Flying the flag for Wales

We were all packed up and in the van, ferry bound.

There was just one last mission to complete before leaving Wales – to secure some creamy blue Perl Lâs cheese. We swooped with singular focus on several of the better supermarkets en route – Morrison’s in Caenarfon, Waitrose in Menai Bridge, even a supermarket in that town with the impossibly lengthy name – but Welsh artisan cheeses of any description were thin on the ground. In the end, I had to board my ferry cheeseless and (not for the first time) found myself pondering the harsh realities of modern food retailing, which mean that truly local food can often be one of the hardest things to find in your local shop.

The hills of North Wales: it could be Ireland, y'know...

The failure of that last minute cheese mission speaks of a situation that is by no means unique to Wales – visit any of the big supermarkets here in Ireland and chances are that you’ll find precious few of our fabulous farmhouse cheeses. That doesn’t mean to say that efforts aren’t being made on both sides of the Irish Sea to develop and promote good, locally produced foods. On the Welsh side, their True Taste national food awards, now in their tenth year, are very much part of that process, with the best of Welsh meats, cheeses, seafood, craft beers, ciders, baked goods and more being acknowledged at last month’s event in Llandudno, which I was lucky enough to attend. To my surprise, it was even possible to toast the winners on the night with local Welsh wines, as some white and sparkling wines made by Ancre Hill Estates were served.

Bodysgallen Hall and Gardens:
a Welsh gem, with a restaurant that boasts some great examples of Welsh food done well

The applause at the True Taste event was especially warm and the cheers rousing for local-food-hero-done-good, the Anglesey Sea Salt Company, who were double gold winners on the night. Their Halen Môn salt – harvested off the coast of the Isle of Anglesey – is prized by some of the top chefs in the world and you’ll find it proudly incorporated into other Welsh products, including the excellent Jones’ Crisps with Anglesey Sea Salt (and yes, if there’s a potato involved, you can always trust me to find it). The company also produces a range of flavoured salts, including an intriguing vanilla salt and one with organic spices which they recommend as accompaniment to roast potatoes. Needless to remark, I scored me some of that one.

Halen Môn salts

The other local hero in evidence was Rachel’s Organic, maker of organic yoghurts and dairy products which are now widely distributed in the UK. Founder Rachel Rowlands was named True Taste Ambassador of the Year at the first Welsh national food awards ten years ago and returned this year as a sponsor.

There was, of course, much more besides, as I discovered both at the event and over several days of eating my way through picturesque North Wales. Landscape, climate and food-wise, it was, in a lot of ways, not that terribly different to Ireland. As I wandered around hill farms on the fringes of Snowdonia in the misty late autumn rain, I might just as easily have been directly across the sea in Wicklow, but for the lilt of Welsh accents and the fact that there are rather more sheep. For the record, Wales boasts the highest density of those woolly mammals in Europe, and the locals are justifiably proud of their Welsh lamb.

Dishing up Conwy mussels at last month's Conwy Feast Food Festival

And in a country that is famously fond of cheese (especially in cooked form), it wasn’t surprising to find that they have cheesemakers who excel at more than just caerphilly (even if, as I discovered, the cheeses themselves are occasionally tricky to find). The immediately surrounding waters, meanwhile, are the source of some top notch seafood – Conwy mussels are a case in point – while I will leave it to Keith Floyd below to elaborate, in his own inimitable way, on the Welsh seaweed classic that is laver bread.

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Welsh Cakes

Nigella Lawson includes a recipe for Welsh cakes in her book How to be a Domestic Goddess. However, I was familiar with these simple, sweet griddle breads long before I ever got my hands on that book – having first eaten versions of them as a child. They were one of only two Welsh dishes that I was aware of from an early age (the other, of course, being Welsh rarebit).

The recipe here is fairly similar to the one you’ll find in Nigella’s book. There’s not much more to it than flour, butter, sugar, eggs, dried fruit, a bit of warm spice and a hot griddle. The key to good Welsh cakes (apart from the use of butter, naturally) is a light touch when it comes to handling the dough (and I’d have to say that I enjoyed some wonderful light and buttery examples while I was in Wales). It’s a satisfyingly simple classic.

You’ll need:

• 250g plain flour
• 2 tsp baking powder
• 0.5 tsp allspice (or try cinnamon or a smaller amount of either nutmeg or cloves)
• pinch of salt
• 125g cold butter
• 100g dried fruit (raisins, sultanas, currants or a mixture)
• 75g sugar
• 1 large egg, beaten
• demerara (or other) sugar for sprinkling (optional)

You’ll also need:

• A smooth griddle or cast iron pan

The Steps:

• In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, spice and salt.
• Cut the butter into small cubes and rub into the flour mixture until it resembles breadcrumbs.
• Stir in the dried fruit and sugar, then add the beaten egg and mix to a soft (but not sticky) dough.
• Wrap the dough in plastic and chill in the fridge for at least 20 minutes.
• When ready to cook, place your griddle or pan over a medium heat.
• Roll out the dough to a thickness of around 1cm or a little less. Cut out rounds using a cookie cutter or glass – make the cakes big or small as you fancy and cook on the heated, unoiled pan for around 3-4 minutes each side or until golden.
• Sprinkle with a little demerara (or other) sugar if you like and serve warm (with butter, even better) or at room temperature with a nice cuppa.

The Variations:

• You can vary the fruit and spice as the mood takes you and there’s nothing (bar tradition) to say that you couldn’t add the likes of a little lemon zest or vanilla to these.

The Results:

• Makes around 25 x 6cm round Welsh cakes

Welsh natives: the sheep do outnumber the humans here by quite some measure

Today finds me still in Wales, land of castles, sheep, occasionally dodgy internet connections (hence the spud-sunday-on-a-monday-again, oops!) and of long and hard-to-pronounce place names, like this one:

This translates as (deep breath now):
'the church of Mary in the hollow of the white hazel near the fierce whirlpool and the church of Tysilio by the red cave'
...or words to that effect

The Welsh word for potato – tatw (pronounced ta-tu) – is, luckily for me, much less of a mouthful. I learned that and a lot more whilst eating my way around picturesque North Wales these past few days and attending their True Taste national food awards. However, as I’m still (literally) digesting it all, I shall have to return at a later date to fill you in proper-like.

1. some honest-to-goodness porridge, breakfast of champions – I have Flahavan’s to thank for what seems to be a never-ending supply of same

Flahavan's latest: their multi-seed porridge with pumpkin and hemp seeds, among others

2. a destination promising significantly more than porridge – with the reward for my early rise being a visit to Wales and a place at the table for their True Taste national food awards

Naturally, I will report back in due course – I don’t doubt but that it will turn out to be one of those things that was well worth getting out of bed for.

When I travel, I like to get out and explore. The prospect of being confined to a ship, however well-appointed, and with only an afternoon here and there spent in port, along with hundreds, or even thousands of fellow passengers, has never filled me with joy.

That doesn’t mean that I’m not curious about cruise ships, though. When I was invited to take a tour of the Azamara Journey in Dublin Port recently, and to sample their food service, I did (in the name of research, you understand) go along.

To be fair, the cruise liner in question was a lot swisher than this sign in Dublin Port
might have suggested

The visit on board ship kicked off with a presentation from the President and CEO of Azamara Club Cruises, Larry Pimentel, a man with many years of experience in the cruise business. He spoke about their boutique cruise philosophy:

- They use smaller ships than is typical in the cruise world (where small is a relative term – the Azamara Journey berths around 700 passengers; most others in commercial operation accommodate several times that number).

- Using smaller ships means that, among other things, they can offer a greater range of destination ports.

- They also offer more overnight and longer stays in port, as well as tie-ins with local events, from the Chelsea Flower Show to the Carnival in Rio de Janeiro.

All of which made it sound like the type of cruise I might actually consider, if I were choosing to cruise at all, that is.

The Azamara Journey: up close, it's hard to believe that, in cruise ship terms, this is kinda small

Larry also came across as being exceedingly proud of the crew who staff his ships – “there may be better ships, but no better crew,” says he. I was only there for a short visit but, to judge by the attentiveness of the crew, I couldn’t disagree. As Larry spoke, they took particular care with the filling of champagne glasses and proffered a steady supply of exceedingly lovely canapés – among them, smoked salmon with capers, tempura prawns, scrambled egg with caviar, prawn toasts, fig with prosciutto and ratatouille in filo pastry cups.

Truth be told, though several courses of lunch were to follow, I think I liked those opening bites more. Nevertheless, I did consider the possibility of stowing away so that I might have another crack at the lunchtime starter, which featured the always lovely combination of crab, grapefruit and avocado. And if I were to stump up the cash to become a bona fide passenger, I could see that, between the main dining room, the two speciality restaurants (serving mediterranean and steakhouse style dishes), the casual dining Windows Café or even room (or, rather, cabin) service, I could, in all likelihood, expect to eat rather well.

Seems I was starting to like at least some aspects of this cruising business after all.

Lunch on board is served:
top: lobster bisque (left) and lump crab with grapefruit and avocado (right)
bottom: ahi tuna served on a risotto cake (left) and coconut crème brûlée (right)

After lunch, we took a tour around the ship. Much as I expected, the ship had all of the facilities you might expect to find in what is, after all, an upmarket floating hotel. In particular, I was glad to see that there was a gym on board – with the equivalent of four course dining available every night, I think I’d need it.

Out and about on deck

View from the inside:
top: one of the many bar and dining areas (left) and the library (right)
bottom: the casino, if gambling is your thing (left) and an outside cabin to rest your head at night (right)

At the end of it all, and not having actually sailed an inch, I got ready to disembark. While waiting to say my goodbyes, I chatted about the tour with another visitor to the ship. “You really need to see this in the Mediterranean,” she said, “when the outdoor decks come into their own.” I pondered that as I looked beyond the ship towards the overcast, industrial landscape of Dublin Port. She was right, of course, and while I still wasn’t sure that the cruising life was for me, in my head I had already set sail for more southerly, sunnier climes.

Not that it’s far away or anything – it’s only just north of Dublin, after all – but I’ve rarely had any particular reason to go. Until last Saturday, that is, when the day was spent experiencing just some of what Ireland’s smallest county has to offer, food-wise.

Louth is not only home to Bellingham Blue and Glebe Brethan, two of our finest farmhouse cheeses, but it boasts the much-awarded Cooley Distillery, excellent Carlingford oysters and the surprise and delight that are the Eastern Seaboard Bar & Grill and the Brown Hound Bakery in Drogheda. Several reasons to visit the place, right there.

One Carlingford oyster, au naturel

First stop of the day with my fellow food-trippers, Aoife from I Can Has Cook and Joanna from Smörgåsblog, was the picturesque coastal village of Carlingford and its annual Oyster Festival. Though the festival oyster tent turned out to be a very small affair, it boasted the freshest of oysters, shucked for us by Kian Louet-Feisser of The Carlingford Oyster Company, who was joined by some young, but very able, assistants.

The freshest of oysters and the youngest of chefs

Right alongside were the folks from The Cooley Distillery, makers of some very fine Irish whiskeys, including the wonderful Connemara Peated Single Malt. We chatted with the founder, John Teeling, and of course had a few nips of whiskey (well, it would have been positively rude not to). Though we weren’t in the village for much more than two hours, we also managed to be interviewed for local radio, have lunch in PJ O’Hare’s and score some excellent raspberry jam from Daisy’s Pantry. Pretty good going, all in all.

Above: The Cooley whiskey collection
Below: Founder John Teeling inhales...

After that it was off to Drogheda, and a quick coffee-and-cake-stop at the lovely Trader’s café, before our rendezvous with a host of other bloggers – including Dinner du Jour, Gunternation, Caryna’s Cakes, Kuchennie, Gracie Bakes and Katz Miaow – for a tour of the newly opened Brown Hound Bakery, followed by dinner at the Eastern Seaboard Bar & Grill.

I’d heard a lot about the restaurant from Clare of An American in Ireland, who had organised the trip. Having spent a year living in Drogheda when she moved here from L.A., Eastern Seaboard, run by Jeni and Reuven Diaz, came as an unexpected and welcome find.

I think I'd go back to Eastern Seaboard for the bread alone

Positioned at the end of a small strip of shops in a Drogheda housing estate, it’s an unlikely location for top-quality dining. Yet that is exactly what you’ll get, and at reasonable prices too.

Plenty to delight the tastebuds, including crab cakes, salmon, rabbit and more at Eastern Seaboard.
The coffee jelly and ice cream dessert was positively intriguing.

The large, high-ceilinged and tastefully designed dining room, meanwhile, would not look remotely out of place in Paris or Manhattan, while the same can be said for The Brown Hound Bakery, which Jeni and Reuven have opened just down the way, alongside their take on the takeaway, Mo’s To Go.

With fresh oysters on the menu, not to mention Coney Island corn dogs, Mo's To Go is not your average Irish takeaway joint

Treats at the Brown Hound Bakery

I would actually go as far as to say that the bakery, with its large glassed displays of cakes and tarts, and cookies piled under glass domes, is not like any I’ve seen in Ireland. Many of the recipes come from New York-based baker Craig Thompson, owner of Shandaken Bake in the Catskills Mountains, who came out to Drogheda for three months to train the bakery staff. Each of us bloggers having been sent home with a goody box from the bakery, I can confirm that, just as with the restaurant next door, taste-wise, the Brown Hound does not disappoint. In fact it would not, I think, be extreme of me to make a special trip back just for their chocolate banana bread. That, truth be told, strikes me as a particularly good reason to visit.

Yep, the sign says it all

St Pauli: hip, happening Hamburg

A weekend in St. Pauli, the beating heart of Hamburg. There would be wine, there would be music, but also, there would be labskaus.

Knowing my potato obsession, labskaus was one of the first things that our friends helpfully mentioned on the flight out. A local speciality of mashed potato mixed with corned beef and beetroot, topped with fried eggs and served with rollmop herrings and pickles, we had also received fair warning from the Hamburg natives: it looks disgusting. No matter about that, though. It was too intriguing not to seek out.

Labskaus on the menu
(and yes, potatoes, in general, are a definite feature of traditional Hamburg fare)

Labskaus, we learned, is the kind of unfancy, stick-to-your-ribs food that dock workers in this major German port city would have eaten in times gone by. While you might not expect to find labskaus on too many modern menus, Raval Brasserie in St. Pauli, which specialises in local Hamburg dishes, had labskaus and more.

Labskaus at Raval Brasserie in St. Pauli: it's colourful, that's for sure

When it arrived at the table, my sister surveyed her labskaus, if not with suspicion, then with a certain degree of trepidation. Still, she was gamely eating it, though was heard to say “I’m not exactly savouring this” or words to that effect. She continued, “You know you could actually make something nice with these ingredients…”, lending weight to the theory that labskaus may simply be something you need to have grown up with to love. I fared much better with my choice of fried fish and potatoes with mustard sauce, and a dessert of stewed cherries with vanilla custard was entirely simple and lovely.

Fried fish with fried potatoes and onions and a mustard sauce

Spudly curiosity satisfied, I enjoyed the rest of a wonderful weekend in Hamburg and returned home. As time went on, though, I found myself becoming more than a little inquisitive about what certain other well-known visitors to that city would have made of labskaus. Turns out there was more of a connection than I might have at first imagined.

Love, Love Me Labskaus

Tucked away on Paul Roosen Strasse in St. Pauli:
yes, The Beatles lived here

So, did those famous one-time residents of Hamburg, The Beatles, find anything just a little bit familiar about labskaus when they lived in St. Pauli, I wonder?

Larry Zuckerman’s fascinating book The Potato: How the Humble Spud Rescued the Western World notes that one of the earliest savoury potato recipes to emerge from England was lobscouse. The name rings a bell, no? It’s reported to have derived from lapskaus, a Norwegian word for stew, whilst the German labkaus has the same etymological origin.

Lobscouse dates from around 1700 and is reported by Zuckerman to have consisted of potatoes, meat, onions, and “strong seasonings”. It was eaten with hardtack and was popular as sailor’s fare in the ports of Lancashire, of which that future home town of The Beatles, Liverpool, was the largest. By the 1880s, lobscouser had become a nickname for sailor and ‘Scouse’ and ‘Scouser’ eventually came into common English usage to describe the Liverpool accent and a resident of Liverpool, respectively.

In contrast to labskaus, traditional Liverpool lobscouse (or simply ‘scouse) is more of a potato stew. Still a popular dish in Liverpool, it is reported here to have consisted traditionally of a cheap cut of lamb cooked with onions, carrots, water or stock and as many potatoes as possible. Interestingly, it is often served with preserved beetroot and, in some parts, as with its cousin, labskaus, corned beef is the preferred choice of meat. The Hamburg dish may, therefore, not have been entirely alien to the visiting Liverpool lads, though, if they ever wrote about it, those songs have, alas, been lost.

In fact, I could get all biblical about it and accuse Nidal Rayess of having saved the best jam ’til last, but the truth is I am just thankful for what I can honestly say was a higher jam experience.

We visited Nidal’s dairy in Jdita a couple of weeks ago, as part of the Taste Lebanon tour, where, among other things, they make labneh (or strained yoghurt) and halloumi cheese from their own cow’s and goat’s milk, as well as making a range of preserves.

Nidal Rayess: one man and his cheese

As we toured the small dairy and watched a batch of halloumi in the making, we learned that Nidal’s grandfather was the first person to make this particular kind of cheese in Lebanon, having learned the process during World War 1. They still make it here using traditional methods, while a ricotta-like cheese is made from the whey that’s left over.

Cooking, folding, pressing and branding halloumi cheese at the Rayess Dairy

There were many satisfied nods of approval as we proceeded to sample a range of their dairy goodies. In a country that loves its labneh, this was some of the best we had tasted, and the fresh halloumi had us returning for seconds, thirds and more. It didn’t come as a great surprise to hear that products from this dairy feature on the royal Jordanian family’s shopping list. If I lived anywhere even remotely nearby, I’d be filling my basket too.

Making and branding the blocks of pressed ricotta-like cheese

However, it was only after our mini dairy feast that Nidal produced, first, a jar of mulberry jam, and then a jar of apricot. The mulberry was magnificent, but the apricot, with its glorious perfume of sun-ripened fruit, and always my most favourite of jams, was perfection.

When I was growing up, the jar of apricot jam that resided in the larder was not what we kids got on our toast, but was reserved by my mother for almond slices or sponge cake fillings. It was right up there with Rose’s lime marmalade as a rare and lovely treat. If there was ever an occasion for a jam-induced swoon, this apricot jam of Nidal’s was it.

I was still in a state of jam nirvana when Nidal said “I’ll tell you the secret.” That, needless to remark, focused everyone’s attention. I mean, who wouldn’t want to know how this jar of sunshine had come to be?

And the secret to the jam wasn’t a sprinkling of fairy dust (which I would have believed), but a level of effort, care and attention that was humbling. The fruit in the jam was clearly exceptional, but what made it even more so was that it was only the half of each apricot that had faced outward towards the sun that was used in its making.

Few people, I imagined, would go to such trouble for their preserves. I am just glad that somebody in the world does, and that I have a jar of such jam to prove it.

Bringing a little bit of heaven back home: toasted Irish soda bread and Lebanese apricot jam

In France and in French cuisine, Parmentier is code for potatoes.

Find a dish adorned with that name and it’s bound to feature potatoes as its main ingredient. Antoine Augustin Parmentier, after whom such dishes are named, is somewhat of a hero when it comes to the potato in France. He was the man who, back in the late 18th century, was chiefly responsible for popularising the consumption of potatoes in that country. These days in Paris you’ll find an avenue and a metro stop which also bear his name. What’s more, if you’re a potato head like me, you’ll skip the Eiffel Tower and pay them a visit instead.

Avenue Parmentier, 11th Arrondissement, Paris

Taken prisoner by the Prussians for several years during the Seven Years War, Parmentier was fed almost exclusively on potatoes during his captivity. Far from being thoroughly sick of spuds by the time of his release in 1763, he took the fact that he was in very good health as a sign that potatoes weren’t half bad as foodstuffs go. A clever man and one of clearly excellent taste.

A pharmacist by trade, he later published several papers on the nutritional value of potatoes, including one entitled “Inquiry into Nourishing Vegetables That In Times Of Necessity Could Be Substituted For Ordinary Food”, which demonstrated that (a) he was not a man for short snappy titles and (b) spuds, at the time, were not considered ordinary food in France (and, in fact, by most of the French populus, not considered as food at all).

Around the Parmentier Metro Stop on Avenue Parmentier in Paris

At a time when food shortages were rife in Paris, Parmentier dedicated much time and effort to promoting the value of the potato as food, obtaining a royal seal of approval for the tuber in 1785 from the ill-fated Louis XVI. Potatoes were later declared to be the food of the French Revolution, available in quantity when all else was in short supply. For this, Parmentier was honoured by Napoleon, who made him one of the first members of his Legion d’Honneur.

Today he is still honoured, not just by the many places and foods which are named for him, but by the visitors to his grave in the Père Lachaise Cemetery. Look to the ledges of the tomb and you’re always likely to find some potatoes. Small but appropriate tokens of appreciation for the efforts of a true spud legend.

Parmentier's grave in the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, complete with spuds

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Potatoes Parmentier

In a way, Potatoes Parmentier is almost like saying ‘Potatoes Potatoes’. The name typically refers to a dish consisting of small cubes of potato, fried or otherwise cooked in butter, with parsley and/or other herbs added. Bacon, onions or, really, whatever else you fancy, may be added too. This is fairly straightforward rendition of the dish, with plenty of fresh herbs and a bit of lemony zing.

You’ll need:

• 800g potatoes
• salt for parboiling the potatoes
• 2 cloves garlic, lightly crushed
• 3 tblsp melted clarified butter, divided
• 2 tblsp chopped flat leaf parsley
• 2 tblsp chopped coriander
• 2 tblsp chopped mint
• 0.5 tsp lemon zest
• squeeze of lemon juice, to taste
• coarse salt to taste
• freshly ground black pepper to taste

You’ll also need:

• One or more baking trays, large enough to hold the cubed potatoes in a single layer.

The Steps:

• Preheat the oven to 200C
• Scrub the potatoes and, leaving them unpeeled, chop into approx. 1cm cubes. Rinse well in cold water.
• Add the potato cubes to a saucepan, along with about 1.25l water, 1.5 tsp salt and the garlic cloves. Bring to a boil over a medium-high heat and, once boiling, lower the heat and simmer for about 2 minutes. Drain, removing the cloves of garlic, and return to the saucepan. Then either let them sit, covered by a tea-towel, for about 5 minutes or place the pan over a low heat and stir the potatoes gently for a minute or so while they dry out.
• Toss the potato cubes using about 2 tblsp of the melted clarified butter (reserving the rest of the butter for later). Spread the potato cubes onto baking trays and roast in the oven until lightly golden and crispy, around 30 minutes or so, giving the trays a good shake midway through cooking.
• When the potatoes are done, mix the chopped parsley, coriander and mint with the remaining melted butter and lemon zest and toss with the potatoes. Add coarse salt, black pepper and a sprinkle of lemon juice to taste and serve.

The Variations:

• Of course you can use olive or other vegetable oil in place of the clarified butter and add other mediterranean touches if you like.

The Results:

• Serves 3-4 as a side dish

I’m physically back from my tour of Lebanon but mentally, I’m still several hundred miles to the south and east. And it seems a particularly cruel irony, as Eat Only Irish For A Week approaches, with its challenge to eat only Irish-produced food and use Irish-produced ingredients, that I am surrounded by the edible spoils of my foreign travel. There’s jam made from rose petals, bottles of orange blossom water and pomegranate molasses, bags of za’atar, sumac and freekeh, blocks of labneh, halloumi and more. None of it is remotely Irish – you need look no further than the arabic script on the labels to confirm that particular fact.

Lebanese preserves (or mouneh) at
Rayess Trading in Chtaura, east of Beirut:
Sadly my suitcase was not quite big enough to fit them all...

Still, though I am all for eating Irish, I predict that I won’t be able to help myself when it comes to reliving the tastes of Lebanon – it was a fabulous food and cultural experience that could (and probably will, in due course) fill many blog posts.

Spuds (and a few sneaky onions) on sale in the souk in Tripoli, North Lebanon

Fortunately, I do believe that there is a compromise position. The Lebanese, you see, are partial to the occasional spud (and sure who isn’t). So who’s to say that I can’t take some Irish potatoes, bless them with a bit of Lebanese flavour and enjoy the best of two wonderful worlds. That, frankly, sounds like a rather excellent idea to me.

Now that's a potato... (image from bbc.co.uk)

Remember this guy? 

For those not so well up on their tuber news, this was the Lebanese farmer who, a couple of years ago, dug up what was reportedly the heaviest potato in the world. Weighing in at a whopping 11.3 kg, that, my friends, is a spud to be reckoned with.

And while the prospect of finding similarly-sized spuds may not have been the only reason to visit, I am, as you read this, eating and drinking my way around the Lebanon. Yes, the Lebanon. Really. I don’t think I could be more excited about it if I tried!

So pardon me while I get on with my little tour of the Middle East. I’ll be back next week to tell you all about it.