Early evening around the fire pits at Catch 31

I EMBARKED on my first press trip this month, my first paid travel experience. It was a FAM (a well known term in PR and media circles referring to a familiarisation trip for media professionals). VisitVirginiaBeach.com invited a small group of journalists and bloggers to experience the region from a food and drink perspective.

I’d heard about press trips but never really understood them.  This explanation I found in a MatadorU Forum explains it nicely:

“So here’s the deal: just as book reviewers routinely receive books from publishers, and theater critics routinely receive tickets, and gadget reviewers routinely receive gadgets, travel writers are routinely provided access to the places, service, and products that they’re writing about.”

Most writers can’t afford to bankroll the continuous exploration that’s required to inspire new stories, so it makes sense that in order for a place to have more written about it, more people who write need to visit.

A debate around the ethics of being paid to travel (and then write) will always exist, but unless you enter the debate as a writer it’s very difficult to qualify your point of view–you’re not the one trying to make a living from writing.

Hilton Virginia Beach, overlooked by Neptune

The drive

Washington to Virginia Beach takes about 3h30m (a 200 mile ride), if there’s not much traffic. Only when you pass Richmond and exit I-295 onto I-64 does the drive start to get interesting.

Heading east along the Virginia Peninsula (created by the York and James rivers) you pass through the Historic Triangle, defined by Williamsburg–a recreated 18th Century American city, Jamestown–the first English settlement in North America, and Yorktown–where the American Revolutionary War ended.

As a new British immigrant to the United States I’ll always be fascinated with the country’s colonial history.  Tales of immigration are inspiring, especially from the days of pioneering new settlements in new lands.  The idea of leaving home for a new life abroad is so far out of the comfort zone of many people that stories about it are naturally absorbing and appealing.

Previously I’d only encountered the colonial history of America further up the coast in places like Boston, Plymouth, and Manhattan; exploring Virginia’s connection to the story is new for me.

When I-64 reaches the coast it turns into a bridge, then into a tunnel, then back into a bridge and then back into a regular road to deliver you into Virginia’s second most populous city, Norfolk (where I’m headed, Virginia Beach, holds the top spot); home to the world’s largest Naval base and the defense headquarters of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO)–a point worth remembering before you book Virginia Beach for a quiet coastal vacation. Noisy, low-flying aircraft are a daily occurrence.

The final few miles into Virginia Beach are along I-264, which turns into 22nd Street six blocks from the oceanfront.

The oceanfront

My 1997 edition of Lonely Planet, Washington DC & the Capital Region, has a section on Virginia Beach, it says “The city is everything it unashamedly attempts to be–a magnet for young revellers, a carefully spun web of tackiness, and an almost unpenetrable concrete palisade that often prevents the sun’s rays from reaching the beach.” The second part may be true, there is a lot of concrete along the boardwalk (which isn’t a boardwalk, it’s also concrete) but I doubt the off-season is likely to attract many young revellers.

The parking meter tells me that as of today, and for the next five months, curbside parking is free (meters operate April 1st to October 31st)–the off-season starts here, November 1st.

Imported palm trees, tacky souvenir shops, and towering beachfront hotels have an eerie feeling once the weather turns cold and visitors stop coming. This dormant, sleepy state also brings great comfort though with its closed doors, log fires and the need to bundle up against the cold wind whipping off the water.  It reassures us that seasons change and creates an opportunity for new (indoor) pursuits and new styles of food. There’s little more invigorating than a cold, blustery walk along the coast followed by a bowl of steaming Brunswick Stew.

Bowl of Brunswick Stew at Smithfield Inn

This trip exposed me to a Virginia Beach that extends far beyond the ‘carefully spun web of tackiness’, and into a much deeper connection with the land and the bay, its extensive farming community and the area’s proud heritage as ‘America’s First Region’.

In this series of articles I’ll be sharing some of the experiences that changed my view of this rich area.

Photo by Nick Weston

The first year of HGC school has been great fun and a I feel I have learnt almost as much as all those who have attended the courses (I think the best tip I received was from one Alan Paterson who told me to use washing powder to soak and clean burnt eggy pans- works a treat)! I cannot thank those who attended enough for making our first year a great success.

Throughout the Spring, Summer and Autumn I was consistently pleased to see that I had really found the perfect place for the school, the flora & fauna of the surrounding landscape not only provided rabbits, squirrels, pigeon, fallow deer and carp for the HQ kitchen’s meat store (even allowing a few attendees to dispatch them on the day), but the plants and fungi were just as forthcoming: Giant puffballs, bay boletus, parasols and chicken of the woods all put in a timely, yet surprising appearance.

2011 saw HGC doing privately booked bespoke courses as opposed to days you ‘book on to’, this will still be the case for 2012- But fear not! In 2012 we are organising a series of group days, which you CAN book onto. These will have a predetermined structure and a bit cheaper than the private days.

Continue reading this article @ HUNTER:GATHER:COOK–Adventures In Wild Food

Skyline Drive, Shenandoah, VA

The northern end of Skyline Drive is a straight 80 miles west of Washington D.C. along Route-66 (not the Route-66), and marks the start of Shenandoah National Park. We’re here to flirt with nature, reacquaint ourselves with some earth rhythms, and flood our senses with everything Fall. It’s been a while since we escaped the District, and Shenandoah is an easy bolt-hole.

Washington D.C. is a clean and spacious city.  The air drinks nicely, there’s no sooty, dirty nose to it like there can be in London; rarely do I see litter on the street, and even during peak hours the pavements feel empty.  Gathering together all of the open space in D.C. would need an area 9 times the size of New York’s Central Park–it has the nation’s highest ratio of parkland per resident.

“Ahh, fresh mountain air,” says Faizal, as if he’s been trapped breathing the toxic fumes of a smoggy city since his journey out here a few months ago.

It could be any number of things: the deep crimson maple leaves, the low slung white criss-cross fences, the red and white barns with their gambrel roofs.  I can’t help feeling I’m in New England.

“Do you want to stop?” says Faizal from the driver’s seat.

“No, let’s keeping going.  We have to come back this way.”

“Right!  Everyone’s stopping now.  The viewpoints should be quiet later.”

We didn’t come back this way, we took an alternative route home along Route-211, through Sperryville, but the thinking was good. Shenandoah sees around 15% of its visitors arrive in October for a glimpse of the tawny Fall colours, it’s always a busy time of year.

Signal Knob Overlook, Gooney Run Overlook, Compton Gap, we pass them all. It’s no big deal, there are 75 to choose from.  We decide our first stop will be around mile 20: Little Hogback Overlook–Fariza likes the name.

A 35 mph speed limit is in effect along the length of the road, so we settle in, roll down the windows and watch from the car as we snake our way along the ridge.  The hills look like the broccoli in the bottom of my fridge: a few pockets of green have survived the virulent yellow ageing effect, but they won’t hold out forever.  Red and gold leaves peel like rust from the hillside, or a bad case of wind burn from the cold gusts that whip across the ridge.  A few stark, empty, stick filled voids indicate where the landscape is headed in the next few weeks.

The sun is just catching on the top of Old Rag by the time we make our final stop.  I pull on my red hat, grab my camera, and for the first time wish I had some gloves.  The leaves have lost their brilliance in the shadows, colours are muted, the park is shutting down for the night.  Afternoons don’t last as long as they used to.

We pause long enough to survey the smooth granite summit of Old Rag in the distance and remember sitting up there in the summer sun a few months ago, munching peanut butter sandwiches.  Maybe we’ll return again next year, the leaves will. They always do.

Photo by Jools Stone

This is how my 2 week Trans Canadian rail trip begins. There’s no time to get maudlin, I’ve a train to catch and a 2 day wait if I miss it! Entering the palatial Union Station feels like a religious experience. It’s a veritable cathedral to rail travel. Like many cathedrals its high ceilings and polished floors echo with emptiness. Apparently it’s Canada’s busiest transport building, busier even than Toronto Airport (abstractly coded YXX for some reason) ferrying some 200,000 people a day. But at 9.30pm on a Thursday you wouldn’t guess it.

Continue reading this article @ Trains on the Brain

Photo by Tom Allen

Here are five reasons I’d urge all experienced (or budding) cycle-tourists to give it a shot:

1. Challenge: Winter cycle touring throws a lot of new considerations into the mix. After 18 months on the road in more temperate climes, I needed to push myself, broaden my experience and learn some new skills.
2. Beauty: The ethereal sunlight and snow-clad lands of the far north might be as familiar to locals as grey skies and patchwork fields are back home, but for me this harsh spectacle was rarely short of breathtaking.
3. Solitude: This region is sparsely populated, and the back country is all but deserted during winter, save for a few skiers and skidoo enthusiasts. Need a place to unwind and reflect? Head for the Arctic.
4. Hospitality: “We’re as cold as the weather”, said one Norwegian lady. But, although a world away from the hospitality of the Middle East, I was often taken in from the bitter cold for food and a place to sleep.
5. Safety: If you do get into a pickle, the fact is that you’re still on the road, probably in range of mobile phone signal, and therefore never far from help. You’re not so far from home. It’s not a polar expedition, even though your clothing, camping setup and ice-beard might have a lot in common with one.

Not convinced? Excellent! Here are some handy reasons why it’s a really silly idea…

Continue reading this article @ Tom’s Bike Trip

National Geographic Traveler – Interview Series [Teaser] from Matador Network on Vimeo.

(Get inside advice from National Geographic Traveler’s editorial staff: Keith Bellows, Amy Alipio, Norie Quintos, Marilyn Terrell, Kathie Gartrell, and Dan Westergren. Offered only to students of www.matadoru.com)

Content creation has changed

We forget so easily what life was like five years ago.  In many places it hasn’t changed a great deal, but in the online world things move so fast that five years probably equates to about fifty.  Twitter and Facebook have both become part of the digital furniture in that time, both of which–like Google–are merely advertising businesses masquerading as something far more interesting.  The blogosphere is similar, it’s changed so much.

Noise on the internet has been cranked up significantly; it was once fairly easy to get noticed as a blogger if you had a nice looking site and a a well timed interesting message–that’s how Make Travel Fair won its recognition early on.  Once Twitter came along and Facebook opened up to brands, a blog was no longer the only means of creating content and engaging people in a discussion.  Some said the blog was dead.

To be an ‘influencer’ and a useful asset for advertisers you no longer even need to blog; you can tweet, Facebook, instagram, foursquare and tumble your way to a noteworthy Klout score.

Having the support of a community is vital

The Matador Network has stayed abreast of these changes remarkably well, and built a community that understands it.  MatadorU is a 12 chapter insight into how popular content is produced, what you need to do as a successful blogger, and how you can get on track for a multi-media career as a photographer, writer, or both.  It’s not only a classroom but a community of people asking and enquiring about the same things as you… how do press trips work? how to I get on one? how do I pitch a magazine? how can I make my writing better?

Learn how to write beyond your blog

I’ve learnt that if you are serious about writing then your blog should not be the only home for it, you must reach beyond if you want to generate some income from your efforts.  A few people may still be lured by the illusion that you can actually make a living from blogging, and hope that soon they’ll be raking in advertising dollars.  I’ve never met anyone who lives comfortably in the western world and makes a living from their blog; which leads me to believe that it just doesn’t happen. Either they live a nomadic life, hopping between countries where living is cheap, or are supported by a partner who makes a good living.

Next month I will feel like a writer and photographer when I get on my press trip, and it’s thanks to the help of MatadorU and its community that I’ll be there and that I’m beginning to write in places other than this blog.

Yes there are affiliate links in this post.

Like any journey of significance, themes emerged. Somewhere beyond Kilimanjaro’s snow-patched Uhuru Peak, I learned and relearned some lessons that resonated beyond the mountain-climbing task at hand.

Continue reading this article @ Uncornered Market

Ice cream isn’t really something I have in my freezer, but that’s because its so chock full of various parts of fish, fur and feather there simply isn’t the room. It just so happened that I had a craving for it during the summer we had a month ago. I decided to google how it was made after having a chat to a friend of mine about hand cranked Ice cream machines and the possibility of involving them down at HGC headquarters.

Photo: Nick Weston

Continue reading this article @ HUNTER: GATHER: COOK – Adventures in Wild Food

The plan was extremely simple: cycle to a river, float down it, ride home. It would be the first time I’d paddled a watercraft since a school trip when I was 10, so it wouldn’t be anything earth-shaking, and I still hadn’t shaken off the nasty infection that had taken me out a few weeks previously. But it would be a proof of concept, at least — first-hand evidence of the feasibility of a bike-rafting trip.

Continue reading this article @ Tom’s Bike Trip

Photo: tomsbiketrip.com

TODAY I will write. It’s that simple. I will wake up, make breakfast, and then I will write. I need to be inspired. I need to find a story, a memory, a simple trigger from which I can begin to recollect an experience. This assignment has been hanging over my head for too long.

It’s a bright sunny morning. If ever there was a day for writing, today is it. With eyes half shut and heavy morning feet I plod downstairs and switch on the kettle – Fariza will be down soon and will want some coffee, even if I don’t.

I rub my eyes as the kettle boils. Two mangoes stare back at me from the fruit bowl. They always go bad, I never eat them in time to enjoy them the way they should be – soft, bright, yellow, juicy, sweet, velvet in the mouth – the way they were in the Cook Islands. I squeeze them gently. They’re slightly soft, perfect.

A beautifully yellow, unblemished half of mango rolls away from my knife as I slice through the tough green skin. Its sweet smell hits my nose immediately. It smells yellow. In the spectrum of happy colours yellow is at the top. Butter, egg yolks, lemons, honeydew melons, bananas, sunshine… they all make the morning a better time of day.

I carry the mango stone to the sink – they’re so messy to enjoy but worth every effort. The smell, the taste, the texture, even the sound of me gnawing at the fibrous flesh takes me back to the South Pacific. I close my eyes for a moment, still holding the stone at my mouth.

It was years ago that we were in the Cook Islands. Tropical fruit was always on the breakfast menu, often fresh from the tree that morning. Papayas, passion fruit, star fruit and mangoes were all in great abundance.

It was our last day on Aitutaki – a small coral atoll about an hour north of Rarotonga by plane – and we’d promised ourselves that we’d wake up for the sunrise. We rode on our moped to the eastern edge of the island where a single hammock and picnic bench were perfectly positioned for welcoming the day.

The main island road was dark and deserted except for the dim glow of our headlamp and the bashful drone of a 50cc engine. Two mangoes and a papaya rattled about in the front basket. My still sleepy eyes struggled with the quick and early transition from bed to moped; weeping constantly in the cool, humid headwind as we raced across the island. Dawn was beginning to break. We arrived just as the first sunbeams started to paint the sky. The next half an hour was spent in silence.

Once the sun had fully risen and the pinks and oranges started to fade we cut open our fruit, quickly devouring the flesh in an shamelessly barbaric manner.

“Morning! Did you make any coffee?”

I jump, startled. Mouth and hands covered in mango. I turn and reply, “Not yet” with a big grin. She looks at me and a knowing smile creeps across her face. She knows where I’ve been. I look down at the mango stone and it’s almost bare of flesh. I throw it in the bin, wash my hands and face, and we each sit down at the table with a mug of coffee. We turn at the same time turn to look at a photo on the wall of us both holding hands at Cathedral Cove, in New Zealand.

“I wish we could go travelling together again“, she says.