Imperial Black

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2011-06-02T13:09:00.001-04:00

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Imperial Black, Lieutenant Twiss & a Darjeeling Hill Station

2011-05-18T12:22:00.001-04:00

Shimla Matheran Darjeeling

smoke and dawn in the foothills of the Himalaya

Darjeeling & Kanchenjunga

a temple of monkeys

A British past

Hill stations and the lives lived there have more than fascinated us at Imperial Black. They have coloured our images of the English gentleman abroad. The gin drinking, tea sipping, and cricket play beneath a sweltering landscape are irresistible.

Coronation day 1937

As a boy I would hear talk of forebearers who took the air up high, walked the hills, and adventured onto the peaks. Always fascinated I would beg more from assorted great Aunts and Uncles. I have strong suspicions that as the paltry bits of information were mined over and over our own Lieutenant Twiss became a distorted sum of his parts. I'm doubtful that any man could live up to a family's collective stories but nevertheless he persists and exists to this day in what we do.


In Darjeeling

a march with the men

Tiger print in river bed

We are drawn to the time in between days and the ethereal places in between journeys. Hill stations existed in that idyllic place of being neither here (India) nor there (England). Just as in a scrubby patch of land in the West Indies reinvention was commonplace for many a man.

As we look at shirting materials for this next selection The Raj and travel by train through the continent loom large. The ashes of British Imperialism are ever present in our thoughts. place names, historical events, injustices made, and a thirst for exploration offer fertile material for the imagination.

up and into the hills


Quarters bound for the hills


An elegant spot to write in transit

Continental Drift

2011-05-04T17:23:00.001-04:00

The pilot seems a good sort. Every now and then I am awakened from my West bound slumber as the intercom sings nasally and he points out various geographic features sliding by below the wing.

We are taking the southern route to LAX and It is over the redness of Utah that I hear the familiar names: Zion, Arches, Capitol Reef, Moab.. I am knocked back twenty years. Hair longer (and thicker) we came to the desert spires looking for dizzying exposure, solitude, and the tracks of the greats that pioneered these routes. What we found on the Fisher Towers was something else entirely.


Titan


1st ascencionists Hurley, Kor and Ingalls May 1962


Summit

From afar the towers pulse with an otherworldly redness in response to the afternoon sun. I have always been blown away by the play of light over rock-To this day I am inexplicably drawn to the towers of the Dolomites in the peaks around Cortina when visiting our Italian workshop. Our fabric pattern choices are easily a result of colours that our travels have ingrained in us. Still- When we looked upon the Titan I was yet to fill my head with things such as warp, weft, canvasing, and surgeons cuffs. I just new I liked the colours....

Our stomachs knot as we gaze upwards into the vastness of the heights. Packs, crammed with seemingly every bit of climbing gear we own, seem woefully inadequate. We wanted air beneath our heels but 900 feet of exposure seems overwhelming in the flatness of the desert.

a rack of many colours

racking up for the 1st ascent

Up close the soaring towers seem a mirage. They appear to be falling down around us and the recent rains give the mud covered sandstone the appearance of African termite mounds.

The Finger of Fate

We fall into a fitful sleep after too many cheap beers. The towers looming above and beyond the tent walls and our minds.

a room with a view


Kor on the sharp end of the rope. "The Skull" hangs above the Finger of Fate

The Titan is more alpine route than a desert climb. One is forced to draw on everything from the bag of tricks. The crumbling mud is a mercurial surface to tread upon. There are tales of parties using ski poles, ice tools, and golf clubs to supplement the usual wall climbers rack. As one moves carefully on what anywhere else would be termed choss there is the head reeling and stomach tugging pull of exposure. The desert floor seems to beckon as gravity implores your body to leave this place. Evidence of climbs between the 1st ascent of 1962 and today are strewn across a vertical plane as one is forced to contend with anchors that surely were placed by the 1st party. A reliance on 40 year old manky pitons leaves us shaking as we move above placements and look for purchase in the muddy seams. We are scared and screaming at one another as an outlet. We know we are in above our heads.

mank

old & the new

old piton & mud

early tools of the trade

correct placement

While archaic looking the old gear holds (barely) and we find ourselves moving into that rarefied space where connection with the horizontal ceases and the vertical takes hold. Once past an early traverse, the door is shut and our commitment becomes real. This is what you come for. The feeling of slipping the moorings and being cast adrift on a seemingly endless vertical sea. We have become voyagers and fall into rhythms as the ground fades away. Both following and leading we move ever upwards. We work diligently and at times in silence.

adrift

At days end we are aching and hollow, the ammonia smell of fear mixed with the dustiness of sandstone. Our mouths are dry, voices croak from yelling across too many rope lengths. We rap our fixed lines in the dark, headlamps casting mean pools into the void of the descent gully. As we stumble through the brush we feel the first drops of returning rain. A rain that will leave us tent bound for days and turn the grand towers into cascading rivers of mud.

There is unfinished business outside of Moab. Perhaps it's better that way. I drift back to sleep still feeling the place within as the plane's hum leaves the desert in its contrail.

Everything seems just moments ago as we descend into the L.A. basin.

E.M.M.

1st ascent pictures courtesy of National Geographic November 1962.

Dolomiti

2011-04-02T23:52:00.000-04:00

Dolomiti from Felix Hentz on Vimeo.

Out of sorts on the Ides of March

2011-04-02T23:31:00.002-04:00

March has us jangled and out of sorts. One could easily write off the whole month as nothing seemed to go as planned but our predicament certainly wasn't for lack of trying.

The path leads through Zurich

Hauptbahnhof

Train stations still retain the necessary grist for travel. Zurich's Hauptbahnhof would seem an ideal place to light out for a run into the Austrian Alps. Board, ski quivers and Patagonia Black Hole Bags engulf our compartment. We try to shake the transatlantic crossing from our heads and sit back, drinks in hand, and watch the Alps begin to slip into focus.

Weather reports are shaky and we crane our necks as the Alps enclose and circle us. We have come to the Arlberg region looking for powder but the skies look shockingly blue. Sadly (never though that complaints would come about never ending blue bird days) this was to be the norm as a high pressure system settled in over the massif for the duration.

James Bond Zurs


tram with a view St Anton

Lech and a stroll to the tram

In many ways the warm weather is a welcome respite. The itch to drop into skinny couloirs and skin to far off cirques is brushed aside as nothing comes into shape. Instead, late starts, leisurely breakfasts with the FT, long piste runs and early afternoons catching the sun at slopeside tables are the norm. The local schnapps is both delicate and brutal. We find ourselves at high huts eating amazing cheeses and charcuteries whilst feeling the sun on our face and wondering where to eat next. The pistes in Zurs are pure cordurouy, it seems the Russians that frequent the town can't be bothered to disturb even the groomers. Massive GS turns are the order of the day and we rack up high speed miles.


tracked out in Lech

pear schnapps + energy bars


A lunch line with Schnapps on the way to Zug

timeless on the way to Stuben


awaiting the boozy and sun tinged masses Lech

After 10 days of waiting for non happening powder bombs we have worn out the piste runs of the valleys and yearn for something more. We are tanned, heavy from drink and food, and weary of the waiting for the perfect weather system. We pull the plug, say Aufwiedersehen to our Austrian friends and head back stateside where we have been jealously eyeing reports of massive quantities of the white stuff that just don't seem to stop.


Black Crows Sevun's- looking for something deeper

In Utah

A few time zones later and we are grinning ear to ear as the only sound is our breathing and the soft thud of Utah snow. The cannons have been hammering away all morning and while less than stable, the snowpack is deep. Donning Ortovox's we find our groove in a back corner of the smallish Jupiter Bowl. The lone wobbly chair gives us all the slow access we need to pockets and chutes hidden within the trees. There are whoops of delight hidden in the evergreens as other voyagers find their lines and react accordingly.


redemption in white

We have two days to take full advantage of the opportunities laid at our boots. Blistered feet and thrashed muscles are swept aside as we make up for lost time with more fresh turns than we can count. Sleep comes so fast and so hard at days end that coupled with jet lag we exist in a snowy and billowing somnambulistic state.


Turns on Cardiac

Jones stick of choice

Cyril Despres putting the KTM 450 through the paces in Andorra

2010-12-01T17:17:00.001-05:00

The birth of a Dakar bike

2010-12-01T16:43:00.001-05:00

Dr No & Round Hill

2010-10-22T13:34:00.000-04:00

An early swim out to the small, horse shoe reef has been the only thing pressing each day.. I swim out, feeling the water move from chill to warm then chill again as I approach the drop off. Two spear fisherman, barbs glinting in the sun shot depths have a medium sized barracuda (though not big enough for ciguatera). The fish flails at the end of a spear as it struggles upwards. I tread water, looking back towards the small cove of a beach at the villas nestled into the hillside, and can just make out Kingsley standing on the steps. Sea blue coat visible against the whitewashed buildings. He has been standing there for 46 years.

The days are meandering and lacking purpose. Long naps are jumbled with piles of books, walks down Frangipani and Jasmine bombed lanes. Snippets of French and Persian murmurings are caught behind a hedge of Croton. Swims in the pool are G & T infused while Tea has us overstuffed with scones, creme, and smoked marlin finger sandwiches. We retreat often for late afternoon lay abouts.

As darkness tumbles the hillsides, tree frogs begin their shrill and peeping night music. A piano plays from the depths of the famed bar as last light lingers then disappears with a sharp completeness. We eat grilled lobster and curried goat with a waxing moon lapping at the shore. Much later still, as last drinks are sipped, a calypso trio begin to play softly and quietly against the humming night.

the main bar

Ian Fleming, Noel Coward, and Errol Flynn hared around the North Shore quite a bit. Paths would inevitably cross at Round Hill, as would many others of their time. In many ways it hasn't changed. There is a relaxed, slow paced grandeur. Yes, JFK and Jackie O honeymooned here. Truman Capote and Babe Paley fixtures too. It doesn't matter though. The myth isn't forced on you. As others have said its a cashmere blanket of a place. Yours for the keeping.

Flynn

the man himself

coward at sea

It would be a lie to say that our shirts and coats aren't influenced by British Colonialism. Round Hill could be the club at a hill station in India, a private place in Ceylon. Gin tinged and linen crumpled outposts of home and majesty. High tea and a successful polo team just make it all the more so. Inspiration assaults me...

I suppose it's a bit of an anachronism on an island filled with massive resorts, tourist pocked beaches, and ongoing issues in Kingston. Jamaica has never held anything for me yet it has always been within earshot. In my youth a friend of the family was assassinated in his villa above the capitol. Another year words of a divorce and an implication with Robert Shaw reached the family. As I grew older and lit out for further flung places the cheap bucket trips to this island showed little appeal.

Recently the island reared it's head during a read of Fleming's "Dr. No". This, and other works have the mans love for the north shore sprawled across the often pulpiness of the page. If you haven't read the books you owe it to yourself. Ideal for a short domestic route but equally at home on a Montego Bay run. Just have their driver pick you up.....

penguin modern classic cover

Armchair Mountaineers- Planning to Plan

2010-10-10T22:16:00.001-04:00


inspiration in oxidation. One of E.H's


Plans begin to unfold

something north that involves suffering


Archives are pulled & talk grows bolder

a classic team and a classic pose

Ruth Glacier Party

exposure at its best

to wax or not to wax oneself

2010-09-28T10:13:00.001-04:00

It began with a knock on the door to the library. The housekeeper stepped in and said she had done something terrible.

Did she throw one of my Drakes in the wash to remove a spot again?

One of the bikes knocked over in a frenzied attempt to clean the garage?

Was a child left at school while I was off somewhere?

much worse.....

"you know that old jacket with holes in it? .....well, I washed it, it looked terrible. Now it looks worse, its peeling"

The green one?

"yes"

silence on my end.

Like many, I have felt a strange attachment to my Barbour. In this case, a Border model that is pushing 16 years. But my closeness to the waxy goodness goes further still.

When I was a child my Grandfather would show up wearing his dented, faded, and patched Barbour. It smelled like the vestiges of pipe tobacco, a walk through bracken, a visit to the pub, and faintly of paraffin and mints. He would tell us to pick a pocket (as you know the front bellows pockets can hold all sorts- the game pocket on a Beaufort, probably a small child). On some days the pockets would hold a white waxy bag of mint imperials or tubes of Smarties. Others days would bring dracula teeth, stink bombs, itching powder, or hand buzzers. Once the left pocket moved oddly and a guinea pig called Buttons appeared.

In a nod to Pavlov the smell of a Barbour came to represent all that was good in a boys world. It would also be the catalyst for a lifetime of motion sickness caused by the aforementioned smells and a Lancia that always seemed to careen down the roads of Kent. My Grandfather was a terribly fast driver and I believe that his diesel exhaust vented to the right rear seat. To this day, a car load of Barbours, the heat on high, and a diesel on a windy road do not a good mix make.

When my Barbour was shiny and young we found ourselves iced in one New Years in Five Bridges. The only salvation was a slithering down the skating rink of a lane to the local. After much laughter at the newness of my coat we drank ourselves silly and gorged ourselves by the fire. The walk home found the new coat of wax stiffening and cracking with the cold. It smelled of smoke from the poorly vented fireplace, Dunhills, and a spilled Famous Grouse. The patina had begun.

Every year I promise myself that I will send it off in summers mad heat waiting and waiting for the men that know how to mend such things to do so. I always delay and come the first good cold rain I find myself with a can of Barbour's thornproof dressing bubbling away on the range.

I am terrible at doing this and the results are always haphazard and uneven. Unlike the pleasure in building up a good shine on a pair of brogues, I tend to fall flat about half way through. Just too much damn surface area. However, these are some fine directions if you can prevail.

Do I trade down for a newer model? Barbour snobs would scoff but I do like some of the newer offerings. Still, I feel that it would be the betrayal of an old and tired friend. Besides, there is always next summer to send it off......

Revival

2010-09-23T12:37:00.001-04:00

What could be better than a sunny English day and a chance to relive some of the halcyon years of after the war? Throw in some brilliant bits of machinery and some women and its a day. Just inspiration everywhere from bonnet straps on Jags and Morgans to the pipes of a Maserati under power. Would kill for some of the tweeds that the older set held on to. The Goodwood Revival.

old friends

helmet & tie required

silver dream racer

The Floriditas contribution to society

2010-09-17T17:34:00.004-04:00

The odd leaf is starting its annual spin to the ground but the heat is still a contender. As we have been on a Papa kick lately the concoctions that either helped him hang on or slide off (depending on ones viewpoint) have made themselves available from lunchtime on. Of this I mean the daiquiri and not the day glo sickeningly sweet form that I'm sure is omnipresent at loathsome couples type resorts.

We are talking a man's drink here. Served in Havanas Floridita to the man himself and riffed on in so many ways since. Basic ingredients but incredibly refreshing- and no, you don't need a blender.

Errol Flynn & Ernest

Holding court with Spencer Tracy to the left

from the new Floridita

This is the official Imperial Black version

Begin with 2 oz light rum and add to a shaker
Grab the freshest lime you can and squeeze an ounce out of it
(about half an average size lime)
Add this to the rum
follow with 2/3 oz simple sugar syrup (Papa was diabetic and left this bit out)
Then add 1/4 oz maraschino liqueur (If not into cherries omit and enjoy your lime)
Fill the balance of the shaker with chipped ice (towel + 5 cubes + hammer)
Shake like mad until a nice frost forms on the outside

Pour without straining into a chilled glass (Martini glasses good as are highball glasses)

Drink in a purposeful manner until finished. Have another before you slow it down.

Makes you almost feel as if you are across the Florida straits listening to Fidel's brother on the radio and planning something.

A North Woods Sky

2010-09-11T17:46:00.001-04:00

We are sitting next to the large purple buddleia. It's dusky smell making itself known when allowed by the stiffening breeze coming off Sturgeon Bay. Behind us I hear the drunken drone of bumble bees as they gorge themselves amidst a towering bed of foxgloves. Further still is the clatter of crockery in the kitchen and the tinkle of patinaed and crumbling temple bells, from both another continent and time. Strange how the smallest of things from our travels stick with us while larger accumulations and people come and go.

In the green waters below the smallish limestone cliff, the children move through the water. A summers sun has left them walnut hued. Dark hair slicked and shining lends them the appearance of otters at play. I squint across the water at the point where I think the sun will set and grab my Manhattan from the greenest of grass.

A visit to a northern latitude seemed essential. In the death throes of August the heat had taken on a predatory menace. Scorching the dew in the morning and suffocating the night sky. Friends had withdrawn into bunker mode and the streets appeared deserted at mid day. The South seemed a ghost town. Once again our beautiful cuffs gave way to knit short sleeves

Up here, on a narrow peninsula that probes outward into a great lake there is a crispness to the landscape. Birch trees shimmer in their silver way and a crackling fire pit is a worthy companion. The landscapes colours give a new inspiration of greys and purples, the deepest of blues, and cremes. We have drinks each night and do nothing more demanding than wait for the sun to lower itself into the water. By day I glass the same water with a pair of Swarovskis. Looking for tall ships to appear from the horizon as if transposed from Botany Bay. Late afternoons are spent in a wooden boat looking for light houses and hidden coves.

Days of idleness and reading are interspersed with visits to local watering holes (mostly the fishing hole where we drink Leinies and wear out CCR on the jukebox). A trip to Palmer Johnson finds us salivating over the shipyard and planning delivery of our Imperial Black Global Exploration yacht build.

As darkness settles and the wind picks up a lightweight cashmere is thrown on from our guys in Como. We lay on our backs and catch the flares of the summers last meteors. Watching as they move briefly and brilliantly against the slow tracking of satellites. There is little light pollution here and the sky is teaming with stars. Stories of very different times and different travels are traded. On this jut of land and against the dark twinkling of the sky we are a small group with a strange collection of accents and citizenships. Nomads around a fire already feverishly dreaming the next place.

it's already yesterday

2010-08-05T15:47:00.001-04:00

The tinkering about is finished. The attendant has quietly removed my g&t in anticipation and the engines begin their thrum.

There is the usual roar and I watch the grass on either side first quicken, then flatten into a smear as we gather speed and hurtle down the runway. The nose lifts skyward aiming for another strip of concrete an ocean away on the edge of a great city.

I ease back as we bank westward towards the setting sun before circling and heading into the growing dark. Red Moleskine tucked away I grab pens and pencils from my Filson and briefly leaf through the load of magazines, books and swatches. A silhouette breaks the warm rays of the evening sun as drinks service is resumed and the attendant begins handing out menus. Knots of conversation begin anew as we begin to level out.

I understand that there are those who despise travel. A flight is an inconvenience, the quickest way from A-B and nothing more. Granted that the allure of the old Pan Am Clippers or the Pucci stylings of Braniff are long gone but there is still a joy to be salvaged in the long haul flight. Where else can one find a large block of time away from emails,voice mails, badgering assistants, etc..? I despise the advent of in flight internet access for this very reason.

We are a savvy brotherhood and have undoubtedly logged many a mile on virtually every type of aircraft (Still hoping for my now defunct Air Afrique points). Yet we all approach flying differently. I tend to work well in flight and have had some of my most creative thoughts near the jet stream. I'm tireless with a pencil and paper and seem to land with all sorts of ideas and thoughts that wouldn't have occurred to me at a desk. Our now signature orange threaded cuff being one that made it from the pad to the table.

Villiers is a sleep man and has been known to be unmoving through the longest of legs in a pharmaslumber. P.G. catches up on every film he has missed and is usually glued to the in flight personalized video. Finn is a reader and has now eschewed the hefty bag of books for first a Kindle, and now an Ipad. He always seems to be the one seated next to the gorgeous brunette that we all secretly hope/wish would be our seatmate. Instead we are left with the chatty old age pensioner or ham hock armed portfolio manager. Such is life.

I awake early and a blood red sun seeks a portion of upturned shade. In search of a water to swish away the taste of a night of pressurized air I pass the crumpled and stirring forms of other passengers.

Quite a while before landing and the plane hangs dead steady in the middle of the world. Only the patches of bright sunlight swinging slowly on cabin walls reference motion. We are seemingly in situ as the day begins below us. I go back to reading Imperial Bedrooms and look up only when we are reaching a coastline. The straight white feather of a boats wake across an inlet, the glint of chromium from a toy car caught in the sun- signs of a life outside the fuselage.

The reverie is over as I smell the muted bitterness of coffee brewing in the galley. Later still comes the shrill hydraulic whine of airbrakes and landing gear, the tearing bump of tyres on the runway and the ugly roar as the screws are reversed. A rumbling tired progress then ensues as we move towards the gate.

With a bagful of new ideas I step out of the plane and into somewhere else.

E.M.M.

Angling South

2010-07-15T13:10:00.003-04:00

Usually June and July see us overseas with a lazy, late afternoon realization that it is the fourth. Shrug, nod in the general direction of where you think the United States are and then it's back to a cold Hairouin and roti.

This month sees us landlocked and moving between coasts. Harboring an Iago like itch for trouble we move erratically down towards The Gulf. Fabric swatches and uncracked moleskines sit idle in the way back under a drift of sand pocked bags and rod cases. I suppose I'm in search of inspiration, some bbq, and at least the chance to throw a rod at some fish. But if you must know, and as the humidity peaks, there is a declining trajectory of ambition at hand.

We are in Alabama and interests are piqued by the Garden & Gun piece on the quail trail. Open fields come into view and the soil turns sandy. The once orderly rows of a pecan copse are blurred by the movement of chokebush and kudzu.

We make ourselves lost on idle clay roads and are reminded of how visceral and green the landscape is. It's a Flannery O'connor story of lush growth, dark scents, and the scripted decreptitude of wonderful old houses. You could get lost here.

none of my material is green enough. Everything has me in the mood for eye searing chartreuse pins over a subtle Prince of Wales blue. Must send for swatches to meet me en route.

I have shirts (our 170's really do travel well) but am tie-less. I borrow an Hermes that is probably older than me, blue with cornflowers bursting upwards towards the neck. This evening its to be a fete- of a friend of a friend. No movie theatres, no Starbucks, not even a bowling alley out by the highway anymore. A house party seems just about right as the day draws on and the g & t cools me. I rest my eyes and lean back in the glider as the dog lays in an orange wedge of afternoon sun.

The obvious abounds. Every cliche is in place and I can see why transplanted northerners, interior decorators, and Atlantans make their intermittent claims here before moving on to a place less challenging. Of course it's the anniversary of "To Kill A Mockingbird". As the Chattahoochee creeps through its dammed waters behind us I'm ready for someone to cue Atticus.

I am holding a Sazerac and have already ditched the tie. I thank the skeletal, heavily perspiring older gentlemen tending bar and note the tie of his bow and the starch of his shirt. I have seen him off and on over the years at such get togethers and he always looks the part. I note that he still pours with a heavy hand.

The afterthought of an air conditioner simply cannot keep up with the smash of bodies and a veranda door is opened. The sweet, sickly heaviness of gardenias fills the room and serves as a foil to the faint bitterness of bats somewhere in the eaves. I am told that the ballroom above our heads is collapsing and is off limits. I look in the off center gilded and fogged mirror. The leaded chandelier above seems suddenly menacing.

The crowd is a definition. There are knots of elderly people moving about a massive pecan refractory table piled with the usual Southern goods. Wavering hands clutch crystal high ball glasses against chipped Spode. The period clothing would make even the most jaded Williamsburg denizen envious.

Middle aged couples talk of the oil down on the Gulf as their children chase fireflies and are attacked by no see ums out by the roses. Coltish tanned girls from Oxford and Tuscaloosa are drawn together (as all Southern women are) by a good story. I see B.R. and he tells me of how they are renovating his uncles old place outside of Acapulco. Although saddened that it has been discovered again he is looking forward to the seasons villa parties. A guy in his twenties hands me a glass of something local, then adds a friends bitters. It tastes like spar varnish with an overtone of rosemary. I thank him and then field questions about Tony Howard. I think that someone must think we hung around short midwicket and deep fine leg together...

still no greens.

Tomorrow the road leads to the sea....

Wishing every month of the year could be June

2010-07-13T16:26:00.002-04:00

The ferry leaves the dock with a slow, groaning inertia. Engines idle hungrily under the diesel thump as air conditioners and fans are pushed to high. Cars packed like those in a cannery settle in for the short ride. We limbo sideways out the door, trying not to door whack the elderly couple in their golden sedan. A woman behind us grips her wheel, hair fanning out from the a.c.'s wake. From a once red F150 we hear Tommy James and the Shondells Crystal Blue Persuasion. My seven year old grabs my hand and we move through the salt air and up onto the observation deck. Our stomachs are full of fried clams and grape Nehi's. It's summer in the Outer Banks.

This is June, probably the finest month of the year. Everything seems so possible. The breadth of summer just streaming out before you into an unknowable distance. This is the month of childhood and one that still settles expectantly on even the oldest of travel companions.

thinking of another batch

Eventually we head South and end up in Wrightsville. The scene of so much of a misspent youth. The swells are kneeish at best and nothing is happening. The beach breaks are still crummy and the break near the pier is too policed. Figure Eight is rejoining the sea. We grab Carolina dogs at the Trolley Stop and eavesdrop on the same conversations that we surely had while perched on our beater Wagoneers. Inevitably there is talk of a party across Masonboro inlet. Someone will swim across, someone will barely make it to the barnacle encrusted buoy after misjudging currents, someones friends will pluck them from the sea in an overloaded Grady White.

These talks never end. My son is finishing his dog and we seem fitting bookends to the most summery of discussions.

Despite our better judgment we are working on pulling together something a bit more comprehensive than our sporadic offerings. This seems like work but we have listened to what you want. We'll keep everyone posted as ideas emerge and designs materialize.

I'm still thoroughly against any kind of seasonal collection. The goal as always is an 8 week pulse of something new and worth acquiring. What is seasonal anymore? For the price of a Varig ticket we can all go from Vilebrequins and oxfords to off piste in Portillo, wearing the most technical of Chouinard's gear. I've left puzzled customs officers in Bridgetown as they sweated through a suitcase full of tweeds and sweaters, packed for a Hogmanay house party. I suppose it's all relative.

All I can promise is that no 640 gram shooting jackets will be seen in July. Swim trunks in the midst of winter are something else entirely...

Cheers

E.M.M.

Nigel's Five Spice Quail

2010-05-30T22:16:00.000-04:00

Some interest in the five spice quail consumed (absolutely) whilst in Texas.

Would be an honour to claim this as my own but it's a riff on one of Nigel Slater's. If you haven't read any of his pieces (many) for The Observer please do so. While you are at it, pick up a copy of The Kitchen Diaries. Just lovely words on food....

5 Spice Quail

1 large clove garlic (you know not to use the ones with the green bit right?)
1 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper powder
2 teaspoons Chinese five spice powder
The juice of one lemon
2 tablespoons peanut oil
4 quail (game hens can be substituted)
Sea or Kosher salt

Grab a decent sized bowl. Peel and smash garlic. Stir in lemon juice, oil, cayenne, and five spice powder. Apply a good pinch of salt (more like two good ones). Coat quail with seasoning mix. Be sure to coat evenly but gently. Put in the fridge/cooler for a couple of hours and forget about them.

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Chuck birds and juices into a roasting pan. Not too big but you don't want them to touch either. Roast 20-25 minutes turning once. Birds should look dark and a bit crispy when finished. Serve with a lemon and some good chunky bread for the juices.

Quite a few beers are good with these birds. The salty, sweet, spicy stickiness of the flesh is a great pairing with everything from Tsing Tao to the less exotic Shiner. Johnny Walker Blue....not so good.

Four birds leaves two wanting a bit more. Three each would be too much.

E.M.M.

A White Lincoln, A Lemon Meringue Pie, and a room at the 4 seasons

2010-05-25T16:15:00.001-04:00

I have been in Houston less than an hour and already am lip searingly deep into a bowl of crawfish. I also have a white Lincoln sitting in the parking lot.

Jimmy G's isn't much to look at.... It could easily be mistaken for the restaurant of a midwestern Sheraton. Walk in, sit at the bar and order something achingly cold, you'll want/need it. Lean over the stainless counter and see if there is anything crawling out of the coolers.

I've had two helpings of crawfish. I can't feel my lips, my hair is damp, my shirt is a bit of a mess (Hoback), the boiled shrimp- while good-are only a temporary abatement of the heat. I pay up and continue to use a lemon wedge to clean my fingers. A Coke for the road merely spreads the pain around all of my taste buds.

Outside the dark restaurant, the air is surprisingly crisp for Houston. Taking gulps of air against my swollen tongue I stride toward the Lincoln. Not sure why the rental place gave me this. It looks to have been absconded from their Boca kiosk. I decide to embrace it...

An hour later and I'm somewhere off 59. I look beside me at the two teetering, messy lemon meringues I have purloined from the fridge over at Hinze's. They look as if constructed by a mental patient. There is also about 4 pounds of brisket in the back seat. If I had purchased a stained and wrinkled paper bag of crackling and decided to start smoking again I might be in the running for the most unhealthy car in Texas. There's also a 6 pack of Shiner on the floorboard.

Turning the crawfish scented wheel I push the massive flat hood towards the first of many Texas farm roads. I dig in deeper still as Townes Van Zandt eases from the speakers- Talking about "bad news from Houston". I roll the windows down and press the accelerator. As expected the car drifts and buffets on the blacktop. A Hispanic family in a pockmarked and faded blue Scout pull to the shoulder and wave me by. The road becomes broken, and then dusty. I am close.

I look at the pies and feel a bit like Boss Hog as the dust behind me plumes out and up into the wind. Before I even hit the turnoff, and the first in a succession of cattle guards, I feel that I could do this forever. The sky is blue, cloudy, and then threatening. The landscape is greening, and the live oaks and mesquites have that parched, biblical look even as they show the colours of early summer.. I'm listening to Townes full time now and try to keep up with the fast talking of "Mr Gold and Mr. Mud".

By the time I hit the bunk house the Lincoln is grey with dust and one of the meringue's foamy peaks has broken loose from its moorings. As I pull into the yard GP and one of his hands, "Jefe", look up from the tractor they are working on. I open the door and at once the dogs are on me. Ranch dogs of all types seem to spill towards the car- no doubt drawn by the pull of crawfish, brisket, and the unmistakable scent of fresh blood...

Hours later and around a fire hoop we finish the last of the wine from GP's home country of Argentina. We have looked at his cattle, shot over & unders, talked about his wife's trip to Dallas, and re-lived many days spent on and around grand rivers. I finish off the last of my five spice quail and settle back next to a blue eyed dog. Segovia streams from the open window and we open the Scotch as Jefe tells about their recurring problem with Boar.

Sleep comes so damn easy.....

a note from the Penninsula-Tokyo

2010-04-30T09:38:00.000-04:00

Greetings Mr. Black,

Hope that your rambles through Texas are treating you well. Give my regards to the crowd in Houston. A Shiner Bock sounds lovely at the moment.

My travel gyre is ever expanding and collapsing. Currently re-tracing the steps of a month ago in Tokyo. Just a three day work binge but still plenty of time to get completely and utterly lost in the cliches (all true) of a squirming and electron drenched city scape. The four shirts are holding up nicely despite a run in with the hotel laundry last week in Singapore. Love Raffles- just not a massive fan of outsourced laundry services in general. On an interesting note I did wear my Changi fabric shirt while moving through its namesake on my trip back to Capetown.

There are indeed lesser places to decompress than the Penninsula. Upon arrival I was deposited by the car quickly and silently. Black out shades where a button away as was I (note to go easier on the in flight pharmaceuticals next time).

After forcing myself into a full upright position I wandered out into the Imperial Gardens before my meeting. One could go berserk with a camera here. Still groggy so not the best of eyes at the moment.

Still, eyes closed and deep breaths (while trying to filter out soot) help. When stopping and listening the gaijin abroad cocktail party chatter effect is immensely disorienting. We would have paid for this feeling in our twenties.

Before dinner I managed to run by (if you can indeed "run by" a 5 story stationary shop) ito-ya for the usual load up of paper and writing instruments. Somehow I managed to drop a substantial amount of cash in short order. My room now looks similar to one of those stationary shows that women in the South put on except my papers and pens are Japanese and therefore infinitely cooler.

Dinner found me descending into the basement of a Ginza address and entering the lair of Hachiro Mizutani's eponymous Mizutani. Basically a closet (in a good way) with a Michelin 3 star chef working his sushi magic. Try the shad. Cash only and no photos. The master himself:

Based on Ran's suggestion, the next morning finds me at Tsukiji market. I didn't make the 5:00 opening bell and things where a bit picked through but lots to see. After managing to see a bit of the giant tuna auction It's hard to imagine there is anything left in the sea....

Another night to go and hopefully a visit by train to Custom House Stinky. Just amazed at some of the cafe racers the local shops are putting together over here. Can Fed Ex do bikes? I must earn my keep so I'm off.

Cheers,

Villiers

Scattered

2010-03-30T16:13:00.002-04:00

Yes, I do realize that we have been slow with our next crop of offerings. You must all understand though, that like yourselves Spring is upon us and a young(ish) man's fancy turns to just about everything in sight other than the productive.

South facing slopes are beginning their freeze/thaw cycle and layers are stripped as we hike or skin passes in search of perfect corn. A goggle tan is fading and the eyes adjust to the lightness and breeze of polarized glasses. It's nice to sleep in and to actually wait for the snow to come into condition rather than the mad rush to the tram in pre-dawn darkness (of course a big storm cycle will have us turning bleary eyed to the alarm clock once again). Not to be outdone our Italian counterparts appear to have thrown needle and thread to the workshop floor and are out earning their last turns around Cortina.

Down the slopes a bit our correspondents are pursuing bones and baby tarpon in Ascension Bay. Although the road to Boca Paila has been "modernized" it still feels a journey to a different time. I just wish they had left the old bridge alone. I expect loads of photos showing that water and sky can indeed meld in an incredible blueness without the aid of photo editing.

Others are gathering south of San Diego for long dust choked rides down to Baja Del Sur. Government advisories aside, bikes will be looking for dunes and goat paths along the Sea of Cortez while Landcruisers seek out the perfect right point break in Scorpion Bay. Mode of travel aside, dinners will be spent around fires with many Tecates and Snapper Fillets with a bit of rice..

For some reason N.B. has diverted from Jakarta to Warsaw so it will be interesting to see what the change in climate and culture yields. Perhaps we should send him a few sweaters....

Enough of the travelogue. Who wants to gawp at a screen when one can be outside doing any number of things? Without further perambulations, here is what we are offering this time around. As is always the case, our production is limited and we don't sell many into a single market. We will also be retiring the shirting material after this run. A trim fit is still the case as are lovely thick mother of pearl buttons, semi spread collars and our three button watch cuff.

Speed is to your advantage, if you see something you like, twist the throttle and set the hook as they will be gone. Six week lead time at the most (as long as I can extract the boys from their by now, well dug in defensive position in Cortina). Please click "enquiries" and give us the particulars.

damson

black sheep

lyford

grove

green fuse

$180.00 made in Italy (of course)

everything in it's right place

2010-03-05T12:22:00.001-05:00

Security at Heathrow and the handsome, sixtyish woman in the piped jacket has had it. She glances up at the guard who is having her re-pack the ziplock for a second time. Out goes another tube of a La Prairie cream. The zip finally shuts although the bag still looks as if dangerously over-inflated.

The guard beams, ushering her through.
"It's all about minimizing, love."

The woman turns, suddenly seeming much taller, and speaks in a textbook received pronunciation.
"I have minimized to the point of lunacy"

Shes right, you know. I look around any given airport and the institutions seem to have won. The grey blandness of the concourse walls and carpets have found new hosts in those that wearily ride the people movers. Grey suits, greyish white shirts, grey faces, and perhaps worst of all a disquieting sameness of luggage. When did ballistic nylon take over the world?

I plop down a handmade leather overnight bag that also serves as my briefcase. The brass is scratched while the chocolatey vegetable dyed leather has a pleasing patina from a world of travels. There is a salt mark from a bitterly cold runway in Winnipeg. A bit of discoloration via a wet bilge on the boat ride from Marsh Harbour to Elbow Cay. My youngest wrote his initials with a jagged finger nail on the bottom.. I spilled something oily on it while saying goodbyes in Pudong.

I'm not saying that the other bags haven't seen such travels, perhaps they have. Little experience seems to be garnered by their own cross continental movements.

If you have to minimize, and sadly we must do so, why not minimize in something that is worth carrying around? If you are going to only have a few things in the bag why not make sure that they are the best that you can get your hands on? One of the things closest to our hearts at Imperial Black is wearing something that you care about. Find something hand made that you will want to keep around for a while. Be it one of our items or not, I encourage everyone I meet to seek out true objects of interest. Real objects crafted by real people.

Next time you are struggling from one concourse to the next, have a look around. You might see the flash of a colourful sock or a smart orange hemmed cuff and feel safe in the understanding that you are not alone.

EMM

Sartorial Travel

2010-02-08T16:25:00.000-05:00

Imperial Black- sartorial travel from imperial black on Vimeo.

A look at things to come

2010-02-03T20:11:00.003-05:00

The new shirts are beginning to come in and they are absolutely astounding. Some truly noble people have put their hearts into the details and it shows. Our mother of pearl buttons look as if they just emerged from an oyster and have a lovely thickness and lustre to them. As always, our signature 3 button cuff is hand finished with saffron thread. The collars are a modified spread that look fantastic with or without a tie (they too are on the way). Like everything else we do our shirts are cut quite slim. You are paying for good shirting material. It would seem a crime not to feel it against you.

Prices starting at $170.00 (colours shown: James River check, Penitente with vintage French print handkerchief, and Hoback check). More pictures as well as ordering details to follow. If you didn't pre-order make sure you get in on the next batch (every 6 weeks).

top: Ceylon

bottom: Black Sheep

the pleasures of a quick fix

2010-01-29T15:44:00.002-05:00

It's cold out again with a sky the colour of wet aluminum. I slip out under the guise of an errand. In less than half an hour I've left the overly heated house with its layers of guests and descended into the gorge, tires crunching gravel as I make my way.

I park next to the familiar fire road sign and pull on waders. Old, neoprene jobs that carry the scent of rivers and car trunks both western and eastern. The trees are bent with a glaze of ice and a tunnel forms around me as I walk down and towards the mineral smell of water. Quiet out save for the crunching of boots and the odd bird call. As I approach, the creek becomes a rivulet of mercury tumbling through the greyness of the woods.

After an hour my hands are numb and the sky is growing darker still. Throwing a rod mid winter seems a lonely pastime. I've changed flies three times and never seem satisfied. Having less than low expectations I absentmindedly fish the stream. What have I missed? The narrow, but deep pool next to the dead chestnut seemed barren. The eddy below the gravel bar- deserted. Upstream is a mess of fallen timber and the water deepens. In my mind I'm already back in the car-rubbing hands against the heater vents and running through scenarios that best account for my absence.

The stream chokes down where it nears New Years creek and the wind dies.. I tie on a brown midge and fish downstream a bit- Close to where the trail crosses. In minutes the leader is frozen again and the miniscule fly seems ridiculous at the business end of the line. I half notice as something quick and small darts from beneath an outcropping and suddenly there is that ephemeral tug. There is no heroic struggle, no spool being stripped .

I quietly land the brookie and lift him from the water. He is tiny, as all the native ones are here, yet exquisite. In the summer this fish would be an afterthought, or a source of ridicule. Today he is everything. A jewel box of colour in a landscape defined by its very absence.

Tried and true JLH next to our signature cuff. Colour is Tangier

Dream Racer Montage

2010-01-22T22:02:00.003-05:00

m1 jean now available

2010-01-19T14:30:00.004-05:00

Slim cut with a bit of stretch. Slightly articulated knee borrowed from our favorite moto pants. These are a Q car in jean form. Unassuming with no affectations. Pair them with a coat for dinner at St. John or throw a leather on for a quick blast through town. Equally at home in seat 1A of the Lufthansa flight to Munich or the Boiling Pot in Rock Port. $148.00 seems a small price to pay for such diversity. Buy the ticket, take the ride. 30- 36" waist, asphalt colour. Available at local stockists and directly from us- 2 week lead time.

Until next year then.......

2010-01-18T19:20:00.000-05:00

January 16 - Santa Rosa - St Carlos de Bolivar - Buenos Aires

I have no words today, just tears and photos. Two men, one bike, five cameras. Against all odds, WE DID IT.

More coming in the next few days when I recover some composure.

just great words from Simon

2010-01-15T23:51:00.001-05:00

Thursday, 14 Jan 2010

January 14 – San Juan - San Rafael

I am writing this under siege, in a service station, about 100km from San Rafael, Argentina. Although we are clearly not driving in the race – merely reporting on it, we were mobbed as we pulled up. I signed autograph after autograph before finally stumbling into this air-conditioned haven. Right now we are holed up with two confused looking American drivers from the Monster Hummer team. The crowd are banging on the windows, staring in, trying to attract the attention of the yanks (my ego would like to think that it’s all about me, but it’s definitely not).One of the many fine things about Argentine servos is the fact that they sell beer, long necks of beer. So as I write, I am supping cold Heineken and watching the mayhem unfold outside.

Last night I felt like I was filming something of a last supper, this morning as I pointed the camera at Christophe over the bivouac table, I was unable to shake the fear that by the end of today, it could all be over. Everything I shot was coloured with “last?”.
We hit the road at around 7.00am, heading to the end of today’s special. This latter part of the rally is attracting spectators in their tens/hundreds of thousands and we had to weave a torrid path through their cars to find a space to leave the car close to the village of San Martin.

It was hot as we walked towards the arrival checkpoint – very hot, definitely up in the high 30s with very little shade. The prospect of a long, hot, nervous wait for Christophe was not one that I relished. I have taken to carrying the hard drive that holds all the footage I have taken with me at all times. I was worried that the intense heat would somehow damage it, so I practically crawled under a thorn bush which offered some shade and prepared to wait.
I soon tired of this uncomfortable predicament and longingly eyed the shady awning under which the official Dakar TV crew were waiting. Earlier in the day, I had sent an SMS to one of the TV guys at the race organisers to have him tell people to expect me at the finish. I had little hope of this leading to anything, but it is at this point that the day started to become officially good. As I wandered over to the awning, a rough looking, Gauloises smoking TV guy was on the phone. I heard my name. “Am I hallucinating? Is it the heat? The exhaustion?” No. before I knew it, I had escaped the sweaty solipsism of the independent film maker and was sat in a camp chair, enjoying banter with the French guys.

The crowd at the finish were frenzied. In amongst the dust being kicked up by a hot wind, they mobbed every bike or car that arrived, chanting, shouting, touting T-shirts, flags, bags, stickers, underwear? To be signed. The French TV producer seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown, chain smoking like a madman as he attempted to “shoo” them away from the TV area. It made for great viewing from the luxury of my chair.
It was at least an hour and a half before I even thought about filming – expecting Christophe to come in 2 ½ hours or so behind the leaders. Eventually, I got up and captured some of the madness – a long lens bringing the action close up to me, quite literally in my face. Fifty or so bikes had come through. Rob Pollard among them. Another great performance, finishing in the thirties despite a broken elbow that is causing him serious discomfort.

The Volkswagen cars that are leading the race arrived in, and the crowd broke ranks and went wild. Monsieur Gauloises lit a whole pack at once and ran into the fray, looking ready to cause serious harm to anyone who’d interfere with his broadcast. An immaculately dusty long-haired French TV presenter complete with neck scarf flowing in the wind attempted to look composed as he reported from the heart of the madness.

I stood back, well away from the chaos – letting my long lens bring it all to me. It was out of the corner of this lens that I spied an orange helmet, forging a path through the throngs of passionate fans. I blinked, pulled my face away from the eye-piece, wanting to check this apparition for myself. The French TV presenter laughed a perfectly manicured laugh at a comment from one of the VW drivers. The TV crew’s camera captured the whole manufactured scene, and right out of their shot and into mine came Christophe.

There is, so I’m told a position you can find on a motorbike where riding becomes effortless. In the face of an injured back, a torn triceps and 13 days of hard riding, it is this Zen riding state that Christophe found today. He rode better, faster, more efficiently than he has on any day since the race began. How, I do not know, but somewhere amidst the sun scorched rocks and parched sierra earth between San Juan and San Raphael, Christophe found the something that maybe, just maybe could take him through to Buenos Aires.

Christophe's Struggles

2010-01-14T11:33:00.000-05:00

January 13 – Santiago – San Juan

The conventions that govern movies in the western world are so entrenched in our consciousness that we can almost sense when a crux event is about to take place.
Not so real life.
The day began early. Guido, the Argentine photographer now joining us in the Fiat awoke me at 2.30 am. We were in the car, winding our way up through the Andes by 3.00am. by 5.00, we had stopped and I was hiking up an empty trail to get a dawn view of Mount Aconcuagua – the highest mountain in the world outside of the Himalayas. The air was freezing, as one would expect at an altitude of 3000m. Despite two fleeces and a jacket I was shivering, and, as I tried to shoot images of the majestic peak, I genuinely worried about frostbite to my fingers. But what a sight – over 6900m of pure beauty in the perfect dawn light. To complete the dawn tableau, I watched a mule train weave its way up towards base camp, carrying supplies for the climbers no doubt preparing for an attempt on the summit.

I had few thoughts of the race as we started off once more, heading down through the mountains, enjoying the views, contemplating climbing or hiking trips in the area with my wife and daughters.
I look back now, barely 10 hours or so later and realise I had started to see us making it to Buenos Aires as a given. Since the dramas of 3 or 4 days ago, everything had gone smoothly, stage after stage taking us closer to a happy ending. Yes we were tired, dirty, hot, ready to go home, but we’d be heading home victorious. Now we are tired beyond anything I’ve ever known, dirty, hot and ready to go home, but an agonising question mark hangs over whether Christophe can finish this merciless race. The Dakar has pulled yet another card from the banker’s deck – remains to be seen whether we can trump it.
We stopped at a point not far from Checkpoint 1 to shoot some images of the special. It was spectacular stuff, in a spectacular setting. The cars, bikes and trucks drawing long plumes of dust through the scrubland as they raced up a valley that creates an impression on the spectator of a natural fish – eye (or have I been spending too much time staring through a camera lens?). I fired off a minute or so of footage of Christophe as he passed – comfortable, in control, every kilometre taking him closer to Buenos Aires.

It can’t have been very long after this that it happened.
The bike fought out of Christophe’s control. He hung on with such fierce desire, reasserting his command with such an adamant refusal to give in to the bike’s dark intent that he tore the triceps of his left arm.
It was about 5.30 pm as we pulled into the bivouac – about 15 hours since we set out. We headed straight for Christophe’s camp. “Just three to go”, I said, slapping him on the back. In my mind I was contemplating a potential white water rafting trip tomorrow after shooting the start of the special. That was before I saw the bandage, heard the story of 150 agonising kilometres over harsh rocky ground and felt the lash of a new twist in the tale.
I filmed Christophe over dinner; unable to keep the lens off the mask of grim determination that has overtaken him. He couldn’t get much down, despite having been extremely hungry. I couldn’t pull the lens away. We sat opposite each other, silent, knowing what we have shared, are sharing, what we have set out to do. The camera somehow the bond that joins us in this insane adventure. Scenes like these can’t be scripted; they have to be lived.

On the falsely cheerful walk over to dinner, Christophe told me the story of a one armed guy on the Ivory Coast who used to compete in motocross. “If he can do, so can I” is what he said. Perhaps he can. But what had appeared to me as three formalities are now three long, painful stages – tomorrow over rocks, the next day over sand dunes and if, against what any sane human being would rate at the very least as long odds, he gets through those – a final leg into Buenos Aires.
I believe. We believe. We didn’t come this far to go out before the end. The Dream is still alive

2010-01-08T07:56:00.001-05:00

Jan 7 - Antofagasta - Iquique - the day the dream almost died

I awoke late. About 7.00am. As I sat and stared at my bivouac breakfast, styrofoam coffee in hand, I was thinking about the film. One of the difficulties of making a documentary like this is that you really don’t know what will happen. I am very much aware of the elements required to build a compelling story, but this story is very much in the hands of the gods. So my concern this morning was around whether there is currently enough drama in the movie so far. Is there enough going on to keep an audience engaged?
I needn’t have worried. After a 370km drive to Iquique, we parked at the base of a mountain of sand 1000m high. Crowds of people were assembled at the bottom, staring up, as spectators at a ski race would do, gazing at the distant shimmering sandy summit.

As I set up my camera, a plume of dust way way above me marked the speeding descent of a motorbike. Straight down - a ski racer line, tearing across the sand, tracking across the mountainside, then down into a dip before roaring into the view of the crowd, hammering past us towards the end of the stage, just a kilometer or so away.
Confident that I had found a great viewpoint from which to capture Christophe’s descent, I readied myself for a wait that I imagined would be 30 to 40 minutes. Bikes came and went. Cars began to make their sense defying way down the dune. Then trucks. Spectators started to pack up and leave and still Christophe had not arrived. I shuffled uncomfortably, needing to pee but not wanting to miss the glory shot. Two and a half hours at least had past. In my mind, dark scenarios began to play out. Could this be where the dream ends? Here at the bottom of this infernal mountain of sand? Surely nothing bad could happen on such a beautiful day? I’ve spent too much time in the mountains to know that bad things do happen on beautiful days and that the world, beautiful in her insouciance just carries on.
A Chilean stood beside me handed me a beer. Jacob asked me whether I’d head home if Christophe was out. A helicopter past overhead, and there, right up there, from over the ridge came a motorbike. The first motorbike we had seen for 20 minutes. I tracked it with the long lens, hoping, hoping, unable at this stage to make out a number or color that would identify it. My bladder throbbed, my brain played through hospital bedside scenarios and flight re-arrangements to get home to Mel and the girls. And then I knew. Out of the dip, into the shot I’d been setting up all afternoon, hunched over the handle bars, heading home, it was him. “Es mi amigo” I shouted to the beer donor. “It’s Christophe, he’s in, the dream is still alive!”
But the dream was so very nearly not still alive. With no more than a third of the special still to go, Christophe had hit a hole, a big hole and taken a serious fall. In his words: “I’m lucky to still be walking, even luckier that the bike is still ok”. I’ve watched footage of the fall on the POV footage and believe you me, it hurt.

Christophe lives to ride another day. He has some bruising and a stiff back, but at 5am or so tomorrow, he’ll head out for the longest special of the rally - over 600km over the same terrain that nearly had the better of him today. 28 Luca Manca from Italy will not be so lucky. After crashing his motorbike on the stage, he was airlifted directly to a hospital in Santiago where he underwent brain surgery. At the time of writing, he is fighting for his life.
After something like this happens, how can you, more aware than ever of the risks involved in this endeavour, just get up tomorrow and keep going? When I asked him, Christophe didn’t really reply - I guess his answer is simply that he can, and he will.

Simon

scenes from a desert

2010-01-07T14:10:00.000-05:00

Atacama

Simon checks in- Atacama & Bienvenido en Chile

2010-01-06T11:02:00.001-05:00

Atacama

Jan 5 – Fiambala – Copiapo – Bienvenido en Chile

505 km driven today; up over the Andes and down into the Atacama desert on the Chilean side. Landscape ranged from surreal to stunningly beautiful to downright unsettling as we rolled into the stark aridity of the Atacama. Dubbed the driest place on earth, it hasn’t rained in this place for 300 years; and it shows. Huge gritty sand dunes the size of mountains dwarf anything before them. I was desperate for water – to drink, to bathe in, to break the visual drought.
But the day began with a climb up to a crazy 4760m pass. I stopped to shoot a heap of footage on the way up and by the time we hit the summit was definitely feeling the altitude.

Jacob, the SBS journo I’m travelling with was suffering more than me, suggesting we stop for a sleep at around 4500m! I figured we needed to get down and drove the next 150km or so until the air was somewhat thicker. The switch from mountains to dunes was seamless. So odd to see dunes of this height, at 3000 metres. I found the landscape decidedly unsettling – beautiful maybe but totally alien.
Enough about me. Christophe had a great day today, dubbing it the “first real Dakar stage of this Dakar”. He was at the bivouac when we arrived, hanging out in the shade waiting for his assistance truck to arrive.

The terrain was much more suited both to his riding style and bike. The organizers had shortened the special after a large number of riders and drivers didn’t make it home until late into last night or early this morning. After the horrors of yesterday’s stage, I’d say today was a welcome respite. The bike is fine. Just the air filter to be changed before tomorrow. So Christophe gets a well earned early night before a very long special tomorrow. He’s now ranked 64^th overall. Not bad for a bloke who by his own admission didn’t get to train half as much as he would have liked. Was talking to Christophe before coming out to blog and he thinks he’s actually placed second among the riders with no mechanic or assistance. We may have an interesting new subplot on our hands…
You may be wondering how the Fiat is going. Well folks, he’s a little dusty but going good.

We had to dig him out of the sand at 4.30 this morning and ultimately needed a tow from a guy called Sebastien. Thanks Seb. All in a day’s work at the world’s biggest mobile music festival without music – The Dakar Rally.

Yours from the desert. Simon

La Rioja-Fiambola. Dust Storm Rising

2010-01-05T14:27:00.000-05:00

Incredible day on the Dakar today. Christophe described it as the hardest Dakar stage he has ever ridden. Another ozzie rider, Rob Pollard echoed Christophe’s sentiments, saying “at times I wondered why the xxxx I was out there”.

The special took place in the midst of a sandstorm in the foothills to the Andes. Big dunes made it extremely hard for the riders.
I was moved almost to tears by today’s footage from the POV 1.5 that sportscamera.com gave us. You get an unbelievable sense of the effort the riders put in. We see christophe fall, pull himself back up, drag himself up another dune then have to stop to rest and on and on, in a cauldron of heat and dust, with cars, buggies, other bikes and quads rushing through past him. I’ll upload some stills in the coming days.

I’m set in a pretty well oiled routine now, shooting most of the day then transferring and backing footage up in the makeshift media tent, from late afternoon onward. It’s 8.13 in the evening and I’ve been on the go since 4.30 am. Been shooting a heap of time lapse footage too. Set up a Go Pro camera to capture the sunset this evening. Should look amazing.
Loving the JVCHM100E. Great crisp images and it records directly as MPEGS which makes workflow a heck of a lot easier. Definitely the right choice for this project.

The landscapes we’re driving through are pretty mind-blowing, from long open plains to mountains to this crazy desert-scape I’m sitting typing this in. A little bit worried about all the dust everywhere, but there’s not a whole lot I can do about that.
Tomorrow, desert changes to snow capped peaks. Recharging all my batteries now in expectation.

prep work

2010-01-04T20:28:00.001-05:00

Christophe's prep work

Stage 3- Cordoba-La Rioja

2010-01-04T20:12:00.001-05:00

An update from Simon & Christophe in Cordoba via Team Rally Australia

Que puta calor! Left Cordoba at 11.00pm last night in an attempt to get to the end of today’s special. Got most of the way before tiredness stopped us. Pitched my tent in a dusty abandoned childrens playground and slept the sleep of the very fricken tired.
Our cunning plan paid off and we found our way down a long dusty track to the end of the special. I suspect you’re asking what the hell the special is. Basically every race day is made up of a liason on road and untimed and a special which is the full on off-road bit.
I fended off a French attempt to get me out of the area and got down to business. Christophe came in mid way through the field.

Dusty and tired but good. He took a tumble somewhere along the way and damaged a fork that he has since replaced. Had big trouble with the helmet cams today. I think it’s the insane heat that is messing with the lithium batteries. It’s ok, I’ll just send a production assistant to get some more. Oh! Forgot, I don’t have one.
Spectacular scenery as we drove across the plain towards the Andes. This is the stuff I live for. Looking forward to crossing into Chile in two days time. We’ll be crossing a mountain pass at over 4000m.

So so far all good. Christophe still in the race, getting good footage and boiling our arses off in Argentina.
Tomorrow, the mechanical freak show that is the Dakar moves to Fiambala. Hasta Pronto

in another country

2009-12-02T19:54:00.003-05:00

An hour and a half south of Atlanta and the road side changes. The landscape opens outwards towards a distant tree line. In an instant it falls inwardly upon itself. A choked flash of clay creek bed. We have been in the car for most of the day. The children are curled up, drifting in and out, beneath one of our travel blankets. We press on deeper, the v8 hitting both the dusk and the cotton fields at seemingly the same moment. A flurry of cotton and the hedge rows look as if covered by snow. The tatty remnants of harvest strewn across an Alabama road.

The children have a campfire in the pine woods between the house and the lake. We watch as they shapeshift between explorers, mermaids, Indian trackers. The adults busy themselves with buttered and salted pecans from a relatives orchard out near the highway. Miles away from the warm chestnuts out of the brazier in Trastevere the week before but equally as fulfilling. There is talk of the upcoming Alabama vs Auburn game and the size of alligators in the lake. This, followed by the briniest of oysters from Apalachicola, and a dense black bottom pie.

Visits to South Alabama always have me leaving with a head full of moments that hardly seem real at the time. Becoming stranger still as they ferment. This time it's one about B.B. asking a leisure suited Gerald Ford to hike the football while in the oval office. A throwback to Mr. Ford's days at Michigan no doubt. Apparently the snap wasn't to B.B's liking and he had the president re-do until he got it right.

At night we read the children the Nick Adams Stories. With a bit of on the fly editing, the "Indian Camp" piece has them squealing. A small respite before we begin the forceful stride towards Christmas and the year end.

E.M.M.

rome is a blur

2009-11-24T20:43:00.001-05:00

Time moves through Rome in tracer fashion. Its raining, its cold. The sun comes out and the world is ablaze. A chance run in with an American teen pop group in TAD. Hearing Pink Floyd blare above pieces of the Berlin Wall on the Spanish steps as night sets in.

If at the point of trattoria overload head over to the perfect bun. Burgers that are hard to resist but also perhaps the only place in Rome to find a burrito. True to form, amazingly fresh ingredients and good company A meeting spot for Rome's film industry.

A TNT package arrives. The lads have sent a prototype of our driving pants. I quickly change and hop in the car for the long drive up the A1 towards Milan. Flashing through tunnels I make my way through Perugia and onwards. Its sunny for once and I spy hill top towns and crags in the dolomites. No time to slow except for the "Speed Teacher" radar system. Five hours later and I'm in Parma. Pants still comfortable and look as out of the box fresh as promised. Now it's Milan. Change shirts (Auto Grill espresso mishap), keep pants & don moleskin coat. Just in time for dinner meeting.

E.M.M.

Updated Carrera shots- Porsche #152

2009-11-23T14:33:00.000-05:00

Thanks Andy. Hope that you are recouperating.

Venice Recomposed

2009-11-23T14:19:00.001-05:00

"Don't go to Venice. We know you, you'll hate it. Too crowded, too touristy. It's a theme park."

A Friday night in November and the wind off the Adriatic is brutal. The rain pelts our backs as the water taxi driver takes our bags below. We follow and as the door slides shut we are out of the wind. The smell of varnish, leather, and a base note of the sea coddles us. It is quiet save for the burbling of the motor. The boat is pushed away and we are off.
The rain spattered windows give glimpses of buildings rising through the darkness of the Grand Canal. Twenty Minutes later we are moored next to The Bauer and we are quietly whisked to our room.

Coddled is a good word for Venice in November. The rain empties the streets, the low sky brings the infamously narrow alleyways together at a tighter angle. You walk a bit closer with the one you are with, lean in a touch more than usual to speak a thought. The canals are there, the architecture is there but the slow burning thrill is in the walking. A cup of coffee at a newsstand leads to a perambulation that lasts hours as you tuck yourself into your scarf and get lost, amazed as one achingly beautiful square after another opens from the slanted streets. In the afternoon you are hungry and if you are lucky you find yourself on Frezzeria and standing in front of Osteria Enoteca San Marco. Get the cuttlefish- you won't be disappointed.

Harry's Bar is where the Americans go. It's a rip off. It's been franchised. Probably true but when you open the door and squeeze into the small and crowded room there is indeed something different going on. The opaque glass of the windows and the warm wood gives you another layer to put on- drawing you inward still more. Everything seems to retreat and you sit. Content to just sit and people watch and to sip your Bellini. The Ciprianis may be currently on the lam but this seems to give Harry's even more of an outpost feel.

Before the hordes of tourists moved in to complain about the prices Harry's was and still is a nook of a hideaway with a grand expat pedigree. Hemingway and Welles had it correct. Sit against the wall, watch the people and see what happens. A Bellini and a grilled cheese are the way to go here.

E.M.M.

the dinner guest that never left

2009-11-15T07:19:00.002-05:00

I stumbled across Silvia's great place Mamma Ciccia while in Mandello. A couple of lefts and a right down some tight alleys and you are there. Silvia's brother cooks an ever changing menu (perch from Lake Como, pastas the lightness of air, and a mean apple torte). Their cousin, could tell us a thing or two about shirts and quietly presides over the 5 tables and bar. Pouring beautiful local wines and the odd glass of Laphroaig he joins me at the table and talks about the best places to put a monogram.

Silvia et al are in the midst of re-doing several rooms in the apartments above. Just like the owners, the rooms are smart, stylish, and impeccable. What better place to sleep off the kitchens labors than upstairs?

A quick walk down to the quay and its back to the room where I fall asleep to bells ringing in the square. Not quite the excitement of a mixed route in the Cham valley but we do what we can. This might be in my top 5 of places to disappear for a week. On a rainy and cold Northern Italian evening I can't think of a better place to be. Have a look at their site about "the idea". Lovely words.

E.M.M.

Plan B- A Pilgrimage of Sorts

2009-11-13T23:46:00.003-05:00

By now its lashing down with rain and I vaguely follow signs to Como where our seven fold ties are being made (save that meeting for a later date) and beyond to the farther reaches of the lake.

When I finally stop and ask for directions in Lecco, the attractive girl at the Agip station doesn't understand me entirely (who does?) but the way that she say "Mandello del Lario" and points to the north absolutely floors me. In my mind this is how the name will always sound, in a soft, hushed, reverential manner. I race through the lakeside tunnels, watching the cliff tops drift in and out as the clouds roll by- and then I am there. The building seems implausible, who would put a motorcycle factory at the base of a Mountain and at the shores of a beautiful lake? The Guzzi folks of course: Moto Guzzi

It is an old world factory in every sense of the word. From its Italian airforce Eagle flying overhead to its vaguely Wonkaesque red door. It is everything that it should be and so much more. I know that supposedly old men in smelly leathers ride them, that Guzzi appear to continuously flirt with insolvency, and that replacement parts are the stuff of myth. It doesn't matter. This place oozes soul and history. I keep waiting for a mad hatter to stroll through the gates.

Instead I get Burtie(?) in a red jumpsuit who informs me that the gates close at 3:00 as does the museum tour (its now 4:00) He then tells me that they haven't used their much lauded wind tunnel in years as it makes the lights in the town blink on and off. I still stare at the doors and I am that much more mystified by this quiet town and its quiet brand as dusk and rain settle in. For a brief Guzzi History:guzzista

E.M.M.

24 Hours to burn in Milan

2009-11-13T23:04:00.004-05:00

Flying into Malpensa, I find myself with 24 hrs between commitments.

What to do? Grab the rental car and head west as fast as possible, through Courmayeur, the tunnel, and into Cham proper? I look down at my Crockett & Jones cap toes- not exactly front pointing material.
My Imperial Black moleskin jacket seems an ill companion for the winds funneling down the Mont Blanc massif. I think of the rust specked and dulled ice tools in the garage at home and my pathetic lack of shape.

I don't think that making a go of the Twight/Backe testpiece "There Goes the neighborhood" (ED+, 5.9,A3, 90 degrees) on the north west face of Aguille Sans Nom is in the cards this trip (or ever). Hell seems to search me out these days rather than my trying to find it amidst spindrift and rime.

Plan B with the clock ticking then.

E.M.M.

Carrera Finish in Nuevo Laredo and a class win for Andy and Richard

2009-10-30T08:57:00.002-04:00

C,

Day 7 report
Sorry that this report is a little late. It was a very interesting day that started at 8am in Zacatecas and ended 700km and 8 hours later in Nuevo Laredo.
It's now 4.15am and I have just got back from celebrating an unexpected class win. The car that finished ahead of us failed the post race technical inspection
and was disqualified.
That's it for another year. I will post a roundup including results when I return the the UK - a journey that will start in around 3 hours!!
Andy

final push after Zacetecas

2009-10-29T19:48:00.001-04:00

We arrived safely in Zacatecas after another 500km day. Zacatecas is always a highlight as there is always a great crowd waiting and we all have a beer in the 'hole in the wall bar'. Despite the fact that we are nearing the end todays speed stages still claimed four victims. Thankfully despite the serious nature of the crashes there were no injuries.
Richard and I again placed first in class today but unless something happens to our main rival we can't win the class this year. Tomorrow is a 700KM day so there is still a lot of time for something to happen. We will push hard and hope for the best.
Tune in for the final day tomorrow.
Andy

La Carrera Day Five-San Luis Potosi- Guadalajara

2009-10-28T10:42:00.000-04:00

C,

Day 5 Report
Another long drive yesterday but only 3 speed stages. Sadly they claimed some more cars in crashes that left one co driver badly injured and a Corvette reduced to scrap.
The finish was at the Jose Cuervo factory in Tequila were we had dinner and the days trophy presentation.
Richard and I won the class again and no doubt improved our position in the overall standings.
I came down with a fever so had an early night.
Only two days to go but they are long with a lot of stages. 500km today and 700 tomorrow.

Andy

La Carrera Day Four

2009-10-27T21:09:00.000-04:00

C,

Fourth day - San Luis Potosi
Confirmation of yesterdays performance was a class win and 13th overall for the day.
Today went well and we ran fast in very good stages that again took their toll on the field. There were at least 4 crashes before the service stop this morning.
We know that the only way we can win our class is if the car leading has a problem. We are over half way now with three days left and we will continue to push hard. As we know from past experience anything can happen and it probably will before the end.
Now the crew has another long evening servicing the car. - they did not finish until 1am yesterday as we had tp replace the brake master cylinder. Hopefully they will finish earlier tonight.
Another report from Guadalajara tomorrow (if we make it)
Andy

Day 3 dispatch

2009-10-26T19:35:00.000-04:00

C,

Day 3
Sitting at dinner in Quaretaro after a great day. Because of yesterdays puncture we started well back in the field
and needed a good day to get us back where we should be. Sadly the leader in our class will have to suffer problems for us to catch him but anything is possible as we won't get to half way until lunchtime tomorrow.
Starting out of position did make for some interesting racing with us passing at least 2 cars per stage - fast bit fair and quite exciting.
Another long day tomorrow that should see us start in a more respectable position.
More tomorrow
Best,

Andy

second day and a bit of bother

2009-10-25T20:23:00.000-04:00

C,

Second day report.
Today was one of those Carrera days!
Were won our class yesterday and placed a healthy 16 overall - not bad for a 2 litre car against all of 7 litre monsters.
After a 7am start we did well in the first four stages. Half way into the 21km fifth stage we had a blow out on the left rear. To make things worse. It happened on a steep hill so changing to tyre took almost 10 minutes - no prizes tonight. We will have to wait for tonights drivers meeting to see how bad it has damaged us. There's still a long way to go and it could have been much worse as the tyre blew at around 60mph - in the next stage we were at around 120!!
The highlight of the day was the wonderful reception at Tehuacan (picture attached)
Anyway we live to fight another day.
Another update tomorrow.
Andy

2009-10-25T20:14:00.000-04:00

C,

Third report
Today was a typical Carrera first day - very long and unbelievably hot. As usual it took its toll on man and machine so it will be interesting to see how many at tonights drivers meeting.
We had a good first day running consistently and doing good times without taking risks. We should have placed first or second in class and also be well up in the overall classification.
After eight hours in the car our service crew (Adam and Jonathan) now face having a very late night servicing the car before tomorrow and its still around 85F.
In the car today we experienced over 120F.
Tomorrow we have an early start and a long run to Mexico city with eight stages thrown in for good measure!

Andy

building up to it

2009-10-23T16:13:00.000-04:00

C,

Second update

We were out early this morning noting the first stages before the race start on Friday and the qualifying stage this afternoon. As if we needed any reminders of the hazards of the race a Porsche and a Jaguar crashed just looking at the stages. The Jaguar was repaired but the Porsche is beyond it and the driver injured and in hospital.
I have attempted to give and impression of what a stage is like in the attached video clip. Remember this was just us looking at it.
This afternoon we went through in 4 minutes 14 seconds and would have gone quicker if we had not had to pass the car that departed 30 seconds ahead.
Tonight we will find out where the time will place us in tomorrows starting order.
I have a feeling that tomorrow there is going to be a lot of attrition due to breakdowns and crashes.
I will update tomorrow when we hopefully arrive safely in Oaxaca after the first day of the 2009 Carrera Panamericana.
Our crew are now working on the car to ensure that it is in the best possible shape. They are going to need a beer its 92F!

Andy

prep work

2009-10-21T17:59:00.000-04:00

La Carrera Reportage Begins

2009-10-21T17:53:00.000-04:00

Andy weighs in upon arrival:

My name is Andrew Prill and together with my co driver Richard Clark I am about to compete in my tenth Carrera Panamericana.

Originally run between 1950 and 1954 it was a round of the World Sportscar Championship in which most of the great drivers like Fangio, Hill and Tarruffi raced. Abandoned after the 1954 race because it had become to dangerous it was restarted in 1988. The race is for historic cars similar to those which competed originally. Over the years they have become so developed that we are going faster than ever. Car in the big class will do just under 200mph and our car which is in the under 2 litre class will regularly hit 150 on the longer stages.
Following a similar route to the original the race is a gruelling 7 day 3000KM dash from the South of Mexico to the US Border. To see the complete route visit www.carrerapanamericana.com.mx
We arrived in Huatulco on Sunday after a long flight from the UK and a 12 hour drive from Mexico City. Over the last three days we have collected the race car and completed all of the technical inspections. We have already checked out the first stages. Tomorrow (Thursday) we have a pre-qualification stage to set the starting order for the start of the race on Friday. Now I am off to a drivers briefing so I will try to report again tomorrow.

Best,

Andy

La Carrera Panamericana

2009-10-16T09:43:00.000-04:00

7 more days and the 2009 La Carrera Panamericana is off to a start in Tuxtla Gutierrez.

Born as a celebratory event in the 1950's to mark the inauguration of the highway that would span the American continent the best drivers in the sport where in attendance. An opportunity to race beautiful cars on public roads in an exotic setting was lost on none. Sadly, after four consecutive years and several tragic accidents safety became an issue and the Carrera was cancelled.

In 1988 the event was resurrected with original cars of the era and a modicum of modern safety gear. Once again the sirens call was heard and few could resist. After 21 uninterrupted editions the Carrera has drawn passionate collectors and vintage car racers alike. Such petrol heads as Alistair Caldwell, Alain de Cadenet, Guy Edwards, Nick Mason & David Gilmour of Pink Floyd, Mark Knopfler, and Renato Bicciato among others, have competed.

This year we are fortunate enough to have Andy Prill providing a bit of inside coverage. Andy won the 2 litre class in 2008 and will be competing in his 10th consecutive Carrera. Watch for Andy in his Porsche number 152. For more info on Andy and his spectacular shop have a look at maxted-pageandprill. We wish him good luck and hope to hear from him soon.

The slow clothing revolution as ignited by Hugh's piggies

2009-09-30T03:25:00.000-04:00

Frankly we are sick to death of the slow food revolution. Sick because it is damn near unattainable in our part of the world.

Take the above picture for example. One of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstalls lovely porcine farm mates (Violet, I think). In the vacuum packed, nitrate pumped wall of food that is our local super chain Violet is the furthest thing from coupon clutching iphone armed shoppers harried minds. But, the bland tasting wall o' chicken is easy and convenient so it wins out.

We are big fan's of Hughs. On one of the last visits to Wales P.G. and I went to grab some things for a Sunday dinner. We went down to the docks and purchased an amazingly fresh Skate and then after cups of tea in a tea shop worthy of a Ray Davies Album went on the lookout for some lamb. We found our lamb, and even had a walk through the field that said lamb was frolicking in a day or two earlier.

The idea that an animal is raised with dignity and respect is compelling. When we commune with family and friends around the table we prepare the meal in such a way that it pays homage to the life that was given for our nourishment. The animal's life is honored as a gift to us all.

I've been taking this and applying some of Hugh's values to our shirts. I can't very well talk to the heads of cotton in Egypt (a bit too Prince of Walesish) as they grow but I can make sure that they are used in a manner befitting the care that the process entails. From the shirting material itself, to the cut, the single needle thread, the mother of pearl buttons we are an involved parent until the package is ready for you. People with fantastic stories and lives have had a direct impact on shaping our shirts. Don't let the lineage down.

Not unlike preparing a meal that honors the life of Hugh's animals we think it only proper that one honors the craftsmanship and time that have gone into your shirt. Don't let the cleaners destroy it, become one with your iron. You will learn quite a bit about your Imperial Black Shirt and perhaps something about yourself in the process.

Yes, we know that our lead times are slow and that certain shirtings are not always available. We are moving towards still smaller limited runs and plan on offering 10 new shirts approximately every 6 weeks or so. We aren't trying to accommodate everyone and I'm certainly not going for a land speed record in shirt production. We are proud of what we have created thus far and hope that you will continue to be as well. We look forward to providing our Imperial Black clients a piece of wearable history, of an item rooted in good soil and nurtured onwards.

Silk Road Rally- Christian Lavieille

2009-09-10T12:40:00.000-04:00

A tough day at the races for one of our favorite Frenchmen. Christian Lavieille's transmission exploded on leg 5 of the Silk Road Rally in between Beyneau & Janaozen. Who said the Silk Road was a warm up for the Dakar? Let's hope Christian's current ride finishes strong although a podium isn't likely. At least his Nissan didn't suffer the same fate as this one.

BBC Shipping Forecast

2009-08-23T21:54:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid I would sit in my Grandad's garden shed (home to all that is manly in Northern England), drink sugary tea and watch him smoke JPS's. We would listen to the BBC's shipping forecast in silence giving into the hypnotic quality of the names: Faeroes, Fair Isle, Viking, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight, Humber, and Thames to name but a few.

Years later in Alabama I would sit and listen on a small Grundig short wave. The familiar names from the North Sea filling the humidity of a Tuscaloosa row house both comforting and making me long for a place I had left years before.

Summer is now dwindling and the kids are restless. I find a BBC stream and the names come again. This time working their magic on my 6 & 8 year old. Faeroes, Fair Isle, Viking, Dogger... the names as meaningless, exotic, and comforting as they where to me in my Grandad's garden. They drift off and things just seem to be in the right place- at least for a while.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/weather/coast/shipping/

god its hot

2009-08-10T21:46:00.000-04:00

I think we can all agree that it's hot out. I've dispensed with wearing one of our lovely shirts and seem to be living in a ratty t-shirt from Foxy's on Jost Van Dyke along with a pair of Mountain Khaki shorts.

When even this isn't enough, and the kids are no longer satisfied with waiting for adult swim to end at the pool , I have been reaching more and more for this drink courtesy of the fine folks at Fort Defiance in Red Hook. Ditch the Firefly, this is what you want:

CUCUMBER COLLINS

5 cucumber sticks

1 oz fresh lemon juice

1 oz simple syrup

muddle above ingredients, then add:

2 oz Hendricks Gin

plenty of ice

Shake

Pour over tall glass of Ice. Top of remainder with Club Soda, Garnish with mint.

Unbelievably Refreshing. Turn on some Mojave 3 or Jackpot, think cool. Almost wants you to get back into a freshly ironed shirt again.

Cheers

the cuff of summer

2009-06-09T20:26:00.000-04:00

james island by way of capri check. signature button holes

Italian Farm equipment

2009-05-26T09:25:00.001-04:00

There is something just so exactly right about the exhaust note of a Guzzi under throttle. This piece of Italian agricultural equipment is a lovely partner for a North Carolina backroad BBQ hunt.

shirt sandwich

2009-04-24T10:05:00.000-04:00

lunch time

2009-04-22T17:59:00.000-04:00