Our Englishwoman returns from a long absence with recollections of last year’s Christmas adventures and mis-adventures. There will be no more tales from New York sadly, as she is – happily – about to return to good, old England. 

I am in the midst of preparing our household for a New York Christmas, or I should say a Christmas in New York. The previous two Christmases we experienced terrible travel delays culminating last year in an aborted trip home. This year we have opted – which did for our first two years here – to settle down at home and enjoy the most appropriately festive and heartwarming things the city has to offer. We have a breath of fresh air coming from London in the shape of my sister complete with a suitcase filled with custom approved seasonal delicacies. She will be the icing on our cake – a cake that I hope she will bring with her.

New York had an unexpected taste of winter at the end of October when a blizzard covered the city and beyond in snow. A great number of houses were without power for a week or more as a result of fallen trees and branches. The trees bent and bowed with the extra weight of the out of season snow resting on their vivid leaves. It was a strange site and the parks were officially closed to snow worshippers. Thereafter the autumn continued to be pleasantly mild which is fortunate as there are plenty of celebrations this time of year that have no connection with snow…


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by TOAST ( 06.12.12 )

The first of four short Christmas stories written and read by author and poet Michael Smith, filmed by Nick Seaton. Watch the stories – as they are released – here or download them as podcasts from iTunes or read them below. 

It was during a washed-out trip to France… Sunday was wet and stormy, and as a last resort we drove off to Lourdes, first glimpsed from a distance as a big dramatic biblical mountain half shrouded in mist, the kind a little child might think God lived on, and Moses might come down from all fiery-eyed with a contract on two tablets…

The outskirts of Lourdes were as sad and tacky as you might expect, all cheap hotels and fake Irish pubs, wall-to-wall holy pizza and souvenir shops full of Marys with neon halos, a kind of Blackpool or Las Vegas of Catholicism that was utterly phoney and intriguing… I liked it, but for all the wrong reasons…


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by TOAST ( 27.11.12 )

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 )

Thomas Marks.

An arancino is about the size of a shot put. The principal ingredient is sticky, thick-grained rice, starchy and buttery, which cocoons one or other type of filling: for me, that’s ragu e piselli, a daub of mince, peas and gravy that mightn’t be out of place in a cottage pie. The barista hands it over in grease-paper, which is soon glossy with frying oil. The ball has a weight that makes you wonder how it’s been put together, and as soon as you bite through its golden crust of breadcrumbs, it starts to lose its structure: food that wants to fall apart.

I’m in Palermo, the regional capital of Sicily, sneaking from a long-grey London to seek out the kind heat of May. There are wonders of colour and high exuberance here – the gleaming twelfth-century mosaics, the plump, purple aubergines that spill from market stalls, the grinning playgrounds of baroque putti that decorate buildings meant for prayer. It’s the vividness I see first, before my eye starts to attune to the Sicilian shadows. But before long, my overriding feeling is of a city that has settled on the brink of collapse – which is why no street food could be more fitting here than the arancino


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by TOAST ( 22.06.12 )

Or at least of those things, jaded and happy on the 22nd December, that we could remember…

A is for avaaz – giving the good people, the millions of ordinary people, a real voice. A great thing. www.avaaz.org

B is for Barry the Barber – a Geordie in Spitalfields via New York, great haircuts & beard trimming, good chat, good vibes. www.barrythebarber.com

C is for Christmas, still wonderful, longed for, magic, restful and festive in the right measure…


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by TOAST ( 22.12.11 )

Alexandra Harris tells us about her favourite place, though she struggles to choose just one… Places are a huge source of pleasure in my life: mostly rural, mostly English, not too wild, preferably with signs of the past close to the surface. I know there are people who skim through Thomas Hardy’s descriptions of Wessex in order to get to some plot, but I’m the sort of person who skims through the events in order to get to the descriptions. I think I’m happiest when looking at a view. But how to choose a favourite place? They all have their moods and seasons; recent discoveries can be thrilling while the old haunts do their fair bit of haunting…


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by TOAST ( 17.10.11 )

Returned from the seemingly never-ending school holidays, our Englishwoman finds respite from New York City in regular inter-state trips away.

It is largely blamed on the tradition of harvest days but the twelve-week (or more) summer holiday enjoyed by children throughout New York reaps nothing but havoc, headaches and ultimately feral children. In my mind it has more to do with keeping the lucrative Summer Camp business afloat, not to mention keeping those taxes down as few people want to be paying over the odds for other children’s education. One thing I can be sure of is that we will have moved back to the UK before these horrific holidays have been brought in line with the rest of the world…


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by TOAST ( 03.10.11 )

When Neil Ansell moved to a deeply rural Welsh cottage at the age of 30 he was prepared for a secluded life, but had not anticipated that he would all but disappear from his own story…

The sun drops behind the brow of the black hill that looms over the cottage from the west, and dusk begins to settle over the fields below. I throw a log on the fire, fetch through a gallon jug of water, and add another S-hook to hang the soot-blackened kettle so that it swings into the heart of the flames. When my mug of tea is ready I take it out with me and sit on the doorstep. The valley is in deep shadow now, but on the horizon the western flanks of the Brecon Beacons are still lit up by the sun’s last rays…


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by TOAST ( 30.08.11 )

Jo Craven.

I live in the land of big skies. Constable country they call it. No wonder so many artists live here. The fact that this is the end of the line – the train line that is, just a few miles further and you come to a halt in Great Yarmouth – makes this a frontier land…


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by TOAST ( 25.07.11 )

Sara Wheeler looks back on her time in the Atacama, a trip full of adventure and romance.

Through an open tent flap, I watched the sun rise over the Andes. Light cascaded down the slopes and across caramel sands, drawing tall shadows out of cacti and elongating the waxy fruits that bubbled from the tips. I heard José striking a match and making a fire.

The Atacama Desert – the driest on the planet – unfurls for 600 miles down the north of Chile, extending from the Peruvian border to thirty degrees of latitude. Widthwise, it stretches from the Pacific coast through mineral-rich desert flatlands up into the foothills of the Andes and the abbreviated volcanic landscape beyond. José and I were taking a road trip. I had met him on the road: literally. My Jeep got a puncture, I cut my thumb on the jack and he came to the rescue. He had a tent but no vehicle. I had a vehicle but no tent. One thing led to another. It was 1990, and I was 29…


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by TOAST ( 25.05.11 )
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