Cambridge Folk Festival, 2024 report by Hazel Davis It’s been a good few years since we trundled down the M1 for Cambridge Folk Festival and my adorable Boden-dungareed toddlers have morphed into sullen (well a tiny bit) teens with phones and pouts. During that time as a family we’ve tested out a range of festivals, some designed for children, some designed-exclusively-for-posh-people-but-we-had-to-keep-going-back-because-the-kids-made-friends. Along the way there’s been something missing. Just good music made by people who love music. Some of my favourite memories have been at Cambridge. Dancing backstage with the Unthanks, drinking hot chocolate with a toddler to KT Tunstall, watching a brand-new, unheard-of Laura Marling open the Thursday night to a handful of people while it bucketed down outside. So it was so a bit glorious to come back and show the girls what they’d been missing all these years. And it didn’t disappoint. For a start Robert Freaking Plant was headlining Whether you like his new Americana, blues folk vibe or not (and I do), it’s Robert Freaking Plant. He was, of course, sublime, doing nothing to dispel the notion that he’s the nicest man in music, being ever-so-humble that vocalist Suzi Dian was willing to sing with him (while she probably wakes up every morning mouthing “Robert Freaking Plant”). I was particularly excited about seeing Ríoghnach Connolly, someone whose live events I’ve followed for years and who’s become something of a Manchester legend. She was there with one of her bands Honeyfeet (or “The Honeyfleet” as the announcer insisted on calling them). What are they? Um….folk, trad, funk, jazz, erm. I don’t know but they’re brilliant and if you don’t know them you immediately must. At the end of a long, hot day on site, Connolly apparated on stage, complete with wind machine and jazz flute. “Let’s get weird,” she smirked, before launching into a song about cannibalism. I was soooo here for it, as were the three teenage lads next to me who hadn’t heard of her but were utterly transfixed for the entire jaw-dropping set. Other highlights include Grammy-award-winning Fantastic Negrito, who blew the crowd away in his gold jacket (actually the least impressive thing about him), Nitin Sawhney (who my oldest daughter declared the greatest thing she’d ever seen) and Hack-Poets Guild, featuring Marry Waterson and Lisa Knapp, for whom my partner got suspiciously close to the front, despite usually claiming to be too tall for that. I also managed to take part – not entirely unsuccessfully – in the campsite open-mic with my pal Neil, who was also there for the weekend. The best thing was that we could just sit and read our books while music floated around us. There was no rushing to be at X stage by X time or crowding into catch Beyonce (she wasn’t there). It was all very laid-back and about the sounds. The gorgeous Katherine Priddy delivered a note–perfect Sunday set that was the perfect mellow way to wind down a glorious weekend. Cambridge is a really lovely festival. If you’re not a folk fan, then most of the people I’ve mentioned above fall into other categories anyway so dispel the notion that it’s all finger-in-ear stuff. It’s not. Sure, Peggy Seeger was there, of course, and, sure, you could pick up a reasonably-priced lute and a flower garland, but if you just like good performers, reasonably priced food and a nice vibe, then it’s one for you. https://www.cambridgelive.org.uk/folk-festival Our Shakespeare correspondent, Hazel Davis, reports back from dreamy Stratford:
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford Imagine getting the chance of a lifetime to be in an RSC production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and bloody Thomas from Ghosts, one of the most beloved TV series of recent years, turns up as Bottom. WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO? Upstage him, of course. That seemed to be the MO of RSC debutant Ryan Hutton, whose Lysander blew the socks off the audience earlier this month at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. Playing the lovesick Athenian as a young spiv, he leaped and phwoared about the stage like Mickey from Only Fools and Horses (*checks notes* oh he played Rodney in the stage show), and stole our hearts to such a degree we barely noticed when “Thomas!!!” took to the stage. I say barely noticed, my tweens weren’t the only young people in the room who vibrated with delight when he appeared. And it was a TINY bit distracting. Especially when he got all his kit off and did some donkey sex with the queen of the fairies. But the show stood its ground and Eleanor Rhode’s fresh interpretation of the oft-performed play meant that Matthew Baynton (“Thomas!”) could be free to display what really was a superb Bottom safe in the knowledge that he wasn’t carrying the whole thing alone. Though Hutton, along with Rosie Sheehy’s unsettingly calm and charismatic Puck and Dawn Sievewright’s spiky Hermia were real standouts, the whole play was a group effort, and that group really enjoyed itself. Disclaimer: My 11- and 12-year-old are seasoned Shakespeare fans and this was their fourth time at the RSC. However, even with that pretentious knowledge in the bank, take it from me that this was a family-friendly performance (minus the donkey sex). So often, Shakespeare can be delivered in a visually appealing and well-enunciated way and nobody knows what the hell's going on (but obviously we all laugh along uproariously anyway) but with this one, every line and every plot point was delivered with clarity and sparsity, leaving no confusion and nobody guffawing at a joke that hasn’t actually been funny since 1596. A Midsummer Night’s Dream runs until 30 March 2024 Tickets and more info: www.rsc.org.uk/a-midsummer-nights-dream/ LINK: Hazel Davis reviews her favourite Stratford hotel I've been coming to Bangkok pretty regularly since the late 1990s. I've stayed in every kind of place, from $10-a-night hostels to suites at The Four Seasons. I'm always looking for properties that offer the best value for money - dollars and pounds go a long way here, especially in the off season, but it's still well worth looking around for a bargain.
I'm currently staying here at Citrus Soi 11 in Sukhumvit. I'm not being hosted, and I don't have any obligations to or affiliations with the hotel. I'd argue that this is one of the best value hotels in the city at the moment, and you can likely find rooms for around $40/£35 per night or so at the right time of year (Bangkok is, of course, subject to the same price fluctuations as any large city regarding festivals, conventions, etc). Citrus Soi 11 (there are other Citrus properties around town) is a five minute walk from Nana Sky Train station on Sukhumvit Road, and so it's immediately well located for public transportation, nightlife and shopping. The MRT (subway) isn't much further. It's off the busy main drag of Soi 11, a couple of corners snaking round off the hectic street on a quieter stretch. I'm writing this at rush hour (which is no joke in Bangkok) and I can't hear any traffic. It's a contemporary design, understated with clean lines and light wood finishes - it's not trying too hard, the way some gaudy three or four star hotels can. The interiors are modern; tasteful, even. I'm in a 'Classy' room, which is a level above the entry-level 'Cosy' rooms. It's 28sqm (300sqft). There's not much between them beyond the floor space. The large windows and light wooden floors give it a bight, airy feel, and there's most things you might need. Included is: daily bottled drinking water, tea and coffee in the room, a mini fridge, flannel robes, slippers and a safe large enough for your laptop and valuables. There's free wifi and a good-sized desk/work space. The onsite restaurant, Munch, has a very decent breakfast buffet with cooked western favourites (eggs, sausages, hash browns, baked beans, etc). I'm on my second week here and I'm not tired of it yet. They vary things a little every day, especially the curries and soups, and there's always lots of fresh fruit, squeezed juices, etc. It's also open for lunch and you can book rooms with breakfast included (otherwise it's 199bht/US$6/GBP£5 for all you can eat). They also operate as a coffee shop, and they stay open for lunch, with a good choice of casual options, including Thai curries. The only downside is that there's no swimming pool, but the hotel does have a perfectly fine gym and a rooftop with good views over the city. There are dozens of restaurants within a minute's walk, laundry services, Thai massage, grocery stores, you name it. The canal is also a couple of minutes away, with the regular boat taxis being an underrated way to get around in Bangkok. It's also a full service hotel, with lobby attendants, a tour concierge, drinks (including beer) and snacks available at the front desk, cheery helpful staff. There are taxis, tuk-tuks and motorcycle taxis all right outside the property. Honestly, for a clean, contemporary hotel with most things that you could need - including a great location - I haven't found anywhere lately that measures up to the value here. Citrus Sukhumvit 11 by Compass Hospitality (NB, Moveable Feast only deliver to the mainland US)
OK, I’m fresh off binging both seasons of The Bear. Several hours of watching a gourmet chef-lead drama has inspired me to unleash some unfettered creativity in the kitchen. There’s only one problem: I’m a gastronomic dunce. Look, I’ve whipped up the odd curry, and blazed through a few of the staples that arrived via various meal delivery services. Over lockdown, I even went as far as to make a timpano, one of the most complicated Italian dishes ever invented, but these culinary heroics are minor blips on an otherwise limited life in the kitchen. Despite my dearth of skills, though, I’m very suggestible and newly dead set on making a statement dinner. An intensive cookery course seems a bit much, and I should also add that I’m very lazy. Seems like a real pickle. A friend put me onto Moveable Feast, a new company with a product called Dinner Party. Based in California, they deliver full menus from Michelin-starred and James Beard-recognized restaurants. This isn’t like a takeaway version of high-end food; the ingredients are delivered and you part-prepare the dishes yourself, which seems like the perfect compromise for my predicament. I sign up for Octavia (Moveable Feast feature one restaurant per month), a San Francisco restaurant that, under chef Melissa Perello, won a Michelin star in 2019. Invites are issued, and the following Thursday (to ensure freshness, the service is only available on Thursdays), a huge box arrives with ice packs and a couple of dozen packets and tubs. Also included are detailed instructions, menus and links to a video that you can watch to get hints for preparation. The box arrives at noon on the day, and everything goes into the refrigerator, with a few ingredients coming out to acclimatize a couple of hours before prep begins. I watch the video and it’s a lovely ten-minute highlights reel of the main techniques. These are mainly chopping, slicing and drizzling, all of which are well within my lowly wheelhouse. Would you care to hear the specials? OK. For starters, we have marinated calamari with sungold tomatoes and zucchini, a creamy mozeralla with fig and salsa verde, and charred eggplant tapenade with feta and crispbread. For mains, we have a gem lettuce and stone fruit salad, king salmon in a chile-garlic butter and corn lasagne with shishito peppers. We finish on a blackberry trifle with passion fruit curd and coconut chiffon. So, I would neither conceive of, nor think I could attempt anything on that list. The best part is that the food has been cooked or is a matter of constructing say, the trifle, from the ingredients provided. Everything is color-coded and so even idiots like me don’t end up dumping blackberry into the calamari and end up with some kind of misguided, avant-garde monstrosity. I pre-prep the desserts and get the starters ready for my guests arriving (10-15 minutes), set out extra-fancy place settings (there’s a menu for each person, which is a simple but charming touch) and deem it acceptable to open some bubbles, just as a creative fuel, of course. The instructions are also color-coded and just set out a simple timeline of when to put things in the oven, and what little extra equipment you might need (just six basic kitchen implements for this one). The main courses have 19 steps total and take 30 minutes, but mostly it’s just sliding things in and out of the oven, and so you can socialize freely as long as you remember to set timers. Thanks to the video, I had a good idea of presentation. There’s a risk that unskilled hands could ruin the aesthetics, but two things make that difficult to do: the garnishes such as wild flowers and salsa verde elevate the look, and the very high quality of ingredients means that the dishes hold their shape, and even my clumsy mitts manage to approximate the plating of Chef Perello. I don’t think she’ll be headhunting me any time soon, but I don’t think I shamed her too deeply. The system works. I prepare and serve a multi-element three-course dinner for four without any stress, mishaps or disasters. Once the prep is done, you can relax into the wine and gossip and before you know it, you’re stacking the dishwasher. Did I feel like shouting “CHEF YES CHEF!” many times while piping passion fruit curd or sprinkling herb mix? Maybe. Did I feel a sneaky sense of accomplishment even though I told everyone that the food came from Moveable Feast? I did. Did everything get eaten and a good time was had by all? Absolutely. At $385 (including shipping), I would say it’s maybe a special occasion affair. The ingredients and packaging are both notably very high quality, and so I felt that the value held up well, and given that you’re getting seven courses for four people from a Michelin-starred establishment, it’s not a bad deal. And the feeling for a schmuck like me of emulating a gourmet chef? Priceless. (PO) See the Moveable Feast website for details. Our friend Jody travels to Benin, where he finds friends who are making a dish that might look somewhat familiar if you're a fan of gumbo. We eat it a lot here in New Orleans, but it's interesting to see where the dish came from. Take a look at this video and subscribe to his channel Exit Strategy TV for more content like this. One good sign that you're staying at a great hotel is not being able to stop taking photos of it. The design at the Four Seasons Hotel Bangkok at Chao Phraya River is right up my aesthetic alley. Clean lines, dark reflecting pools, tasteful art, cavernous public spaces, and those river views all add up to a memorably beautiful property.
Mad Men Meets David Lynch Review by Todd Perley I am a connoisseur of non-franchised, cheap motels. The funkier and weirder, the better. This kind of kink often ends in disaster. Broken showers, slimy ice, mystery smells, bedbugs. I once saw two maids throwing down in the parking lot using amenities from their carts as projectiles. If you want a less…harrowing experience on an American roadtrip, may I recommend the Koolwink Motel? Remember 1962? Yah, me neither. Yet I have a nostalgia for an era for which I was not present. This retro gem is tucked away in the hills of eastern West Virginia, (somehow surrounded by Maryland on three sides), just two hours west of D.C. The lobby plays sappy 1950s lounge music, as the staff greet you with smiles so genuine, it’s frankly alarming. There will be amiable chit chat as you check in, because they are actually interested in your travels, and what brought you to Koolwink. When I tell them we drink from their logo’ed glasses (available for cheap purchase at the front desk) at home in New Orleans, their eyes dance with delight. Family owned since 1936, that sense of family comes through...and includes you. The rooms are non-ironically mid-century modern, and bafflingly immaculate. Deep pile shag wall to wall so clean you could drop your baby on it as you kick off your shoes and imagine Peggy Olson doing the same sixty years ago. There is a brook that babbles at you behind the motel as you fetch a bucket of ice for the whiskey you (hopefully?) brought, because sitting in the gazebo is going to require a Don Draper-like cocktail to complete the effect. In any big city, the overall vibe would be hipster-kitsch, but out in sweet little Romney, it’s just honest vintage, and expertly-maintained by the Mauk family for ninety years. On your next mid-Atlantic road trip, venture off the ugly interstates a bit to visit the Koolwink and bask in a bygone era. But with WiFi. The Koolwink Motel, 24350 Northwestern Turnpike, Romney, WV 26757. Rooms from USD71, see their website here. After a long morning reclaiming a newly-damaged suitcase that arrived at Bangkok Airport five days after I did, I splurge on a cab home. My driver, Chakan, has what I can only assume is a heroic hangover. He keeps asking me the destination in a whispered moan every half mile. “Where again?” “Sukhumvit, Soi 12.” “Oh yeah.” Driving in Bangkok, it’s like surfing a glacier. The panoramic lines move almost imperceptibly. This is good news for Chakan as he can open his door every now and then to wretch chaotically onto the blistering tarmac. It’s a real greatest hits, a tour de force of expulsion - dry heaves, angry bile, full-throated vomit. I double mask, discreetly. If it’s not a hangover, I don’t want his norovirus, having exuberantly redecorated the bathroom of a very exclusive restaurant the last time I was in town. I’d get out, but we’re on a highway and I’m neither linguistically skilled nor geographically confident enough to know how to negotiate that situation. “What address?” “Sukhumvit, Soi 12.” “Oh yeah.” Bangkok built toll roads from the new airport to try and alleviate the vehicular pressure. It worked for a few years, but slowly people just bit the bullet and everyone started using them. These arterial roads are now awash with automobile cholesterol (carlesterol?). The toll roads are brimming with lurching steel, drivers just using hard shoulders and the median strips as extra lanes. Their utility is gone, but you still have to pay to use them. It's a neat trick. The roads are now taking their toll on the drivers. Especially Chakan, who has taken to manically turning the radio on and off for a sliver of a song every twenty seconds. In his license photo, he looks like Colin Firth. In the glare of the front seat, swaddled in booze sweat and perma-fumes, he looks like Colin Firth wearing prosthetic makeup to play the main role in a biopic of Keith Richards. “Where…oh yeah.” Two hours later, I clamber out of his cab several blocks from my place, just to give him space to suffer. In any case, I can walk faster than he can drive, even with my junked suitcase. Back home, I look up Chakan's name. It means ‘healthy body’. Over the course of my job, I’ve been lucky enough to have visited and reviewed dozens of spas and treatments. I’ve winced under hot pebbles, been exfoliated with stony fistfuls of mud and brutally whipped with branches by joyless, bare-chested Turkish men. If it can be done with essential oils to new age music, or by strapping sadists armed with bits of tree, I’ve likely tried it. Thailand has become a regular destination for me, and I’ve experienced more and more Thai massage, from the heights of opulent hotel penthouses down to temple-adjacent blind monks, working elbow to elbow in rooms of forty or more tables. From shiny, high-end kneading joints to dusty, backstreet pummel factories, I’ve been around the Thai massage block. If you’ve never had a Thai massage, it’s like getting roughed up by a yoga teacher. It’s not so much the gentle coaxing of tired muscles as it is electroshock therapy for your tendons. There’s no gentle kneading, it’s more a bracing interrogation of your body’s more vulnerable pressure points. I mean, if it’s done right. I try to get in as many as possible when I go to Thailand. In the rarefied air of the five star salons, it’s like a ballet. In the prim day spas off the Sukhumvit Road, it’s like a choreographed wrestling match. These iterations are fine, but give me the rundown shacks around Pratunam market, where the masseuse is a 70-year old woman, five feet tall with thumbs like gnarled knots of oak. You just know she could easily withstand a vigorous rugby tackle. These sessions? These sessions are like a Buddhist street fight. You pay your $6 for an hour and sit down while she washes your feet and sizes you up. Why is she frowning? I’m convinced that she can assess your frailties just from this simple ritual. She leads you to a curtained treatment room, and leaves you to change into the loose pajamas provided and lie face down on a thin mat on the wooden floor. “OK?” “OK.” Even though she doesn’t speak much English, I can sense her judgment from the start. Oh great, I have to prod this pasty mound of European dough. Many times, she’s audibly displeased with my physical limitations. Lots of indignant sighs. At one point she stops and harangues me, saying, as far as I understand it, that if I want to come to her in the future, I have to get a deep tissue massage first so that there’s at least a modicum of suppleness to my limbs. She can’t work with this. It’s amateur hour. She does her best. Her steely digits find previously undiscovered nooks, making jolting inroads in a bodily equivalent of first contact. You know in Alien when the Xenomorph opens its mouth and an extra set of teeth jut out? It’s like that, but with her thumbs. Two thirds of the way through, she stops and says to me, without any emotion: “I think there is something very wrong with your body.” The heft of the damningly brief prognosis hangs in the air. I manage a tepid “OK?” and we head into the home straight, nothing more said. There’s always the big finish. The spine aligner. The snappy ending. They put you in a sort of wrestler’s half-nelson and then sway you once, twice, three times a lady, but on the third time your torso is twisted and wrenched away from your stationary hips, and there should be a 21-vertebrae salute, with cracks that can be heard around the royal temple. As you catch your breath, there’s a ceremonial rap of little back pats to signal to you that the fight is over. She won. She always wins. I am dismissed. I crawl out of the shop, a broken man. I’m not in her league. I clearly need to raise my game. Now I really need a massage. The kind where it doesn’t feel like a punishment. Hey, I wonder what’s very wrong with my body? (PO) Some impressive, lesser-spotted, in-room amenities at the beautiful Four Seasons Bangkok Chao Phraya River: A pool bag for your sunbathing whatnots, two types of umbrella (rainy and parasol styles), a button in the loo that activates the Do Not Disturb light on your room door, and a pair of scissors for opening the milk carton without an unforeseen spillage.
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August 2024
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