Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
columns to record whether the train spotter he'd spotted had a notebook, tape recorder,
still camera, camcorder, one of those fisherman-type gear bags you can sit on, an anor-
ak and, crucially, a thermos flask. There was probably a thesis in there on train-spotting
attire, behaviour and associated para-phernalia, but then Christiane upped and left Dun-
fermline for Chester, and Gary's research time was vastly decreased.
We walk into town along the canal, catching up.
The two of them went to see Goldfrapp in concert the night before, in Manchester.
Christiane describes Alison Goldfrapp as being dressed, 'like a demonic air stewardess
on a special Concorde flight to hell.'
It's so hot that in one bar I have a whisky with ice, and decide that on a really hot,
humid day a sweetish blend with ice cubes is actually not a bad idea. Only a blend, mind
you. I'll take some convincing a malt is to be treated like this.
Hmm. Blends. These are not, of course, strictly speaking, part of the brief for this
book, but then I'm in England right now and so such heretical thought might be tolerated.
It strikes me that in principle, especially if you restricted yourself to malts, with no grain
whisky being used to bulk out the mix, it should be possible to create whiskies that taste
(in theory, as I say) as good as the best single malts, yet different - and different in an
interesting and worthwhile way - to any given single malt. In the shape of their gold- and
blue-label bottles, Johnnie Walker already make a couple of blends that damn well ought
to be as good as the best single malts given their prices, and these may well show the way.
Merely a thought.
According to my diary we have a very good curry in a restaurant called Al Quaeda,
but I'm sure that's just a nick-name.
The next day is hot too. Gary and I talk over the piano pieces, listening through each
one in turn. He's got a lot of stuff noted down about them. I'm mostly just glad he doesn't
dismiss them out of hand, but I can hear what he's referring to as he picks out specific
points and makes general observations. We take a break out at a weird little place called
Parkgate, a seaside village with no sea, just a grassy plain with a few barely visible little
creeks and pools of water, extending from the grass-front promenade out to the horizon,
which is where the sea retreated to over the course of the last hundred years or so. Over
rapidly melting ice creams we discuss whether instead of rowing boats you could hire
lawn mowers to potter about on the sea of grass (apparently you're not even supposed to
walk out there because it's Really Dangerous).
I head northwards later, encouraged; Gary's response to the music has been positive
and practical. He's quite analytical, so it just comes naturally to him, I suppose. Unlike a
lot of analytical people though, he has extraordinary enthusiasm.
Gary and Roger are both about the same age, a good eleven or so years younger than
I am, but even when I was their age I'm not sure I had the same passion for work, for
