Back in the Motherland for Christmas

Returning home this week reminded me how much I appreciate Christmas in England.

There’s certainly plenty to write to home about Christmas in Corsica; strolling around in a t-shirt in December, not having the car de-icing ritual every morning and avoiding weaving through Christmas shopping crowds.

But being a secular country, Christmas in French schools seems little austere without festive decorations or nativity plays; I couldn’t help feeling a little nostalgic for shepherds dressed in old sheets and the child who doesn’t want to be a camel.

And as for the food, it was perhaps unfortunate that I decided to try a traditional winter Corsican meal 3 hours before a very twisty three and half hour road trip to Ajaccio. From now on, I can only associate figatelli, sausage made with pork liver, fried egg and chestnut pate with holding my breath round every sharp bend to try and keep the waves of sickness at bay.

Taking in a panoramic view of London as I landed at Heathrow gave me goosebumps. An awash of Christmas lights illuminated the urban landscape adorned with iconic landmarks and a flurry of cars circulating crossing bridges and roads.

So for the next few days I will be making up for lost time and soaking up Christmas in England to the max, starting with my fist mince pie of the year, better late than never I suppose. And like it or loath it there will be no escaping the likes of Slade or the gin-soaked lament that is “Fairytale of New York” playing in every high street store.

After getting home from a last minute Christmas shopping trip with a bright red nose, surely a look that's fetching only on reindeer, I felt truly back in England.

Les Restos Du Coeur

I am in the fortunate position of having free time on my hands, something which I’m sure I will be very nostalgic about in years to come so I decided to get involved with “Les Restos du Coeur.” Started in 1985, every year this charitable organisation distributes 109 million meals to nearly 1m people living in poverty in France. Food for thought when you consider that France is hardly a third world country.

So last week I headed to the Restos du Coeur headquarters in Porto Vecchio. For three months of the year, a ramshackle former garage is turned into a food distribution centre for people struggling to make ends meet. Strategically placed buckets in the event of heavy rain, a cacophony of christmas decorations and copious amounts of strong coffee capture in essence Restos du Coeur: it doesn’t claim to be a panacea for poverty with big patronizing gestures but it’s about people doing what they can, to make light of a difficult situation.

Voluntary work has a habit of restoring your faith in humanity. As I arrived looking dishevelled and very much a foreigner (I am still resisting wearing a coat, its 19 degrees in the daytime which I consider tropical) I was warmly greeted by a truly Corsican man who waved and shouted emphatically at every utterance and a woman who spoke four languages within ten minutes,
It’s easy for poverty to hide behind the façade of luxury villas, yachts and throng of four by fours tearing through a town sometimes referred to as Corsica’s St.Tropez. The increasing rich poor divide is certainly not a predicament unique to Porto Vecchio; but perhaps the problem here is sharpened by flocks of tourists descending on the island every summer with their bottomless bank accounts. The double edged tourism industry has undoubtedly created extraordinary wealth whilst pricing out those left behind.

Food shopping is no exception. I struggle to spend less than 35 euros a week on basic items and having managed to track down tinned tuna for 30 cents last week, it’s fair to say I’m not someone with especially extravagant tastes. Admittedly I’m yet to open it, if the truth be told I’m scared about what may lie inside.

The diversity of people signing up for food donations bares testimony to how indiscriminate poverty can be: a woman whose husband walked out leaving her and her four children, , young families unable to pay for rent let alone wrapping paper this Christmas and immigrants trapped in a social security catch 22.

Whilst climbing inside a chest freezer to scrub down the sides and developing mild repetitive strain disorder from lifting 100 cartons of milk from the back of a van, I realised there is a tendency to lose touch with other real living, breathing, human beings. Self checkouts, computers, email and facebook don’t lend themselves to interaction and opening our eyes to problems sitting on our doorstep.

Le Col de Bavella

I have always been a firm believer that there's no room for adventure and excitement staying inside your comfort zone. This was certainly put to the test Friday when I hiked the Col de Bavella.

Perched forebodingly in the stunning Alta Rocca mountains, the Col de Bavella crosses Bavella Needles, a backbone of granite spikes rising high above the ground.

I was a little in the dark about what the walk would entail and I didn’t want to turn up clad head to toe in lycra. As luck would have it, my ‘middle of the road’ hiking attire sufficed...just.
The walk started through a pine forest studded with chestnuts and paths lined with ocre stained leaves. With the backcloth of dramatic mountainous landscape laced in fine mist and clouds, we steadily ascended up a rocky path.

Reaching the top, the track disappeated virtually disappeared. I watched incredulously as my fellow companions climbed effortlessly, one arm and foot instinctively stretching out and gripping the next rock. As I, not so gracefully, reached the top, my stomach turned. With sheets of cloud sweeping low above us, it dawned on me the slightest wrong footing on the narrow, cragged summit would give way to sheer drops. A companion asked me “Are you scared?” and I managed to stammer a very resolute yes.

We continued to rise and fall along meandering paths, although I use path in the very loosest sense of the word. We scrabbled through the 'Trou de la Bombe' - an 8 metre hole in the rock, and abseiled down near vertical rock faces; my companions doing so with the ease of an ape and myself more like a frightened mountain sheep.

In true Corsican style, the heavens opened with little warning. Soon after eating lunch, we walked for an hour through fierce hale and rain along an open path in the midst of dramatic lightning splitting the valley.

Arriving home and peeling off wet clothes, dealing with cuts and scratches on my legs and accessing the damage done to my trousers from sliding inelegantly down many a rock, I couldn't help but look forward to the next time.

Pyramid Training

What started off as a blog about running has rapidly been superseded by tales from Corsica, with food featuring heavily.

Running might have taken a back seat whilst I get to grips with the language and all the highs and lows that come with of living in a foreign country. This week for example, until someone kindly corrected, I realised that instead of making small talk about how much it's raining, I've been saying "It's crying a lot." Fabulous.

However that aside, I've found a very accommodating running club. In some respects, the language barrier is a blessing as I'm not always entirely sure how far we're supposed to be running. If in doubt, I just have to gage how much this session is going to hurt from the various cursing of "merde" and other profanities under the breath of my fellow runners.

We did some pyramid training last week at the track. If getting that 3000m under your belt is a hard pill to swallow after a long day at work, pyramid intervals are the perfect way to make time fly. With long distance running it's tempting to cruise along in your comfort zone without improving. This session is guarenteed to get the job done whilst building up strength and endurance.

10 minutes warm-up easy running.

1. 15 seconds high intensity 15 second rest
2. 30 seconds high intensity 30 second rest
3. 30 seconds high intensity 30 second rest
4. 45 seconds high intesnity 45 second rest
5. 15 seconds high intensity 15 second rest

Repeat 4 times

10 minute cool down easy running

I believe the technical name for this is the swedish word "Fartlek". Yes it does sound funny until you run one.

Hiking Le Mare e Mare Sud

Hiking has been high on my to do list in Corsica. So I jumped at the chance to walk the Mare a Mare Sud, a five day route from Porto Vecchio to Propriano taking in mountains, spectacular river gorges and aromatic macquis.

Branching away from the busier port towns and venturing into the mountainous Alta Rocca region was a chance to see the flora and fauna of Corsica. There was an abundance of irresistible fig trees and terracotta coloured leaves lining the paths, not to mention bearded mountain men and the alarming sight of small Corsican boys with a rifle casually in tow. Standard protocol apparently. Coming from a fairly sun deprived neck of the wood in England, I was probably overly fascinated by avocados and aubergines growing in late October. So fascinated, that I couldn’t stop myself leaning over the fence and picking an avocado from someone’s garden.

For the first couple of days whilst trekking up some steep hills, I wondered what had possessed me to pack an industrial sized bottle of hair conditioner. A friend of mine told me about someone who cut their toothbrush in half on a hike in order to save space; it didn’t seem like such a ridiculous idea when you start developing bruises from the weight of your rucksack. But the incredible views at the top were more than worth it.

On day 3, we discovered that anything claiming to be “waterproof” should be taken with a pinch of salt. Arriving at the gite soaking wet after 4 hours of heavy rain and resembling bedraggled mountain urchins, that cliché ‘look what the cat dragged in’ had never been more fitting. But two hours later, with our clothes drying nicely by the fire and tucking into a delicious lasagne made with the corsican cheese brocciu, the whole day became more of a bonding experience than one to forget.

We made it to the final gite about 7k outside Propriano on Thursday, certainly not having completed any kind of athletic feat but collapsing onto a bed nonetheless and proud of that fact that we walked across Corsica. It felt almost as good as emptying the contents of my bag into the washing machine when arrived back in civilization on Friday. I only hope there’s no bad karma coming my way after stealing that Avocado.

All images are the property of J.Hanley. http://aquariusadrift.tumblr.com/page/3

5 things I've learned this week in Corsica

Living for 3 weeks in Corsica has been a steep learning curve! Upping sticks, making friends and getting to grips with a language will never be a walk in the park. However armed with word reference (anyone whose studied languages will appreciate this gem) and the joys of Skype, it hasn't been as daunting as first envisaged. Here's about some pearls of widsom I've picked up this week...

1. Despite some mortifying language mistakes from my end, I am comforted by the fact that everyone makes them. One of my students started a presentation with "Martin Luther King was a black skin head" REALLY?.

2. Living on your own leaves you in no doubt about how much you eat in one week. There is no-one else to blame for the rapidly disappearing Camembert.

3. Food is the ultimate icebreaker. You only have to ask 'what are you're having for dinner?', or 'what food are you going to buy shopping?' and you find yourself acquainted.

4. Apparently there is a limit to how much bread you can eat. It took me nearly 18 days to reach this point, but I can now confidently walk past a Boulangerie without buying a baguette. A bread detox might be on the cards.

5. The personal space radius here a lot smaller. Regardless of gender, introductions are made by a kiss on each cheek, people talk close to your face and queue in close proximity. This was confirmed by a very intimate aerobics class which involved stretching with lots of bodily contact....I'll say no more.

But one thing I am yet to shed some light on is how French women manage to stay svelte like...

Chesnut flour Cake Recipe

I went to my second athletics training session last night and came face to face with a beep test à la française . Aside from a few serious language problems, (initially the all important word for beep test?!) I knew, just like its delightful english counterpart, it was never going to be a walk in the park. This was confirmed when the coach said "You shouldn't stop until you feel you might die." Having not being prepared for any kind of test, it probably could have gone a lot better and I should have pushed myself a little further.

So after a bit of exertion, I decided to refuel by making a Corsican delicacy, Chestnut flour cake. I borrowed this recipe from a lovely lady next door. Chestnut flour might not be a supermarket regular back home but it's not too hard to track down and well worth the effort http://www.natoora.co.uk/shop/groceries/flour-semolina-and-raising-agents/chestnut-flour/prod16039.html Its also makes for the perfect gluten-free alternative.

Ingredients
475g Chesnut flour
2tsp Baking powder
160g sugar
180ml milk
75g sultanas
The zest of 1 lemon
3 eggs, separated
60g butter, melted
1/4 tsp salt

Preheat the oven to Oven 180 degrees and line a loaf tin with grease proof paper.
Beat the egg yolks with the sugar until nice and fluffy. Then fold in the flour, baking powder and salt and gradually add the melted butter, milk and lemon juice. Then stir in the raisins. Whisk then egg whites until they stand up in stiff peaks and carefully fold them in. (I didn't have an electric whisk handy but its do-able so long as your in no hurry and you're arm is feeling strong) Pop it in the oven for 30 mins. It makes a lovely moist cake that works a treat with a dollop of Crème Fraîche mixed with a little lemon zest. Voilà!

A French Sunday

Sunday in Britain feels a lot like saturday. For me, it normally revolves around shopping, going to gym or out for coffee.

So as you can imagine, discovering that the French take Sunday very seriously has come as somewhat of a shock. Making my way through the old town at midday in search of some civilization, the streets were deserted, shutters closed and even my footsteps seemed to reverberate and disturb the silence. After landing in this French town toute seule, out of sheer boredom I hate a whole baguette today.

On one hand, I can see how we Brits are losing out. Without anything else to do, families and friends have to spend the day together catching up over delicious food (which they've been organised enough to buy the day before) in the early autumn sunshine. Besides, do we really need to trawl the isles of Tesco seven days a week with glum looking souls plodding away at work on the day of rest? Probably not.

After 8 hours of no human contact, I was forced to introduce myself to the neighbours next door who turned out to be very friendly. I came back armed with a recipe and a kilogram of peaches. A little random but maybe proof that the the day of rest is more fruitful than I realised.

Breaking the Ice

So it's been nearly a week since I've been in French territory. There have certainly been some highs points, lying on a beach in Ajaccio, eating my bodyweight in bread and cheese and discovering that school dinners in France are to die for.It's easy to understand why there is not one single McDonald’s on the Ile de Beauté And undoubtedly, plenty of situations where I've had no idea what's going on in a conversation so I've just nodded, laughed or stroked any nearby pets by way of avoiding

saying "Pardon" for the upteenth time. Yesterday one of my students likened me to Paris Hilton, I would like to think that has more to do with the fact that blonde haired people are few and far between in this neck of the wood and less to do with what the fact I'm making a career out of being pointless.

Landing in a foreign town knowing literally no-one is definitely a sink or swim situation! In the short time I've been here, I've realised people are very willing to help you, but you have to make the effort and break the ice, however painstaking the small talk is in a foreign language.

On the running front, I was disappointed to discover that the beautiful beaches are not in easy reach braving the concrete jungle, I've run along roads complete with hair-raising drivers careering around every bend. Not ideal but needs must when you're surrounded by incredible food. However I've discovered a running track about 10 minutes away which should make for a much better run.


A bientôt!

The Corsica Adventure Begins

After a marathon journey through Marseille and across the Mediterranean, I have finally made it to Corsica. I didn't quite consider the pitfalls of lugging my monstrosity of a suitcase through an airport, train station, up steps and across town. It took some serious mind over matter in some instances. That aside, it was worth fighting against sleep on the ferry and staying up to watch the sun set over wild, jagged cliffs plunging into Mediterranean waters.

I spent the weekend in Ajaccio. It may not boast the hustle and bustle of an average cosmopolitan capital city, but it oozes elegance and the late October sunshine bathing the beaches and town centre is the perfect backdrop for a weekend away. Sitting in a cafe one evening alongside the sea, studded with palm trees I couldn't help but make a sweeping observation: the women looked immaculate with acutely, angled cheekbones, blazers and poker straight hair somehow resistant to frizz. The men are skinny, sit smoking cigarettes and looking depressed.

In the absence of any willpower at the faintest sniff of a boulangerie, I ate a horrendous amount of bread and cheese which I compensated for slightly with a brief swim in Ajaccio's beautiful sea. But I'm not quite ready to embrace the laissez faire attitude to nudity just yet!

Now I'm back in Porto Vecchio, I can't think of a better way to get my bearings and work off the weekend of feasting, than a run.

5 Things I'll miss about the UK.

For once I have been organised and have starting packing in good time. I may not be an accomplished traveller by many people's standards, but a few serious packing oversights (a towel?!) have taught me to be a little more savvy. A serious 4 week-long declutter operation I had after coming back from uni has also made the whole process a lot easier. So whilst I was attempting to iron a jumper within an inch of its life to the size a postage stamp, it got me thinking about what I'd miss most about the UK, (apart from family and wonderful friends of course)...

1. Queues. We Brits are pros at waiting in line. Our continental friends seem to think its a dog eat dog world out there.

2. Tea. Afternoon tea must be the epitome of all things English. That humble brew, ideally with a rich tea biscuit, is surely the ultimate remedy in a crisis.

3. Pubs. Europe may have chic bars and a thriving cafe culture, but nothing beats a proper British pub complete with uncomfortable wooden stools, beer mats and dodging a dart board. Not to mention those obscure Real ale names: Bitter and twisted, Nun's ruin, Cornish knocker anyone?

4. British Comedy- We excel at puns, sarcasm, irony, "black comedy" or needless poking fun at one another.

5. The Royal Family- The pomp, the pageantry and ceremony of the Royal wedding this year arguably inspired a renewed sense of pride in our Royal family and some furious flag-waving.

I'm smitten by Britain it seems.

An "All Things British" Farewell

I've finally got my act into gear and written another blog post. In 5 days time I'm leaving the mother country bound for Corsica for 7 months. I'm hoping to mix my Corsican adventures with all things running related. This shouldn't be hard as according to google images, the rugged mountains, beaches and harbours will be perfect backdrop for a run.

I decided to celebrate my departure to the continent in style with an All Things British Party. The French might do cheese, wine and delicate pastries very well, but our frog-eating counterparts will never appreciate some undisputed British classics such as scones, cucumber sandwiches,and sausage rolls washed down with a few delectable few gin and tonics. Incidentally, a knowledgeable friend informed me G&T was invented to make the quinine in tonic water, an anti-malarial substance, more palatable. I came across this beautiful mini scone recipe which was too much of a gem to keep myself.

So all in all, A perfect farewell full of bunting, union jacks, delicious treats, excellent company and safe in the knowledge that after my favourite tipple I'm much less likely to catch malaria.


Mini buttermilk Scones

I like a scone as much as the next person, but I find the huge, stodgy raisin filled ones a bit daunting. These mini ones are light and fluffy and are everything you could wish for in a scone.

Ingredients:
200g plain flour
25g self raising flour
15g baking powder
25g caster sugar
150ml buttermilk
50g butter or margarine

Sift the flour into a bowl and add the baking powder and sugar. Rub the butter in with your fingertips under the mixture resembles bread crumbs (I find this bit is quite therapeutic) Then gradually add the buttermilk until the mixture is a moist dough. If it gets too sticky, mix in a little more flour. Wrap in cling film and pop in the fridge for an hour. Then preheat the oven to gas mark 7 and line a baking tray with greaseproof paper. Roll out the dough to around 1cm thick using a small cake cutter. Place in the oven for 10 mins until golden brown. I think these are best served with a bit of good jam and a spoonful of cream.

Dinner Tonight: Mid-week Meatballs with Spicy Tomato Sauce

Mid-week Meatballs in Spicy Tomato Sauce

When we're juggling work and life Monday to Friday most of us don't have time to slave over the stove. I think food should be quick, tasty but most of all make you feel good. These meat-balls tick all the boxes, are idiot proof and make for the perfect post-run meal.






 You'll need:

•      A pack of minced beef (10% fat is a good choice )

•     Breadcrumbs

•     1 egg

•     An onion

•     A 450g tin of chopped tomatoes

•     Half a jar of passata

•     An onion

•     A few cloves of garlic

•     Fresh or dried herbs

•     A good splash of red wine (optional)

•     Some balsamic vinegar

•     Salt, black pepper 
•     1 tsp sugar

•     2 tsp Paprika (optional)

Finely dice an onion and fry in a little oil along with the crush garlic for 2 minutes. Then, put the lid on the pan and allow the onions to sweeten for 5 mins on a medium heat. Meanwhile, in a large mixing bowl, combine the mince, breadcrumbs egg and herbs. Finally, mix in in the onion and garlic. Using your hands, shape into small balls. Heat a little oil and add the meatballs to the pan. I find its best to leave them for a few minutes otherwise they tend to self-destruct in the pan! Once the meat has begun to brown, carefully turn the meatballs over (BBQ tongs can be quite handy for this) then add the passata and chopped tomatoes. Give the sauce a good seasoning, add the  paprika, sugar, a good glug of red wine and vinegar if you have any knocking around in the cupboard. Turn the heat down, put the lid on and leave for 25 mins (15 will be fine if you're pressed for time) I think meatballs are the perfect companion for spaghetti, pitta bread or baked potatoes.