Luke Edward Hall.

I’ve wanted to visit The Pig since it first opened its doors back in July 2011. It looked heavenly in the newspapers  – a country house hotel in the New Forest, wisteria climbing up its walls, a remarkable restaurant and kitchen garden at its heart. An approaching birthday gave us an excuse to visit, so we booked ourselves in for two nights at the beginning of this cold, wet and generally rather glum January…

By half past five on Friday evening, we’re on the road, wellies and raincoats in the boot, hurtling down the M3 towards the New Forest National Park. I grew up in Hampshire and used to visit this part of the county as a child. Those wide, open plains, a riot of subdued colour – honey, heather and moss, are a very comforting sight indeed…


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by TOAST ( 27.01.13 )

Luke Edward Hall.

I have been obsessed with magic since childhood.

I’m not quite sure where the interest stemmed from, although I am certain that I cannot be alone in having fond memories of tearing around the house as a youngster, dressed in a makeshift cape (a towel and a few clothes pegs around the neck usually did the trick), zapping inanimate objects with my imagined third eye. Perfectly normal, I would claim. In fact, someone very close to me (he knows who he is) decided to clothe himself exclusively in witches’ garb for an entire year at the age of four. And I really do mean exclusively – I’ve seen pictures of him in a pointed hat, sat in a trolley at the supermarket…


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by TOAST ( 14.01.13 )

Sara Wheeler posts her third and final Chinese dispatch from the Buddhist monastery of Labrang Tashi Khyil.

Skeins of black-haired pilgrims walked around the perimeter of the Labrang monastery, chanting softly and spinning prayer wheels. They moved quickly, and their sheepskin boots had tamped the mud hard. The sun had only just appeared above Dragon Mountain, but the air no longer carried a Himalayan chill.

Labrang Tashi Khyil, founded in 1709, is the most important Buddhist monastery outside Tibet proper. Situated in the far south west of Gansu province in the dead centre of China, it perches near the lip of the Tibetan plateau on the Daxia, a fast-flowing tributary of the Yellow River. You can see why its founder – a monk who became the first Living Buddha – chose that particular spot. Labrang sits in a perfect bowl formed by the ridgebacks of the Dragon and Phoenix mountains. For centuries it formed the middle of a web of trading routes, and Han Chinese, Hui muslims, Tibetans and Mongolians gathered in the monastic lanes to barter horses, salt and tea…


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by TOAST ( 15.11.12 )

In the second of three dispatches from China, Sara Wheeler takes in the city of Xi’an at dusk.

At owl light, lamps glimmered from the eaves of the Bell Tower, casting shadows on the cobbles and hanging lanterns.  For a while the brick facing of the ramparts glowed in the dusk; then darkness smudged them out, and I cycled on.

The fourteenth-century Xi’an city walls remain intact (uniquely in China), and a 14-kilometre bike ride on top of them gives a snapshot of that city’s tumultuous history. Situated in the heart of the country more than a thousand kilometres south-west of Beijing, Xi’an (pronounced See Ann), is the place where it all began..


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by TOAST ( 09.10.12 )

Jo Lennan.

As hikers go, I am more your fairweather sort. I like to lounge and idle. Give me a pack and I’ll stuff it with books, venison pie and a bottle of Marlborough port. I prefer a certain style of hike: a run of days, a couple of friends and a stunner of a track. The point is the simplicity of walking, the single path when you’ve set off. It’s become a summer fixture, a way to mark the season and contemplate existence. In my case this time round, it also comes ahead of a milestone birthday, the kind that looms like an accusation, like I ought to have done more with my dilettante years to date.

Which brings us to the Milford Track in New Zealand’s Fiordland. Or, more precisely, a boat is what brings us to it, a tidy little ferry whose barometer sits on ‘Fair’. This atmospheric indication bodes well for what’s ahead, a 54 kilometre trail through glacier-carved valleys to the coast of the Tasman Sea. Though it is sometimes described as the finest walk in the world, this means the scenery, not the weather, because Fiordland is notoriously rainy…


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by TOAST ( 30.09.12 )

Jonny Bealby

The Georgians have a saying… at the beginning of time when God was giving out land to the various nations of the world the Georgians were too busy drinking to attend. Arriving late, God was angry and asked why they had dishonoured Him so; there was now no land left to give them.

But the Georgians replied that far from dishonouring God they were late simply because they were drinking to His health and this had taken quite some time. God was pleased by their answer and so gave them the tiny bit of land he had been keeping for himself…


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by TOAST ( 21.09.12 )

In the first of three dispatches from China, Sara Wheeler treks from Yunnan to Sichuan.

The shadow of a black-necked crane crossed the fretted light beneath the arms of a Himalayan yew. That curious evanescence of air particular to the Tibetan plateau sparkled through a quiet Chinese dawn, and my horseman yelled out the old song of the mountains.

I was trekking from Yunnan into Sichuan, two provinces now officially Chinese but once integral parts of the kingdom of Tibet. On the western flanks, both abut the foothills of the Himalaya, and the tang of snow was never far off, even when the sun shone. This corner of China – not in itself small, but dwarfed by the magnitude of the nation – characterises a facet of the Middle Kingdom forgotten in the dizzying rush to modernise…


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by TOAST ( 14.09.12 )

James Seaton.

A flight to Baku, nothing seen but its scatter of lights as we came in low over the Caspian. On again to Tbilisi, arriving late and tired. 2am to bed, a room overlooking the mediaeval city wall striding a hill, two large and handsome Georgian churches lit up beside it.

Up at five and away with the dawn into a wide, rolling country. Two hours to a handsome house – high ceilings, polished parquet, shafts of sunlight – where, at a long table on a glazed veranda, breakfast of fruit, yogurt, eggs, local bread awaited us. Windows open to the breeze, lace curtains shading the glare of the warming day, a genial gang – a dacha scene from Tolstoy.

Two more hours east, the mountains on the horizon growing. Past the great 11th century Alaverdi Monastery – and then the road getting smaller, smaller – and finally turning to a rough – very rough – track. No preamble of foothills. Into the mountains.

The western slopes: heavily forested and very, very steep, great drifts of snow lying in hollows, rushing water, pine scent, sparkling air. Zagging up and up and up and so grateful for the sure-footedness of the cars, skittering cms from drops of… thousands of feet. Past the tree line and still only half way up. Light like a blade. Four hours and never more than 10mph – and at last the pass, 11,000 feet into the sky. Looking down on a golden eagle, patrolling the wind.

Clear sight to the high, snow-covered Caucasian watershed a dozen miles east – Chechnya beyond. Then across the pass with the wind and down into high meadows, a different country. Following a young river into its gorge. Pines, steep grass, crags, alpine. More hours, the going less alarming now – and then, ten hours from Tbilisi, six from the lowlands, the gorge opens…

…wondrously, into a wide, open bowl, a hidden verdant land held in the palm of the great mountains. Open grassland, stands of trees, hay meadows, occasional crop strips, horses, a galloping horseman – and here and there hamlets of wooden houses poised high up on the tall surrounding shoulders.

We were in Tusheti.


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by TOAST ( 10.09.12 )
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