getting more press than ever since I started heading up their PR and marketing *puffy up feathers like a proud pigeon* and new opportunities are opening up etc etc but it's come at a cost where I feel drained at the end of the day. Regular late nights and far, far too much Red Bull have left me more knackered than a sloth being chased by a panther. Maybe I'm getting old. No. No it's YOU that's the problem.

So, making the most of a sunny afternoon and some free time, David and I decided to whisk ourselves away for a day and head on down to London Town for some retail therapy (and perhaps a cheeky glass of prosecco).

My first stop was Karine Jackson's by Covent Garden. Ever since I first met Karine just under a year ago I haven't trusted anyone else with my locks. My hair is awful, thinning and broken, so I need someone sympathetic who can work wonders with what's essentially, nightmare hair. Like, Edward Scissorhands hair. Professor Weetos hair. The salon is literally a five minute walk away from Tottenham Court Road and minutes from Covent Garden itself, although you do have to question the sanity of anyone using Covent Garden station for, well, anything.

While I discussed all things hair, David treated himself to a Cornish Rattler and a Wetherspoon's breakfast. Because nothing says morning treat like a beer with your banger, right? That's not rude. Maybe a bit rude.

Once I was finished getting my tresses cared for (see sneak preview of tomorrow's review), we took a stroll throughout the side streets with the aim of heading to Covent Garden market. Yes. You read right.

Now, I'm not a fan of this place. At all. During the week and working hours it's tolerable. But at the weekend and after work it's full of tourists and day-trippers with all their kids and buggies and elderly folk strolling along taking up the whole pavement like they're back in 1950 and people didn't have to be places... being in London for so long I've perfected a hasty, mildly threatening pace of walking. It was IMPOSSIBLE to walk at anything other than funeral pace. This is how I feel about kids, and this place was enough to make me wish various forms of death on everyone and myself. And especially the man spray painted silver in silver pants standing still.

We had a look through a few stalls before heading to the confines of the Apple store, whereby we promptly embarked on a tour of every shop David NEEDED to go to. Fossil, Schuh, Office, TK Maxx x 2, Boot's. For a man, he makes a very good woman. Note to retailers: MORE SEATS FOR POOR GIRLFRIENDS BY CHANGING ROOMS NEEDED.

After David had bought yet another pair of shoes, we were getting pretty tired of people. I wanted to make one quick top at Spitalfields market, firstly because it's right near Liverpool Street and Liverpool Street is how we get home, and two because it's never nearly as crowded. Tourists must not be able to venture this far east, I guess (good).

After a pit stop at McDonald's for a chicken mayo we soldiered on and had a proper gander through the stalls. Sophie and Luna were away at a festival so I couldn't thank them for the flowers, but all the other usual stored were there. We ended up leaving with a gorgeous wedding ring, and two paintings of London that I just fell totally in love with.

Sensing grey skies we hopped back on the train and went home to covet our purchases. It's been an age since we had nothing to really go out for and no aim. It's something I need to do more often - even if certain parts of London are crowded.

Just kidding tourists, I do love you really.

It started out so well. Blue skies and flies...In the Fossil store. Notice the equally as bored dude with his hands in his pockets. We shared a look of boredom.One of two bags while waiting for my fiancé to finish shopping. Again.This guy thought I was taking a photo of him. Notice the creepy gaze, then imagine his embarrassment when he realised.The Apple store's roof after climbing all the stairs to get to the bit I needed.My crooked photo, how this place didn't have laptop cases is beyond me. Not every men's retailer had changing room seats, but this one had a working piano with, most importantly, a stool.Also drum lights...And a wall of stuff.The guitar was real. I sound checked this.David, looking at someone who resembles his boss, also called David.Shoes. I think this was actually an accidental photo but it's staying. Because that's how I roll.Liverpool Street. We were held here for ten minutes while football fans/hooligans were ushered out of the place, or fed to the Creep, either's fine with meMore tube bits.An arty train.Spitalfields. Thank goodness it wasn't rammed or I'd have screamed (not really).More of the market, it's definitely worth a visit especially if, like me, you hate the public.Because we both refuse to allow each other to take decent pictures of ourselves Around the corner, and more stallsBeautiful bunting strewn about the placeDavid, haggling with the art lady to get two paintings for dirt cheap (£40)The hipster's wardrobes. Forget Ikea, just get an old classic car!By the amazing Traffic PeopleGrey skies started to head out way, it was time to leaveThe city has to be my favourite bit of London. The old with the brand new.More grey cloudsSuch rain and a kid in a fedora. Parents, why do you make this happen?
And the last train home.

Interested? Read on...

What to expect from a traditional Thai massage

I remember my first Thai massage. It was Khao San Road, so we're talking a genuine Thai person doing a genuine Thai massage, a decade ago. I was led through a wood panelled room to a waiting area while hushed girls wearing immaculate make up and the most gorgeous silk busied themselves with preparing the room.

Being a young, naive girl, I had no idea what to expect. Why were my feet being washed? And just how the hell was I meant to wear those trousers?

A traditional Thai massage experience will depend on whether you're paying for luxury in a hotel spa designed for tourists, or a side street off Phuket's seedy strip sharing bed space with a stranger. Both will leave you feeling relaxed, and perhaps a little bit mystified as to how the tiny Thai lady got you more contorted than a circus performer. It's more like assisted yoga, really. And yoga's good for the soul, right?

What to expect from a luxury Thai massage

A team of friendly, silk-robed, softly-spoken Thai women will greet you at the spa's reception with the traditional wai, placing their hands palm to palm held at neck height and giving you a little bow. It's a traditional Thai greeting, and given that you're in the Land of Smiles, one that you'll see wherever you end up.

Your therapist will lead you to a chair in a little room to have your feet washed and perhaps oiled with jasmine and orchid scented lotions. Warm water is poured over your feet to help remove the dust that will have inevitably covered your soles. This is the start of the experience, and one designed to get you relaxed and ready.

Once your feet are cleaned they'll be tightly and expertly wrapped in a towel and dried, and you'll be given dainty slippers to wear as your therapist leads you to your bed. You'll very rarely be in your own room - unlike in the UK massages in Asia seem to be a far more social experience whether it's a Thai massage on a beach, or in your own luxury wood panelled oasis.

You'll be asked to undress as a curtain is pulled around you. On the bed will be your attire for the massage, Thai silks. These are a top and a pair of trousers that'll probably seem massive. If they do, they'll more than likely be Thai fisherman pants, one of the most comfortable items of clothing a person can wear.

To tie them, put them on with the two long bits of string at the back. Hold the front upper edge so its taught against your back and your arms are slightly outstretched. Bring your left arm and the material toward your right hip so it sits comfortably around your whole body. Do the same with the other hand and other hip, so the material's folded over. Hold the pants up and grab the left bit of string, bring it to the front, then the right. Tie them together, and fold the material above the belt down. Voila!

Traditional Thai massage isn't about soothing oils and superficial body rubbing. Your therapist will begin by loosening your muscles up. She'll use her entire body to contort yours into shapes you never knew existed. You back will click, she'll slap you, climb on top of you and hold your hands behind your head while seemingly trying to snap your spine in half. This part's the same, regardless of how much you're paying. There will be much stretching, slapping and bending. She'll hold your arm and bend your knees and you'll hear all kinds of pops and cracks in your joints. It's not relaxing at the time and you'll probably wish you're dead, but it'll leave you feeling amazing.

After the massage she'll end with a head rub and leave you laying down to relax and get ready. Once you're done you'll wander back to the waiting room, sit down and be given a herbal tea to complete the experience.

You'll leave feeling refreshed and full of energy, and itching to get your next one soon.

What to expect from a £5 massage

These massages are held anywhere. More than likely it'll be in a patio door fronted small shop with florescent lights and communal beds. The ladies will be sat outside heckling you to come in with cries of 'masaaaaaaa for you!' You can barter a bit, but over the last couple of years I've found you can never get more than 50p to a quid off.

Now, I've read loads of posts about people being naked and fingers being put in places, boobs being touched, and happy endings. As someone who's had loads and loads of Thai massages in pretty divey places, this has NEVER happened to me. If you're worried about your masseuse offering a seedy service, head to one of the fairly open rooms on a main road and see how many other people are having a massage. Sure it'll be a conveyor belt of people in and out, but if you can see them with their clothes on, you're a goodun.

Basically, this massage will be exactly the same in routine as the posher massages. Your feet will be scrubbed briefly (shoes are left outside) and you'll stay clothed in whatever you're wearing. Wear a bikini if you fear nudity being imposed on you as there's no reason it can't be done without it.

A coarse towel will be placed over you and the process will begin, with the back cracking and spine popping.

At the end of the massage she'll probably give you a friendly slap or shake you awake, and you'll be on your away feeling lithe and limber.

Thai people are known for their welcoming and friendly demeanour, and their smile is a natural gesture to them. So whether you're getting a massage costing £200 in a spa designed by a world famous architect or a £2 on a beach platform knocked up by the locals, you're going to be getting the same service and warm, friendly smile.

Do

...wear loose fitting clothes. Ideally, buy a pair of cheap fisherman's pants as you'll be able to have the full massage in these
...give your masseuse a tip - it doesn't have to be much but the gesture will be appreciated
...tell them if you suffer with back pain. They'll modify the massage slightly

Don't

...eat much Larb Gai before a massage. Or anything. Just trust me on this.
...insult the staff. It's fun to barter, but remember you're in a developing country and a lot of girls don't get paid if they don't have customers - and even then they give half to the boss
...worry about what you look like. Chances are if you've almost been pulled apart by a tiny woman with super strength, the girl on the next bed over has too.

I'm going to Bangkok. Where should I get a massage?

Shewa Spa, off Susie Walking Street is great. They have a few floors and offer everything from manicures to waxing too.

Photos: Tara Angkor Hotel, Thomas Wanoff, Sofitel So Bangkok, Mark Grapengater.

Interested? Read on...

Guest post: Hide and seek in Serbia

When people think of a break in the Balkans, Croatia usually comes to mind. But after a lost weekend in Serbia, I beg to differ.

The first time I visited Belgrade and its surrounding countryside I was mesmerized. From the exposed innards of buildings bombed during the Kosovo War, to the tranquil untouched hills of neighbouring Fruska Gora, it’s a destination of contrasts.

The real beauty of the place is that it’s easy to hide away there. This is something I needed to do whilst in the midst of planning my wedding a few years ago. I needed to get away from the madness for just a few moments and take a deep, peaceful breath.

I found that peace in Serbia, hiding from all the madness of wedding planning at night in Belgrade’s underground bars then seeking out some peace in the countryside during the day.

Night

The city of Belgrade excels if you want to disappear into a whirlwind of heady drink, music and conversation with the always friendly locals. But it’s the hidden gems that really offer something special. And when I say hidden, I mean hidden. The city is home to a handful of underground ‘secret’ bars supposedly set up by people looking to meet in secret during the Kosovo war.

With no signs outside and locked doors only opened to those in the know, they’re the ultimate in low key drinking.

One of these bars is the Federal Association of Globetrotters (yes, that’s its name!). Set in the basement of apartment building, it felt like someone was wrapping a warm Serbian blanket around my shoulders when I stepped inside my first night in Belgrade. It looked just like someone’s living room with its bohemian décor, charming little tables and chairs; books crammed into nooks and crannies, even family photos on the walls. I couldn’t help but feel completely relaxed there, especially when I tried the plummy brandy the locals enjoy – delicious slivovica.

As I leaned back in my chair and watched Serbians chatter and laugh around me, all thoughts of table plans and wedding invites drifted away…

Day

…until I woke up the next morning with a pounding slivovica-induced headache.

The only cure was to seek out the fresh air of Fruska Gora National Park, just a short drive away from Belgrade. With green rolling hills fringed by lush foliage, and monasteries dotted here and there, their bell towers glistening white in the sun, I couldn’t help but feel a real sense of tranquility when I arrived.

A visit to one of those monasteries, the Krusedol Monastery, was particularly peaceful. As I wandered around, taking in the pretty frescos and flowered gardens, even buying a bottle of the monastery’s very own wine (slightly foolish after the night I’d had but who could resist?), I started to feel normal again.

But what really worked for me was sitting outside, taking in the sweeping views of the hills below, the monastery’s bells tinkling in the background. That’s when it occurred to me that bells would be ringing for me soon. So I got up, dusted off my jeans then started heading back into the real world.

A few months later, during my wedding reception, one of my guests asked me how I’d sum Serbia up in three words. I replied: ‘A hidden gem’. It may sound like a cliché but it really is true of this little corner of Europe.

By Tracy Buchanan, author of The Atlas of Us.

Interested? Read on...

Let me tell you about the time I got an upgrade on my flight

It was New Year's Eve 2006 (or 2007, I can't remember which). There I was, in JFK airport enduring the most aggressive and intimate search because my ex dared put the new Asus laptop he'd bought on sale his carry on bag.

"SIR WHAT IS THIS?" a loud American security dude bellowed.
"It's a laptop."
"I CAN SEE THAT SIR, WHY DO YOU HAVE IT IN YOUR CARRY ON." It should have been a question, but it wasn't. At all.
"Because it's brand new and I don't want it battered around in the cargo hold."
"CAN YOU DEMONSTRATE THIS IS A LAPTOP PLEASE SIR."
"Well, it's sealed in a package. I didn't want to open it until I g..."
'SIR UNLESS YOU CAN DEMONSTRATE TO ME THAT THIS IS A LAPTOP I'M GOING TO HAVE TO OPEN IT AND CHECK IT PERSONALLY. THIS COULD MEAN YOU FORFEIT YOUR RIGHT TO FLY WITH THIS ON BOARD AND MAY MEAN A SEIZURE OF YOUR PROPERTY."

Cue many sighs and eventually him opening up the package at the x-ray belt. He handed the shiny white laptop over. The man pressed the button and, of course, the brand new out of the packed machine decided it didn't have enough juice.

"SIR WHY IS THIS LAPTOP NOT FUNCTIONING?"
"Because it's brand new."
"DO YOU HAVE THE CHARGER SIR?"
"It's in this box. The box you just saw me take the clear wrapper off, which also had the receipt taped to it, showing I did, in fact, buy this laptop not three days ago."

The security guy, who admittedly was probably annoyed he was working on NYE, seemed to accept the undeniable proof the laptop was actually a laptop and finally let us through to the departure lounge. Which was full of people. I overheard an American Airlines crew member saying how there were far too many people booked on our flight home, and not everyone would be getting home tonight.

Oh. Great.

Cue an anxious hour-long wait to see if we would be landing in London any time soon. Reams upon reams of people flooded through the gate and boarded the plane safe in the knowledge their flight was secure. With only a handful of flyers left, a night in a crappy airport hotel with crappy airport food and not-so-crappy airport booze seemed inevitable.

Then it happened.

Our names were called over the Tannoy and we were asked to head to the gate.

"Oh hey there, Mr Ex!" a cheery supervisor said, addressing only him despite is both walking up to her together. "You'll be pleased to know we've upgraded your flight from economy."

She guided him through the gate while I stood there.

"I'm with him," I said feebly and rather pathetically. She looked at my boarding pass and waved us both through, with the cheeriness only an American can have at 10:45 on the 31st December.

An upgrade! How exciting! Admittedly it wasn't worth the nauseating hour beforehand but we were looking forward to the delights Premium Economy could bring.

Stepping off the walkway onto the plane, a cheery trolley dolly took our passes, and we began to walk through business class. "Sir, Ma'am?" We stopped in our tracks. What now? "Your seats are here. In Business. Please get settled and we'll be roun..."

Business? This was all so new and exciting. The chairs were huge with DOILIES, and no sooner had the cabin crew put our bags in the overhead compartment for us, we were handed a glass of champagne and offered a selection of snacks. WE HADN'T EVEN STARTED TO TAXI YET.

What ensued was the most comfortable flight of my entire life. We were given proper cutlery, a selection of meal choices and all the drinks we wanted. Plush and fluffy blankets and pillows were handed out so we could sleep, and noise cancelling headphones were on loan for the selection of in-flight movies or sound of whale song. No demand was too much, and despite the crew knowing we hadn't actually paid the additional £1000 for the comforts of business, they treated us as if we belonged. For those seven hours we got a taste of the high life, and oh how I mean that ever so literally.

So that's the story of how I lucked out and ended up in business class. Will it ever happen again? Who knows. Can I offer any tips of how to get a free flight upgrade? Not at all. But if it does happen, be sure to enjoy every minute of it.

Have you ever been bumped up to business? Let us know how it was!

Interested? Read on...

Panning for gold in Pimlico

Weekends in London can seem a bit samey. A trip to Borough Market here, a walk through Hyde Park there. When you consider my recent post about London ennui which hit hard all of a sudden, it all seems a bit been-there-done-that. A bit grey.

One lovely commenter, Melanie from Girl v. London, hit the nail on the head. She said this: "I can assure you if it's new things to discover there are plenty. Just because the obvious is hipster and mainstream, there's still interesting and (slightly) undiscovered places of London left. But if what leaves you wanting more is the overpriced and vacuous part of London then I don't have so many solutions for that ache."

So this weekend, as Melanie suggested, we're doing something interesting, undiscovered, and totally unique. We're heading over Pimlico way for a one-day-only Alaskan pop up to pan for gold, cure and smoke fish and listen to tales of adventure and danger from the men and women of Nome, a westerly town located right near the Bering Strait which once linked the Americas to Russia, as they followed their dreams to reach untold riches.



The Alaska Seafood Marketing Institute, in collaboration with Visit Alaska, have chosen Pimlico Gardens to host the event, titled The Last Frontier, on 21st June. With the day kicking off at midday and ending with a luxurious banquet held under the stars, it's a day of live music and storytelling suitable for the entire family. The menu will include a selection of four delicious dishes including; Wild Alaska King Crab on Toast, Confit Wild Alaska Sockeye Salmon, Roast Wild Alaska Halibut, and, for dessert, Herb Cake, served with Almond ice cream, blueberries and strawberries.

Hopefully this can be the start of the cure I was looking for.

You can get your tickets here, but any gold you find will be legally mine, right? Right.

Interested? Read on...

Memories of Khao San Road

Thailand will always hold a special place in my wanderlusting heart. I was initially immersed in the culture ten years ago, in 2004. Stepping weary eyed off a Royal Jordanian plane after a 12 hour stop over in Amman, I saw Bangkok in all its smog-hazed glory. My previous travel experiences were adventure-filled road trips with mum and dad to Sicily, mum's homeland. Asia was uncharted territory to this just-turned-nineteen-year-old and I'd been persuaded to give it a go.

I remember that first taxi ride on the raised concrete motorway, passing opulent houses set against the background of the slum tower blocks belonging to the poor. The image was a shock, is still a shock. Never had I seen so much poverty.

I wanted to go home and forget the months we'd be spending in this strange country. I was a farang - a foreigner - and I felt it. Twitter was two years away from being founded, and Facebook was in its infancy. The only way to connect with home was by booking a computer for an hour at an internet cafe. We didn't even take phones with us. After all, with no camera to take snapshots, what good was a Nokia 8110 going to do on an island with no signal?

After what seemed like hours, we arrived at our first stop for the night.

Khaosan means 'milled rice'. The road, a stroll away from the Grand Palace, was once a residential street and home to a rice market. During the early eighties a festival was held with the most lavish celebrations at the palace itself. With hotels in the city upping their prices for tourists, backpackers brokered deals with locals to couch surf in their homes, giving the family an income and the tourists a central base to explore. It's now both a backpacker's dream and nightmare rolled into one.



All my pre-holiday googling for hotels was a total waste. We arrived at Khao San Road and chose a soulless room with no windows in a hotel that overlooked the street. We paid the receptionist the equivalent of a few pounds for the night, ignoring the laminated sign warning us prostitutes and ladyboys would be kicked out of the hotel. Traipsing up five flights of stairs, with beads of sweat rolling down our foreheads, we dragged our backpacks into the room. There was no toilet paper, just a hose, but at least we had a bathroom. After an eye-opening few hours exploring, we headed back to the room for some much needed rest. While getting undressed the power cut out, and having no windows (or smartphones with torches) we had to wait it out in the dark.

I'd never felt more of a stranger, yet more at home. And it was in the dark, listening to the melodic sound of Thais talking on the street below, I began to fall in love with Thailand.

Backpackers made it their first stop before travelling north to Chiang Mai, east to Cambodia, and south to paradise. Even those planning to rough it would make a trip to Khao San Road first to ease into Thai life.

There's a line from Alex Garland's book The Beach, which I read years later, that's a perfect description of that first experience. It describes Khao San Road as being a decompression chamber from the West to the East.



Because it has everything, all the comforts, you want from home with the excitement only a foreign country can bring to a dreamer. There's a 7-11 for Lays chips, Boots for medical supplies, Starbucks for a cool iced latte, and Burger King if your stomach can't quite handle the street food. You can get fake IDs no questions asked, buckets of alcohol, fish pedicures, knock-off designer clothes and bags, second hand travel books with dog-eared pages, hand carved jewellery, henna tattoos, real tattoos... anything. The noodles, cooked expertly by seasoned street chefs cost pennies, and the banana roti (with Nutella) can't be missed.

Ten years ago, Khao San Road eased me into Thai traditions and culture. It was here I experienced the Thai people's beaming smile, kindness and warmth, especially after a bad motorbike accident. Where I took a tuk-tuk and had to walk back to the hotel after being taken for a ride (literally) to a Thai jeweller's and stranded. It was where I had my first back-breaking Thai massage, and where I learnt those all-important Thai words sawatdee kah and kop-koon kah.

Now though, ten years after my first visit, Khao Shan is a cliché of chaos. It's a tourist attraction, a one night place. So have a £3 Thai massage. Buy a cocktail served in a Barbie pink plastic bucket. Spend the night together. And leave in the morning quietly.

Like the rest of Thailand, it's not the same as it was a decade ago. For me, though, those memories of transition from fear to integration will always make Khao San Road very special. And I know I'll be back there again, one day.

Interested? Read on...

Would you go clubbing with your parents?

They say music was better 'back in my day'. Although I was a little young for it at the time, the 90s were the pinnacle of rave weekends and house music. But with most clubbers of the decade now being parents (and in their forties) a new travel trend has started to emerge: Retro Ravers.

This year has seen a increase of older couples booking party weekends in clubbing hotspots such as Ibiza, Magaluf, and Ayia Napa, in an effort to recapture their youth and the glory days of good music and carefree partying. After all, a mortgage and children doesn't have to mean giving up clubbing.

Jason from Broadway Travel, who conducted the survey, says while the older generation are heading over to party islands, they're certainly not slumming it with most spending big on luxury hotels and the VIP experience. "Many of the top clubs charge over €60 just for entry with drinks costing upwards of €10 each which can be costly for youngsters but is more affordable for the older generation."

So that begs the question: would you go clubbing abroad with your parents?

Marie from South London says she would, and does, but never abroad.

"I don't see the problem," she says. "Half the time I'm there with my mates and half the time with my mum. It's just a little different each time, with friends it's all about who can pull the hottest guy and a girls' night out. With mum, it's purely about having fun, a dance, and a laugh."

When asked if it causes her any embarrassment, she said it doesn't but her friends have had a bit to say about it. "My friends couldn't imagine doing the same and think it's weird. But my mum is one of my closest friends. She's been there for me through a recent break up, through every problem and good time, so why wouldn't I want to have fun with her? I think we'd die if we were stuck with afternoon teas or coffee. I know it's a cliché, but she's young at heart."

So would Marie go on a clubbing holiday with her mum? "No chance! It's one thing clubbing in the city, but I'd never go to party with her abroad. It'd be a little too much like Sun, Sex and Suspicious parents!"

Interested? Read on...