Boy band to Wine Masters – the tutorial

Happy Hour has been a tradition in our family since the invention of the cork screw. In the early years, it was a brief affair, starting at 6pm on the dot. Finishing 7pm on the dot. With Shakespearean drama, Father would open the drop down shelf in the wall unit, to reveal a well-stocked cocktail cabinet. Home to Baileys Irish Cream, Southern Comfort, Wild Turkey Kentucky bourbon whiskey, Gordon’s Gin, Apricot Liqueur (really just for Apricot Chicken) and a bottle of sherry for when Grandma visited. We were each handed a glass of our chosen tipple, then the cabinet door was rapidly raised like a moat bridge re-securing the castle under siege. Happy Hour had officially begun. Over the next hour, we were encouraged to share progress on love lives (never a long segment), discuss the state of sawmilling globally and plan careers (ideally in the sawmilling industry).

As the years passed, wine was invented! Some say that wine was already around before our family discovered it. Such naysayers. Nowadays, Happy Hour doesn’t really have a time limit… or wine limit.

Pat likes to dress for Happy Hour

The first night the boys arrived in Daylesford, I gathered them together for Happy Hour. It took me a moment to realise why they were preparing jokes and magic tricks. That sorted, everyone settled down with glass in hand. Before I could say the first toast for the evening (Happy Hour tradition), the boys had finished their wine… in a single gulpl!

Wine tutorial began immediately...Read more...

Nuns, angels and a heavenly day spa

Daylesford has turned into Arabian Nights; temperatures are so high, my hair has curled into a rolled up Persian rug. I’m surprised my skin hasn’t wandered off in search of water!  With older sister, Theresa (remember the one with English Rose skin who asks random strangers which one of us is the youngest?) arriving in Daylesford for Christmas, I’m going to need more than 8 glasses of water a day to restore this wreck. Times like this, I’m grateful for living in Australia’s famous spa town, with day spas on every corner and mineral springs spurting out of potholes.

Raphael, Angel in Waiting

A sign outside Endota Spa pronounces “Welcome to Heaven”. Usually a cliché. Not this time.

I expected white fluffy clouds and harps. Instead Angelina was the angel that awaited me. After a myriad of paper work (is it really that necessary?), in floats my therapist, Rachael, the poster child for day spas: beautiful big smile and healthy glow. I renamed her Raphael (in my head).

The darkened treatment room glowed with the twinkle of rose scented tea lights. Once Raphael had wrapped me in heated towels and aromatherapy pillows, she set to work on the monumental task of restoring youthful glow to my face. Usually I’m not terribly relaxed during facials; too busy analysing every step, assessing the short and long term efficacy and wondering how much time has passed so far. However, today was different. Something deeply therapeutic about Raphael’s touch, the treatment and the room, silenced the thousands of thoughts racing around in my mind and took me to another place with similar heavenly vibe. To one of my favourite places on earth...Read more...

The Prince and Me

The last time that I met a Prince was in Monte Carlo with Lela. She called me up early morning with the irresistible offer of a spare ticket for the Season Opening at Monaco Opera House, followed by 7-course dinner at the fabulous and outrageously posh Louis XV restaurant in Hotel de Paris. Prince Albert would be in attendance. Dress code was Formal Cocktail. Slight issue ... the only formal dress in my wardrobe on this side of the world was a Maid of Honour dress designed by NZ designer, Judith McGaffin, for the Whitianga wedding of my dear friend, Rosanne. With no time to cut the floor skimming hem to above the knee, take out the long sleeves and put in a plunging neckline, I took solace in the knowledge that if Grace Kelly were still alive, she would have approved and instantly encouraged her son, the Prince to marry me.  The fact that I felt like a nun in a room full of supermodels is neither here nor there.

Prince Albert sat at the next table. There was eye contact, but I think that was just him looking over wondering why such a hot chick had become a nun.

Prince Vigen... Australia's only royal barista

So technically I didn’t meet (read: marry) a Prince. This has frustrated me for years. Until yesterday.

Sitting in Gourmet Larder tapping out a blog, when a tattooed, African man with massive smile came up and gave me a hug...then sat down beside me. Even by my standards this is slightly out-there behaviour...Read more...

The tale of Cherry Cherry amour

Cherries fresh from the orchard in Bacchus Marsh

Am kicking myself that I missed the Bacchus Marsh Strawberries & Cherries festival in November. Mother converted me into a Cherry Cherry fan (not to be confused with the famous Neil Diamond song, Cherry Cherry) after her and Father relocated from NZ's sunny North Island to Dunedin, way down near the bottom of the South Island (and only a few hours dinghy's ride from the South Pole!). Now, every year, a few weeks before Christmas, Mother drives through Lord of the Rings terrain to Central Otago to stock up on cherries for the Christmas season. A pilgrimage worth making. Central Otago cherries are the celebrities of the cherry world. Fabulously larger than life (almost 2-3 times the size of cherries anywhere else in the world), adored far and wide, and sweetness personified under the spotlight. I'm mulling over the idea of setting up a fan club. Meanwhile, more important chores at hand. With Mother and Father coming to Daylesford this Christmas, it’s time to do my own cherry trek...Read more...

Three dirt tracks, two champagnes & one goat

I was on my way back from buying fresh vegetables at local farm gates and, feeling particularly country and western (in plaid shirt and True Religion jeans), decided to take the back roads home. Clearly not a well thought out plan. Who knew that when you turn down a country road in rural Australia, chances are you may not see a main road (or sign) … ever again? At one point I came to three detour signs, signaling me off the asphalt road down dirt tracks, all going in different directions! In a Girl Guide alumni moment, I stepped out of the car and walked up a nearby hill, hoping to get my geographical bearings. This was about as effective as pulling out the car cigarette lighter and trying to send smoke signals for help! Morale reached an all time low with the sighting of a handwritten sign saying “Adelaide. Not far now!” Optimism went down like the phone reception.

Surely I’d arrive somewhere… anywhere… soon?

Then like a long gin and tonic (with a twist of lime) during a heat wave, a winery appeared. I slammed on the brakes. Tales of the infamous Michal Unwin winery (Beaufort) and his beautiful One Goat label are widespread, but being such a specialist winemaker with limited releases each year, his wine is almost as rare as signposts around here...Read more...

spot the hot winemaker's arm in top right hand corner?

Lavender Champagne anyone?

The perfect summer day. Blue skies. Gentle warm breeze wafting scents of roses, lilac and rosemary through the garden.  Pink and white Rosellas bolding reclaiming the front lawn. Days like this are made for sitting on the front porch, glass of bubbles in hand, pondering life and all its crazy turns. Which is exactly what I planned to do until I noticed that the lavender had more issues than my neighbour's sheep with separation anxiety (he travels everywhere in the back seat of the car with his owner. Even out to coffee!).  Visit to Lavandula Farm required. Now!

Walking through the farm gates of Lavandula is like stepping inside a perfect little corner of Provence. Which way to go first? The Barn Shop packed floor to ceiling with lavender-infused everything just to the left of the farm gate? The lavender fields to my right? Or towards the vintage wheelbarrows overflowing with lavender plants (clearly the point of this visit)? Then the sun hits a sign in the distance, magnetically drawing me further down the lavender lined path to a little wooden cottage. And there it was.

“Lavender Champagne Cocktails $8”. Like a Tsunami, the memories came flooding back...Read more...

Star Crossed Coffee Lovers in Daylesford – PART 2

The boys have got wind that I’m doing one last round of the Coffee Route du Bonheur in Daylesford and have taken to sitting in the car whenever they see me pack the laptop and camera into my handbag. They make interesting sub-editors so I am acquiescent.  Am still wearing black!

Cliffy’s Emporium, Howe St, Daylesford

Pouring with rain this morning, but nothing can dampen the warmth and charm of Cliffy’s Emporium. Somewhere in between my all time favourite film, the whimsical Bagdad Café (with classic one-lines like “Stuck between a rock and a hot plate”) and the 1960's cult TV hit, Happy Days, Cliffy’s Emporium is basically a movie set waiting for Jack Palance to walk in. A mish mash of gilded mirrors bounce light from the chandeliers. Staff in paisley aprons and neck ties wander around putting menus written on paper bags back onto earring racks. And the occasional eccentric character or international rock star sips espresso at the rickety wooden table tucked in the front shop window....Read more...