Grape gathering near the Pyrenees

There are some disagreeable and slightly galling misconceptions about France and wine that need to be redressed. Number one: The likes of Nice, Cannes and Saint Tropez are not the only places to go in France for that southern French weather and lifestyle, dahling. Number two: Bordeaux is not the only region that produces good wine. (In fact, many wine commentators saythat Bordeaux winemakers have failed to embrace new techniques for years, relying on the Bordeaux name alone, and now face stiff competition from wine making regions across the world producing superior wines). Number three: Being a wine snob is not a pre-requisite for enjoying wine tasting. Shock horror.

“When it comes to wine, I tell people to throw away the vintage charts and invest in a corkscrew. The best way to learn about wine is the drinking.” Alexis Lichine.

It was with these important pointers in mind that I left a grey and rainy London this autumn and arrived in an oh-so-sunny Languedoc-Roussillon, intent on finding out just how far an amateur wino can take a wine obsession in a region that has around 740,000 acres of vineyards (three times the amount in Bordeaux) and an average of 300 days of sun per year.

“Wine makes daily living easier, less hurried, with fewer tensions and more tolerance.” Benjamin Franklin.

Bottled goodness

It was thirty minutes to the dot that I was off the plane at Carcassonne and standing in the grand Château de Pennautiersupping wines to the backdrop of family portraits from the ten generations of the Pennautier family who have lived there. This was the life. Despite my un-attuned mouth and inferior wine intelligence, the wines tasted a bit of alright. The importance to the vines of the limestone and clay terroir, the altitudes of between 700 and 1000 feet above sea level and the Mediterranean heat, would only become clear a few tastings in, but for now I was content with believing what I was told. Most importantly, there was no hint of condescension or superiority, marking a poignant thumbs up for the first foray of the un-initiated into the wine tasting world.

“Wine makes a man more pleased with himself; I do not say it makes him more pleasing to others.” Samuel Johnson.

With another 35 or so vintages to taste in three days before a reliable conclusion could be made by this wine neophyte, it was time to move on. Basking in the sunshine all the way to another Château near the coast outside of Narbonne, I was raring to go for the next round. This was fortuitous, as Château l’Hospitalet (owned by the French rugby player Gerard Bertrand) had six wines lined up for a pre-dinner tasting. Followed by another handful to be served with dinner. Cripes.

It turns out I was in for quite a treat as my tentative learnings from earlier in the day started to kick in. Bertrand’s vineyards cover hundreds of acres and six sites in the surrounding area, one of which is at the striking Château l’Hospitalet, where you can also spend the night as I did (if you’re a wannabe wino on a mission then sleeping in a location enclosed by vines is a necessity). Should you wonder about a rugby player’s ability to make fine wines, a tasting at Château l’Hospitalet will halt those suspicions instantly. Even I could tell the wines were fairly outstanding, which is apparently due in part to the inimitable combination of limestone soils, dry climate and several cross winds. It’s no wonder they export 12 million bottles to 65 countries. Non wine snobs say that good wine is the wine you like, and I was heartened to find that my senses were becoming more sophisticated when tallying my favourites. Bertrand’s Domaine Cigalus practices biodynamic techniques and the rouge is especially captivating; yes, I could actually pick up on the blackcurrant notes and spicy kick (following some expert swilling). The outright winner had to be La Forge – the red from Domaine de Villemajou and the location of Bertrand’s family home. A blend of Syrah and Carignan, the minerals, fruit and earthiness make the wine radiant.

Juicy fruits

Was this me talking? While I had stumbled upon both the best wine of the trip and some wino lingo very early on, I made a mental check to consult Leonard S. Bernstein’s Official Guide to Wine Snobberyas soon as humanly possible to avoid become one of those braggarts I had already decided to loathe.

“Penicillin cures, but wine makes people happy.” Alexander Fleming.

After some larking about in Bertrand’s vines to get the ubiquitous grape photos, it was time to hit the road once more to visit the third Château of the trip, Château Capitoul. Time was running out if my tasting targets were going to be met, so it was time to stop the sultry swilling and get down to business. Luckily the pair who run this outfit are ex-naval officers and run their portfolio of vineyards like a ship. Dispelling any formalities, CEO Xavi-Luc shipped us straight out to watch the harvest come in – a process of industrial magnitude involving all manner of giant grape separating machines. “Do you want to try some wine that’s still fermenting?” Xavi-Luc asks. “It’s not quite wine yet, but it’s not juice either.” Of course, we were with military types. Why drink wine from a bottle when you can drink it from a Marshmallow Man sized stainless steel tank? I gratefully accepted, realising the privileged opportunity for a wino on a mission. The usual rigmarole of swilling, nosing and glugging back a mouthful followed. Grape juice with a bit of acid was the lasting effect. “Don’t forget to spit,” Xavi-Luc reminds. “It’s bad for you if you don’t!” About 30 seconds too late for me, and I subsequently spent the journey to the next vineyard contemplating what exactly “bad for you” really meant. Time to shirk Alexander Fleming and choose penicillin over wine? At least I was safe in the knowledge that I could purchase the real, finished Château Capitoul product from a glut of global supermarkets back in the UK. Phew.

“Wine is the most civilised thing in the world.” Ernest Hemingway.

You reap what you sow

Next stop: AOC Domaine de la Tour Vielle in the infamously arty Collioure, where the elegant and relaxed proprietor Véronique Péroneille had a record seven wines lined up and eager to be drunk. Over in this Catalan region of France, with the Pyrenees and the Spanish border a stone’s throw away, the wines (I’m told) taste of the sea breeze and are the perfect complement to Catalan cooking. I can’t help thinking she’s onto something there as she talks us through glass after glass. “This is the perfect weather for drinking our wines,” Véronique explains, indicating the bright, mild day outside. “When it’s wet, grey and depressing weather, the wine is shy. It tastes totally different!” What a revelation to a rookie. But while these wines were sumptuous, it didn’t sound like they would enjoy the British weather too much…

From wines to Banyuls, the region’s typical sweet wine, Véronique sheds some light on the waning tradition to consume the drink. “Banyuls used to be served with cake every Sunday after mass, but these ways are changing and means that we’re drinking less and less Banyuls.” Véronique lets out a laugh. “We don’t go to mass anymore, we don’t have families nearby anymore, and we don’t eat cake anymore!” That said, the Banyuls trend might be set for a bit of an upturn if more people knew about the Vin de Méditation (also the most expensive of Domaine la Tour Vieille’s range at 50 Euros for a 50cl bottle). It includes a wine base from 1952 and has a deep, woody taste that keeps on coming. The clue’s in the name, you can imagine nothing better than drinking it while watching out over the vineyards spilling out towards the ocean. Now that’s more than civilised.

“A meal without wine is like a life without love.” Anonymous.

Bottom of the barrel accommodation

And so, from meditating with natives to elaborating with expats, I moved on to the penultimate winery of my expedition. A Brit from Barnsley, Jonathan Hesford and his Kiwi wife Rachel Treloar, aren’t afraid of getting their hands dirty at their winery, Domain Treloar. Jonathan had his wake up call in life when he saw the Twin Towers destroyed from his office next door. He got qualified in all things wine in New Zealand before setting up shop in Trouillas. Describing himself as a “wine lover who makes wine, not a winemaker who likes wine,” Jonathan’s winery is as much about a couple with an inspirational view on life as it is about the wine. They’re not doing a bad job with the product either – producing up to 40,000 bottles every year and selling every last one; in the UK they can be found in the likes of Michelin star restaurants and Jamie Oliver’s establishments. Jonathan describes his winemaking as being like parenting: “You should let it go naturally as much as possible, but you have to step in every now and again to get things back on the right path.” Apparently he’s onto a winner with that one, and yet again, there’s no room for snobbery in this establishment. Jonathan urges wine tasting groups to ask as many questions as they like and not be embarrassed about how little knowledge they might have. Big tick from me then. If you choose just one Domaine Treloar wine then it has to be Taki, Maorifor ‘one’, which takes inspiration from Rachel’s heritage and by his own admission, is the wine that Jonathan puts the most effort into.

“Wine is life.” Petronius.

From Châteaus and inspiring winemakers to meditation, wine and shenanigans in countless vineyards, I’d had quite an initiation into wining in the Languedoc-Roussillon. But there was one box left to tick… sleeping in a winery. Bring on Riberach, an old co-operative winery that is now part-winery, part-hotel. You guessed it, the hotel rooms are in the old wine vats. Picture an old, industrial-sized structure, revamped to the tune of imposing architectural feature pieces and floor to ceiling windows with concrete vats as hotel rooms, designed to the highest spec. Oh, and an eco swimming pool complete with goldfish for good measure. If laying in the silence of a wine vat after a long three days of wine tasting isn’t the pièce de résistance of a wannabe wino’s Languedoc-Roussillon foray, then I don’t know what is.

If you’re thinking of conducting your own tasting tour then you’ll find plenty more useful information on the following websites:
www.sunfrance.com, www.audetourisme.com, www.tourisme-pyreneesorientales.com

Slovenia aint bad either

A pleasant tail-breeze was blowing, a herd of sheep were braying by the side of the road, and the sun was beginning to move slowly but unerringly down towards the horizon; a glowing red disc that had warmed us all day as we had made our way over the boney, arid, hilly landscape of Pag towards its capital, Pag town. Following the green and luscious geography of Rab and Krk, this lunar landscape had come as quite a shock; the micro-climates of the Croatian islands producing, within a matter of kilometres, a geology and psychology so utterly different that you feel you may well have crossed into another continent, or universe, by mistake. Old women work on the island’s speciality, lace cloths, weaving by hand in the time-honoured tradition by the side of the street in Pag town as children play and old men sit in the shade and talk, sipping local wine, smoking, chatting, watching the world go by. Time here has not got the same meaning as ‘Westerners’ are used to. No one is in a hurry. This may sound like tourist book cliché, but in the case of Pag, it really is true. The added virtue of being on a stark island with few tourist attractions is that there are few tourists, especially in the month of September.

One of a hundred Dalmatian islands

September is one of the best possible times to visit Croatia. The sun’s blazing heat has begun to subside, the tourist crush has disappeared, and you have your pick of hotel rooms and restaurant seats, while paying up to 50% less than the peak summer months. By bike, crucially, you have roads to yourself and you can feel free to explore one of the finest coastlines in Europe, if not the world, unmolested by speeding holiday-makers and traffic fumes. We had started our trip down the Dalmatian coastline in Trieste in Italy. From that elegant commercial port city, we had passed through the sliver of Slovenia containing pretty Koper, and then embarked on a cruise through the rolling, fertile peninsular of Istria, taking in the beautiful old fishing villages of Porec and Rovinj, sleepy and welcoming, and the historical port town of Pula on the way. The feeling of really getting off the beaten track and discovering Croatia hadn’t begun however until we stepped on board our first ferry, to the island of Mali Losinj. From that point on, it felt like we had left behind the real world for three weeks.

The Pula amphitheatre

There’s something incredibly satisfying about combining cycling with island-hopping that you can only really understand if you do it yourself; I had experienced something similar ten years previously on a trip around Scotland’s Western Isles. A sense of freedom perhaps, of really being the master of your own destiny, flirting with land and sea, and watching an ever-changing landscape go by before your eyes and under your wheels like a particularly interesting film or music video… all you need to do is provide a suitable soundtrack. All being well at this time of year, you should have pretty much guaranteed sunshine; unfortunately, our first week had been rather windy and wet and Mali Losinj’s dramatic landscape was experienced in a grey mist with damp clothes forever clinging to my skin as persistent rain fell. Arriving in Krk via ferry from Mali Losinj, all that changed, and for the next three weeks we were to enjoy almost unbroken sunshine and temperatures hovering around the 25 degree mark, combined with light sea breezes. In other words, perfect cycling conditions. Mosquitoes were our main enemy, especially in hotels at night, more so for my cycling companion than myself, his blood for some reason proving more attractive than mine. Krk and Rab were pleasant, hilly, picturesque islands, but in places, especially Krk and Rab towns, were still quite touristy, with a few too many middle-aged German holiday-makers to be considered truly idyllic. Arriving in Pag was a lovely contrast. The 63km wide karstic island is a strange moonscape defined by two mountain ridges, patches of shrubs and a dozen or so villages and hamlets. There are peaceful coves and bays for swimming around the main towns of Pag and Novalja, and indeed as a cyclist one of the most welcome sights after a hot and sweaty day of lugging your machine over the challenging gradients of Dalmatia is an azure sea bay with nary a tourist in sight. The simple pleasure of having a cooling dip and drying off on a towel on a (usually) pebbly but deserted beach becomes almost heavenly.

The stunning Krka national park

As we moved southwards from Pag back on the mainland, vegetation once again became more abundant. Fig, cherry, orange and olive trees line roads, and no one is around to stop you from taking your pick of the burgeoning fruit trees lining a great deal of the coastline. Taking in first Zadar, a stately city overlooking Ugljan and Pasman islands, and then Sibenik – a beautiful and ancient Mediterranean harbour, dotted with ochre-coloured rooftops and featuring winding old cobbled alleyways – before arriving in the spectacular water world of Krka National Park, with its stunning karstic rocks dotted with deep canyons and waterfalls, we were briefly back on the mainland. For the main part however we managed to avoid the busy coastal highway, taking minor roads and tracks all the way down to lovely Split. Possibly the pick of all Croatia’s stunning Dalmatian towns, Split’s personality is like its climate: warm and welcoming. Its café and bar life is the most lively outside Zagreb, and it features enough tourist attractions to keep you happily wondering around for a couple of days, particularly Diocletian’s Palace, one of the most imposing Roman ruins in existence.

Harbour view from Splits bell tower

Back on the ferry – Split is a major port for several islands in the region, most important of which are Brac, Hvar and Korcula – we started to near the end of the trip, but the warm September sun wasn’t in danger of abating. The contrast of these islands, laid out like dominoes in a line north to south, with the more northerly islands (particularly Pag) could not be starker. They receive the same, if not more, sunshine but (especially in Hvar’s case), are luxuriantly green and verdant, with brilliant patches of lavender, rosemary and heather. The fine weather is so reliable that hotels give a discount on cloudy days and a free stay if you ever see snow (which does occasionally happen but is a neat marketing trick since there are no tourists in winter), Hvar town is a real gem and arriving here, we felt like laying down our bikes and staying for days; as it was, our tight schedule only allowed us a couple of nights, but it was enough to take in the surrounding splendour. The town lies between protective pine–covered slopes and the Adriatic, and its fascinating little cobbled alleys, Gothic palaces and whitewashed cottages seemed unchanged since its 13th century city walls were constructed. The traffic-free marble streets are a joy to wander around, and you can see why its buildings are so lovingly and carefully constructed as you observe its stonemasons (famous on this island) at work. A stroll up through the trees takes you to a vantage point where you can take in the town’s bay, which is dotted with a little archipelago of circular islands stretching out into the inviting blueness of the sea.

Hvar and away the trip highlight

Leaving Hvar was tough, as it was arguably the highlight of the islands that we saw, but the end was in sight; a ferry-ride (the longest of the trip) saved our tiring legs, and took us in super-quick time – around three hours – to Dubrovnik. The city, which lies some 300km south-east from Trieste as the crow flies (but about twice that or more the way we went) lies on the thin strip of coastline at Croatia’s southerly extent, a barrier between neighbours (and foes) Bosnia and the sea. Only fifteen years ago, Dubrovnik was being shelled, and its famous red roofs took quite a battering in the Balkans war; now, after loving restoration work, you would never know. This may be a bone of contention for less touristic cities in Croatia which still bear the scars of that time, but nevertheless it has to be said that Dubrovnik’s charms are such that you forgive her this vanity. Dubrovnik is a city where man’s presence can arguably be said to have enhanced nature; what was already spectacular (a natural harbour protected by the little forested island of Lokrum) is enhanced by impressive city walls enclosing a profusion of stunning architecture dating back over five hundred years. It was truly the perfect setting to end the trip and kick back for the our remaining three nights, exploring the warren of alleyways and getting lost in the medieval streets with its vibrant café culture, sampling seafood and sweet local wine to our hearts’ content.

The famous red roofs of Dubrovnik

Our trip had taken us around three weeks, and we hadn’t cycled more than 80km on any one day; our average was about 50, though we had a few days out of the saddle too. Our biggest gripe, along with the mosquitoes, was the hills – Croatia can be unforgiving for the inexperienced cyclist – but a few days in the saddle soon gets you fit, and I am certainly not in peak condition. Despite being well-known, the beauty of Croatia is just how easy it still is to get away from tourists, and, though admittedly not at the bargain prices of ten years ago when the country was still trying to recover its tourist infrastructure, it’s still at a much more affordable price than say Italy or France. The amazing thing is I feel like I have only scratched the surface on my trip – there are over a thousand islands on this coastline, enough to keep you occupied for a lifetime if you so wished. We didn’t even discover beautiful Brac or Korcula, unspoiled Vis or Bisevo’s fabled Blue Grotto. The lure of those treasures means that I’ll gladly do battle with insects and 12% gradients all over again.

The UK is a big fan of just about anything that can ‘pop up’ at the moment, and regular UTB readers will be well-informed on the slew of pop up restaurants that came and went this summer in London. The latest pop up phenomenon on our radar is The Nomad Cinema, which brought a cornucopia of cinematic celebrations to parks across London and the south east over summer and is set to continue into autumn and winter. Screening family favourites like Raiders of the Lost Ark, The King’s Speech and The African Queen in venues ranging from Richmond Park to Leeds Castle, there are films and locations to suit all tastes and travel requirements. The question on my mind was whether this perambulating approach to the silver screen was here to stay, or would it be gone in 60 seconds?

Popcorn by the pool

The thought of watching The Goonies in Dulwich Park on a distinctively average grey Sunday evening didn’t have me feeling as galvanised as much as I hoped it might. Why could this be? After all, I’d be watching a childhood classic on the big screen, underneath (some of) the stars in the great outdoors, and importantly without having to deal with a chorus of popcorn snorting teens who tend to flock on heat to the cinemas of the bog standard shopping centre variety. Yes, I should definitely feel a little more enthusiastic than I did. In hindsight, my lacklustre approach to the affair was obvious. I’d never seen The Goonies before (the shock and horror from friends who had watched it on repeat in their youth did not change the fact that this was my first). With no fond childhood memory to latch onto, I was altogether much more pragmatic to my Nomad Cinema approach. I’m also not ashamed to admit that I was not looking forward to sitting on the floor uncomfortably for a few hours, nor to the impending cold of the evening setting in that played on my lifelong fear of, well… being cold.

Swashbuckling in the rain

Settling down on an appropriate patch of grass (not behind those who had wisely thought to bring their garden chairs nor those with children), we were soon advised that we’d be waiting for sunset for optimum picture quality. Time for beer and Minstrels then: my misguided melodrama started to dispel. This was quite fun actually. Getting together with like-minded people out for a good film in a fenced off area in Dulwich Park was a good idea.

Plus the entrepreneurial spirit was rife. Firstly, the unmatchable ‘Love Da Pop‘ boys were there (of Dragon’s Den fame). Selling popcorn in peg-topped, candy-striped bags of flavours ranging from ‘caramel kiss’ to white chocolate, their presence certainly appealed to Dulwich Park’s trend-spotting pop up crowd. And then, after everyone had been sitting waiting for sunset for a little while, came the pièce de résistance: funky, triangular-shaped-cushions on sale. For by that time, fear number one had started to come into fruition. Sitting on the ground was already uncomfortable, and the film hadn’t even started yet. While I remained proud and arranged hoodies into leaning post/blanket combos, the garden furniture bright sparks smirked as the majority of others meekly purchased all manner of backache-averting paraphernalia.

Creme de la Thames

The key to having a good Nomad Cinema experience rests on preparedness and choice of film. I wholeheartedly admit that I did neither to the best of my ability, but there is nothing quite like the breathing space of watching a film al fresco in the middle of a grand old park. What’s more, Nomad Cinema is not just a summer pastime, as the cinema will find itself in all manner of unusual indoor locations well into the colder months.

Why not, I’ll give it another go this winter. Rather than find myself miming along to the ‘The Goonies R Good Enough‘ theme tune, however, I will be a bit more discerning when choosing a film next time…

More info on the Nomad Cinema official website

The nearest ocean to Berlin is over 200km away — and North Sea beaches aren’t known for Caribbean weather and rum drinks. But Berliners pay no heed to obvious geographical stereotypes. Give them a stretch of water and truckloads of sand, mix in some beach chairs, reggae music and a ramshackle driftwood bar, and then garnish with some garish Hawaiian shirts and over-sized sunglasses, and you have the perfect contrast of a tropical beach environs amid a sprawling, concrete city. In fact, so many beach bars have sprung up in Berlin in the past few years that there is room to diversify. You can ‘hit the beach’ almost anywhere in Berlin: by the river, astride a canal or even high up on a rooftop. Hell, you can even drag your luggage directly from Berlin Hauptbahnhof (main train station) onto a beach bar a few metres away.

Better than the Bahamas

Why beach bars in a landlocked city? Is it the Berliner way of compensation for nine months of drab, dreary weather? Or is it a cheap ‘staycation’ alternative for the many student/artist/unemployed types who can’t afford actual beach holidays? My task isn’t to answer these burning philosophical questions. My job is to pack my bucket and spade, and enjoy a few drinks on some of the best stretches of sand in the city (and let me tell ya, brothers and sisters: I love my job).

My beachcomber day began at 3pm on a sunny Saturday in September, a few steps from Ostbahnhof train station in East Berlin. The station overlooks the River Spree and the East Side Gallery, a 1km section of the original Berliner Mauer (Berlin Wall), famous tourist landmark and concrete paint receptacle to the graffiti all-stars. If you cross the street from the station and go left on Mühlenstrasse, you will follow the wall and the tourists and no doubt hate yourself the next day. Instead, do as I did, and veer right into the hole in the wall with the word ‘YAAM’ spray-painted outside. As always in Berlin, the best things are poorly marked, with dodgy entries into half-verboten industrial spaces. This is the perfect place to begin your beach bar journey on the River Spree, which cuts through the East Berlin district of Friedrichshain and its Western sister, Kreuzberg.

A truly terrible Mr. T

YAAM (Stralauerplatz 35, www.yaam.de) stands for Youth African Art Market, though market is not the right word. It is a beach bar proper. Just let the nice man at the entrance check your backpack and break on through to the other side. Don’t worry, he’s not checking for weapons of mass destruction. It is his job to keep cheap-asses from smuggling their own beverages in to avoid buying drinks at the bar. You may hear the term ‘multi-kulti’ bantered about in regards to Berlin, but YAAM is the real deal. Jamaican grooves on the stereo, Jamaican and African beer at the bar. I’m informed by Max Weber, YAAM manager (and bearer of the same name as a famous German philosopher) that YAAM is not just another Berlin beach bar, but much more. It is a community centre for multi-cultural youth which hosts arts and crafts, sports and training and a myriad of other activities for young people. Right on cue, Max introduced me to a man who teaches children’s boxing on the premises.

“People in Berlin with kids who couldn’t go to parties came here,” Max explained. “So we have a place for families to eat and play during the day and music and parties at night.” Music varies from Jamaican reggae to African beats to American and European hip hop. The list of YAAM’s past musical performers is impressive, including such notables as Ice Cube and Grand Master Flash.

Kicking back at Kiki Blofeld

People were playing beach volleyball while children crawled on blankets to their nearby lunch. A group of English-speaking lads at the bar ordered loudly. One of them was (loosely) dressed as Mr. T. The obvious British Stag tour was content to guzzle their beer down by the concrete shore. One of them waxed poetic in pidgin German about the size and quality of a nearby girl’s breasts. Water lapped onto the stony embankment and couples in beach chairs basked in the sun with a view of abandoned factories looming large on the opposite shore.

Cross Over To The Kreuz

On the opposite side of the river to YAAM is the uberhip West Berlin district of Kreuzberg. This district is so punk rock, so cool, so wannabe anarchy that they even have a day of destruction each year on May 1st. They turn over cars, throw Molotov cocktails at cops and generally get their asses kicked in return. On this sunny September day I picked my way carefully down the Koepenickerstrasse which leads to the (predictably) poorly marked entrance of Kiki Blofeld beach bar (Köpenickerstrasse 48/49, www.kikiblofeld.de). Kiki Blofeld’s flagship is a former DDR police boat dock converted into a night club. This is closed during the day, but for 1 euro you can walk into the grounds. After being told that the first bar is nicht offen I headed to the second, only to be shocked at the uberexpensive cocktails (8-9 euros? Out of their friggin’ minds) and grabbed a beer instead.

Time to hit the pool

Trip the Licht Fandango

Part of the charm of the Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg section of beach bars is the flea market feel. Most of the beach bars in this area started life as impromptu party zones which slowly morphed into beach bars. Cheap and shoddy skip furniture is propped against graffiti-ridden communist concrete. Stained and splintered shipping palettes are sculpted into beach furniture by Mohawk-sporting wood nymphs. And sometimes, just sometimes, a disco ball hangs over a sandy dance floor and a DJs fingers flick electric ambiance into the ears of swaying beach bums…

The author busily researching Deck 5

“Drink Jager-Energy!!!” the large, inebriated German shouted at me. I gave him my favourite thumbs-up-and-winking-grin move which deflects 90% of all drunken louts and leaned over the bar.There was in fact a machine which dispensed straight shots of Jagermeister. A thin, shirtless blur of tattoos moved between Jagermeister tap and Red Bull dispensary. They’re not just whistling Dixie at Licht Park (Light Park, Michaelkirchstraße 22-23). They go directly to the party jugular. At 6pm in the waning daylight, a dance party was in full effect. Well, more of a shambling, post-Friday-night-party-til-Saturday-afternoon dance-trance zombie-shuffle, to be precise. The scene of disco dancing, quivering arms and sliding feet struck the right balance on the fine line between pathetic and cool. The crowd was mostly 20-somethings with a smattering of 30s. I found the other middle-aged man in the crowd and asked him what he thought of Licht Park. “This place has the best looking girls of all the beach bars in Berlin,” said Paul. Well, there you have it, middle-aged dudes. Ooze on over and ogle away.

Paving Paradise and Putting Up a Parking Lot

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the gentrification problem. Berlin has more square footage of abandoned lots, disused factories and empty spaces than almost anywhere in Europe. However, the efforts of the creative communities of Berlin to rejuvenate and renovate these spaces face constant threat by investment bankers hovering for the leveraged buyouts. Kiki Blofeld is closing soon. I tried to get a word from the owner/manager, but he was just too damn busy retiring to speak to me. Perhaps he was one of the lucky ones who were merely bought out. YAAM is another story.

That's one hull of a pool

More Berlin Beach Bars…

Deck 5

Set on the lofty environs of the upper parking deck of Prenzlauer Berg’s shopping mall, you won’t be able to dip your toes in the water at Deck 5, but the views are a big draw, especially at sunset. White sofas, deckchairs and Balearic beats give it an Ibiza lounge bar vibe, although this might be disturbed if there’s a Bundesliga match to be screened.
Schönhauser Allee 80 (Arcaden)
www.freiluftrebellen.de/deck-5

Badeschiff

Arguably the closest you’ll get to imitating a summer holiday in Berlin, the main attraction of Badeschiff (German for ‘bathing ship’) is the 32 x 8m swimming pool converted from the hull of a cargo boat. This sanitary and warm (24 celsius) pool floats on the river Spree, so if kicking back with a Pina Colada isn’t enough for you, then grab your speedos and head on down. Open ’til midnight and, being a Berlin cultural project, there’s also the usual array of live music, DJs and events – plus of course grill and bar – to keep you busy.
Eichenstrasse 4
www.arena-berlin.de/badeschiff.aspx

Club der Visionaere

On a tiny canal on Schlesische Strasse this hip little joint has dispensed with that gritty yellow stuff that ruins an otherwise pleasant sunbathing session, providing instead a rather civilised wooden terrace for sinking a beer and enjoying a slice of pizza. Many however choose to go one step further, perching on floating decks and dangling their footsies into the water as they wave for waitress service. By night DJs spin underground sounds.
Am Flutgraben 2
www.clubdervisionaere.com

Strandbar Mitte

Possibly the most easily accessible of all of Berlin’s beach bars, if the idea of either baring your body or in any way trying to be cool frightens you, then consider this centrally located bar a gentle introduction to the scene. Situated right behind Museumsinsel, day-trippers can follow up a morning of culture with an afternoon dose of deckchair therapy and nod at the tourists floating by on their sightseeing cruises.
Monbijou Park
www.strandbar-mitte.de

“Here around the Old Church you’ll find mostly black women and Hispanic women, on this side until the next bridge you’ll find mostly Eastern European women, and from this bridge on you’ll find mostly white women of all countries…”

A picturesque spot for perversion

Welcome to the land of contradictions, our guide Verma had said at the beginning of the tour, and as we stand on a scenic spot over the sleepy waters of one of Amsterdam’s famous canals, it certainly seems contradictory that such a picturesque place could also be one of the world’s infamous epi-centres of perversion. Like most people I’m fascinated by the sleazy side of society, normally kept out of view, but – also like most people – I’m either too shy, or too prudish, to experience the notorious charms of Amsterdam’s Red Light District first hand… which is why I’ve opted for a tour instead.

This particular tour is run by the Prostitute Information Centre (PIC) of Amsterdam, an organisation set up by former sex worker Mariska Majoor seventeen years ago. Mariska entered the sex trade at the age of 16 of her own choice – and, despite her young age at the time, it’s not a choice she has ever regretted. After years serving on the frontline, first at a nightclub, and then later in the red-lit windows, she still felt a great attachment to both the district and the profession, an attachment which drove her to set up the PIC.

The PIC of the Red Light District

“I think it’s really important to have a free and open place in the middle of this world-famous red light district where everybody can go to and ask for information. It’s important for everybody, but in the end it’s most important for sex workers, because people always look at them in a really bad way. My goal is that if I can explain to people and give them a a better view of sex workers then they can feel less embarrassed about themselves and what they do for a living. It makes it easier for them to stand up for their rights and feel secure about their profession. The tour is part of that explaining process,” says Mariska.

Back on the streets and we’re now standing underneath the towering Gothic ‘Oude Kerk‘ church, our group of curious couples and young back-packers huddling around Verma as she explains some of the history of the naughty quarter, which goes way back beyond the first cheap flights to Amsterdam.

The message never got across

“Many people are surprised to find a church here, right in the middle of the Red Light District but from the 14th century this area was already known as an unsavoury area. Building a church here was actually a strategical move by the government of the time to convert these poor poor women who, they believed, had fallen victim to men’s evil and lustful desires.”

The plan however didn’t work, as construction on the church continued on and off for 600 years (as one wag in our group pointed out, the construction workers must have got distracted), and for centuries the naves were used for a market place, where the ladies of ill repute would often meet and socialise during the daylight hours. Today at last the church functions as a place of worship, but some things haven’t changes since medieval times, claims Verma.

“Many people today, in 2011, still believe that all the women involved in prostitution are victims and all the men are the perpetrators. At the PIC that’s also part of our mission to tell people that we are not all victims, that we’re not little lambs just following the wolf into the big bad woods. We can make decisions and choices of our own, even if they’re not necessarily your choices.”

Our guide for the evening...

Verma, a jovial academic type, is in fact the only member of the PIC who is not a former sex worker, but she shows a remarkable solidarity with the women of the RLD (often using ‘we’ in casual talk about them). This solidarity, coupled with her four year’s of study of the history of prostitution in Amsterdam, makes her the perfect tour guide for this infamous district. Her slow walking pace (she is using crutches, having hurt her leg) is an added bonus, as it give us plenty of opportunity to apply our retinae to the red-lit windows that occupy the ground floor of the austerely-beautiful 17th century canal-side properties. Women of all shapes, ages, colours and sizes can be found gyrating, beckoning or pouting in bikinis from the inside of their softly-lit love nests, but here on the main canal most confirm to typical male fantasies of being young, pale and pert. In the last remains of daylight, these pornographic creatures seem more than a little incongruous and most of the tourists passing by – families, couples and big groups of students – either ignore them, giggle, or try to take a surreptitious photograph (a practice much frowned upon in this neck of the woods).

“Are there always women in the windows, 24/7?” someone asks.

“Oh yes. You can come here at 7 o’clock in the morning and there are still women in the windows. There are lots of people who like to come to work with a smile.”

Window dressing

After crossing over to the other side of the waterway, Verma draws us up close to a window where a busty brunette is busy pretending to field a phonecall (…apparently this makes them seem more unattainable). Verma is careful to position us so that we are not obstructing the passage of any potential customers.

“All the women working here are self employed which means they are completely their own boss, they are the ones who decide what they wear, or what they don’t wear, what they will and what they will not do, and who gets to come in and who does not. I always say this specifically because for some reason there are still a lot of people who believe that a prostitute is not allowed to say no. This of course is absolutely not true. Just because you’re renting your body – you are not selling it, just renting it out for a certain period of time – doesn’t mean it’s not still yours.”

Not only are the women self-employed but, as prostitution is legal in Holland, they also pay taxes. And whilst condoms are tax-deductable expenses their first concern is to get enough customers into their window to pay the exorbitant rents. The windows, Verma informs us, are rented by companies who own up to 100 each, to the women at a rate of 80 to 180 euros per 8 hour shift.

Verma stops off to pick up some essentials

“As with any business, location is very important – this area is the main street so you’ll definitely be paying 180 euros to work here. If you want to go inside with a lady over here it will cost you a bare minimum of 50 euros for 15 mins, and that’s for the most basic, boring sex you can imagine. Basically you can ask anything you want but it’s completely up to the woman whether a) she’ll do it b) whether she’ll do it with you and c) how much she charges for it. So prices can be completely different from that window to that window for anything you want to do.”

I guess the message here is shop around.

Whilst the women in our tour group are outraged by the high rents and long shifts, the men question whether 15 mins are really enough time to get jiggy with it, no matter how big the lady in question’s fake boobs are. Verma assures us however that on average clients only spends 6 minutes behind closed curtains:

“This type of prostitution only has one goal, and the goal is not to spoon up beside one another, or have a nice massage in the bubble bath – the goal is orgasm,” she asserts. Small talk is at a premium when there’s customers queuing up and rent to pay, making Amsterdam’s Red Light District the McDonalds of the sex trade.

Back street boys

We move on down further the increasingly busy streets. Night has fallen and joining the more genteel tourists, the greater-spotted British stag parties have added a level of boisterousness to the evening. As one group lurch by to our left, we swing a right down the narrowest alley I’ve ever stepped foot in. Barely four foot wide there’s a slow train of people, mostly guys, walking in each direction and now you can really feel the district’s sleaze factor. Both sides of the lane are lined with more red-lit panes, and as we pass by at whisker’s length it strikes me this is window shopping of an extremely tempting nature. As the girls pout, wink, whisper, and whistle at those passing by I think I know how Odysseus must have felt on his way past the sirens. I don’t have any rope, but nor do I have 50 euros: it’s Lady Poverty who has tied me to the mast.

Amongst the skinny Slavs, fake-titted-and-tanned blondes, and bookish brunettes (complete with thick-rimmed glasses), I spy a perfectly proportioned pin-up with nipple piercings, arm-length tattooes and thigh-high PVC boots. That could be a wild 15 minutes, I think to myself wistfully. When I finally manage to catch up with Verma I ask her what percentage of the red light customers are tourists.

Fifteen minutes of fun, a lifetime of memories

“A really small percentage. Most tourists never get to see the inside of the room, and that’s because there’s a couple of rules customers have to adhere to. The first rule is that these women will not take a customer that’s obviously drunk, because drunk people are unpredictable and that leads to bad situations – so there goes, what, 60% of all tourists? And that’s a conservative estimate! The second rule is you don’t take a customer who has obviously used drugs. It’s not that stoned people can get aggressive but they can pass out or be sick, and you don’t want to spend your shift dealing with that.”

It’s a testament to how protective this district is of the girls that work here, that they can afford to turn down customers they don’t like the look of – and with no pimp harrassing them, plus a panic button in every room, this is about as safe as prostitution gets, for both customer and concubine. We finish our tour at the other side of the church where we’d begun and Verma brings our attention to a statue in the square. It’s of a semi-naked girl, hands on hips, in a doorway.

The Editor tries to help cover his travel expenses

“This statue right here, this is our Belle. We put this statue here in 2007. She represents the respect we have for all the sex workers all over the world. She is a unique statue of her kind because she shows a proud woman with her head held up and her chest forward – prostitutes are usually tucked away in shame in a corner somewhere. What we want to do is help empower these women. I always say that you don’t have to like this, you don’t have to do it yourself, but I do believe it’s time – it’s 2010 – that we start accepting the fact that there are women who do this. And, as we see here in Amsterdam, by making it legal, by making it safe, you can do it right.”

For more info and stories check out our Amsterdam City Guide. Duncan stayed in Amsterdam courtesy of the excellent Cocomama hostel – a former bordello if you fancy keeping your Dutch trip on theme.