Sunrise, Sunset

There is nothing more relaxing that watching a beautiful sunrise or sunset. Manchester is covered with cloud most of the year so it can be difficult to see the sun at all, making it necessary for me to travel to far off exotic places to witness such splendour.

Nevertheless, I have managed to catch a glimpse of the sun rising and falling behind the horizon in my adopted home town.

I have captured a few nice sunsets and the odd the sunrise over recent years – mostly sunsets because catching a good sunrise requires getting up at the crack of dawn (something I prefer not to do on holiday).

I thought I would share a few with you. I hope you like them.

Sunrise

Sunrise in Manchester on a rare cloud-free day

Sunrise in Alaska

A beautiful sunrise in Port Douglas Australia

Sunset

A very colourful sunset in Bodrum, Turkey

The sun disappearing behind a mountain in Majorca

Still in Spain, Puerto Banus

A sunset in Sorrento, Italy

A moody sunset in Cape Cod, United States

Sunset behind a fountain in Geneva, Switzerland

Another rare cloud-free sky in Manchester

A beautiful sunset in Santorini, Greece

A fantastic sunset in Victoria, Canada

I love a good sunrise and sunset and I hope to add more to my collection.

I hope you enjoyed them.

Dave Versus The Volcano

I have recently fulfilled a rather strange ambition; I have stood on the edge of the crater of an active volcano.

To be honest, it wasn’t really an ambition – it’s just something I have never done before – and I didn’t really plan to do it.

It was an accident.

This rare episode occurred in Santorini, a most beautiful Greek island, which was formed as the result of an enormous volcanic eruption thousands of years ago and is thought to have contributed to the demise of the Minoan civilisation on the nearby island of Crete.  Basically Santorini is what’s left of the island of Thera, a much bigger island that was devastated by the eruption.

Our initial plan was to visit the old port of Fira and take a boat trip around the small uninhabited volcanic island of Nea Kameni and then take a dip in some hot springs. Sadly, our plans went awry, when a small in a boat tried to charge us 200 Euros. In the end we went with the tourists on a packed boat, for the princely sum of 15 Euros each.

To our surprise, the boat arrived at Nea Kameni, and we were treated to a stroll up to the active crater at the top of the island. I was totally unprepared for the hike, wearing beach sandals instead of half decent trainers. Mrs PM and I also had very little water and the temperature was fairly high.

The walk was relatively easy but the temperature and the ground made it tricky for me, not because I am so unfit that I can’t climb what was effectively a small hill; my sandals were constantly filling up with tiny bits of volcanic rock, which felt the need to glue themselves to my sweating feet and irritating the skin.

I moaned to Mrs PM about my choice of footwear. As we climbed, we saw a lot of signs warning us not to take samples of the rocks.

“So will they check my feet and sandals?” I quipped. “I’ve probably acquired a couple of pounds of volcano in my sandals; my feet will look like The Thing's from the Fantastic Four - only black.

We were accompanied by a polyglot guide, who spoke in Greek, Spanish, English and Italian. Not only was his knowledge of the volcano exceptional, his command of language was terrific.

At the peak, we stood next to a still active crater, complete with smoking rocks and the distinctive smell of sulphur and enjoyed an incredible view of Santorini and the surrounding islands.

We returned to the boat, whereupon I spent half an hour chipping volcanic rock from my disgustingly sweaty feet. The boat continued to the hot springs on the smaller island of Palia Kameni and we were told that we had to swim 50 or 60 yards to reach the spring.

“It is best to jump off the boat,” said our guide. “But you can climb down the ladder if you wish.”

I read that as “you can climb down the ladder if you a GREAT BIG COWARD AND TOO SCARED TO JUMP IN THE WATER.”

The captain of the boat had a magnificent huge white beard and was also an impressive polyglot. As we queued for the ladder, he was challenging people to just leap from the side of the boat. The captain urged a Spanish guy in front of me to leap into the sea and he duly obliged. His girlfriend was less keen and under duress was persuaded by the captain, now speaking fluent Spanish, to follow her boyfriend’s lead. She reluctantly climbed over the side and clung to the captain.

“No es frio,” said her boyfriend now treading water. “It isn’t cold.”

After an eternity she finally leapt in.

The captain looked at me and smiled. “Your turn,” he said in perfect English.

I asked myself how he knew I was English, but perhaps my light hair, pale skin and general demeanour told him my nationality. Actually, bizarrely, I am usually mistaken for a German and I often find random Germans picking me out from a crowd as the obvious German. Why? I have no idea but it happens a lot. For example, last year we flew to Hong Kong on Lufthansa, and the stewardess welcomed Mrs PM on board the plane with a very friendly “Hello and welcome to our flight.” I was behind Mrs PM and the same stewardess said to me “Guten Tag und willkommen auf unserem Flug”.

Anyway, the captain looked at me as if to say “Are you going to jump – or are you CHICKEN?”

In typical Marty McFly fashion I said “Of course I’m going to jump!”

And I did. And it was fantastic.

We swam slowly to the hot springs on the rocky shoreline of the tiny island and as we approached we could feel the difference in temperature as the water became hotter and more yellow; you could see the brown and yellow particles in the water. It was wonderful.

Sadly, when I finally got back to the hotel and had a shower, I realised that I needed to take two showers to remove the residue of the hot springs. After my first shower, I towelled myself down on the pristine perfectly white fluffy hotel towels and realised with horror that I wasn’t quite clean enough – the towels where filthy , now coloured with a revolting and highly suspect browny yellow colour.

I think, for a while, I must have looked like I had a proper suntan.

I have to admit that Santorini is my favourite Greek island so far. The views over the caldera are stunning, particularly when the sun sets in the evening. It is definitely worth paying a little bit extra for a cold beer while watching wonderful sunset.

Another surprising thing about the island is the varied nationalities of tourists. On past visits to Greece, I have usually only encountered Greeks (obviously), Germans and British people. On this trip we encountered Russians, Americans, South Africans, Spaniards, French, Germans, Italians, British, Australians, Chinese and Japanese as well as a family from Venezuela and even Greek tourists from the other islands – a truly cosmopolitan tourist venue.

I’ll leave you with a few photos of this beautiful place – I hope you agree.

Fira

Beautiful sunset

Another beautiful sunset

The town of Oia

Another view of Oia

The hotel's cat trying to drink the swimming pool. We christened her "Pussaka"!

This is where Dave took on the volcano with sandals full of volcanic boulders!

View of Palia Kameni and Aspronisi from Nea Kameni.

How To Boil An Egg

“He’s a useless cook – he can’t even boil an egg!”

I find such condescending statements bring out a unique reaction in me; a perfect storm of outrage, annoyance and frustration. Such statements lead me to race for my soapbox and rant.

I am not the world’s best cook by any stretch of the imagination (in fact I absolutely hate cooking – I hate it almost as much as I hate both ironing and gardening – or ironing in the garden – I hope you get the picture). But if somebody were to tell me that I couldn't boil an egg, I would find the nearest chair, request that person to sit down, grab my soapbox and rant at them.

Rather than ranting to you, dear reader, I just want to offer my thoughts about a culinary chore that the experts suggest is the easiest of all culinary chores.

I can hear you asking:

“What on earth has caused this idiot to start waffling on about boiled eggs? Has he lost his marbles?”

Let me explain.

I have just returned from a holiday in Santorini with Mrs PM and her folks. Each day in the hotel we were served a boiled egg as part of our breakfast. We had no control over how this defenceless egg was cooked; it just turned up in a little egg cup. One thing was consistent – the egg was as hard as concrete.

This sparked a debate whereupon I was told, in no uncertain terms, that my own views on boiled eggs were weird.

Can you imagine my reaction? Three people all looked me in the eye and told me that I cannot cook a boiled egg, that my idea of the perfect boiled egg was flawed and even that I don't know how to eat a boiled egg.

Rant? You have no idea!

Here’s what I told them.

First of all, everybody is different. Every person who likes boiled eggs has a unique preference when it comes to the temperature, hardness and texture of their egg. My own theory is that when a person is presented with an egg boiled by another person they politely smile, rub their tummy and say “Hmmmm! Lovely!”

The truth is that they think: “This person can’t even boil a bloody egg. This egg is a disaster.”

The overcooked boiled eggs in the hotel may not have been to everyone’s taste but I will bet you any money that one or two people will have genuinely liked them.

My second point is a corollary of my first point: there is no correct way to boil an egg. When I boiled my first egg, it was a total disaster. I hit it with a spoon and the raw uncooked white exploded out of the egg. I realised that leaving it in boiling water for thirty seconds wasn’t nearly enough.

My next attempt wasn’t much better. Leaving an egg in the pan for four hours, constantly replenishing the hot water is also not advisable.

The correct technique for the best egg is one of trial and error. You boil it, try it, and next day adjust the time until the yolk is flawless, in your opinion.

My third point, and possibly the most contentious one with Mrs PM and her folks (who all agreed) is how to serve the egg when it has been boiled.

Let me tell you how Mrs PM serves a boiled egg. She cooks it and then pours away the hot water. She then grabs a spoon and scoops the egg out of the pan, popping it into the egg cup and handing over to her victim, in this case me, to eat. Sadly, she fails to realise that the egg has just spent a fair amount of time in boiling water and when, a minute later, I grab the egg from the egg cup, it is like grabbing a piece of molten lava forged in the hottest part of the Hell. The first time I did this, I was so shocked that I shrieked in pain and threw the egg in the air. It hit the ceiling and crashed down on the table, spraying yolk all over the place.

My own technique is to add cold water to the boiling water, gradually cooling it down but not sharp enough to crack the egg. I am left with a boiled egg, in cold water, which I allow to cool to a point where I do not need industrial gloves to handle the thing.

When I mentioned this to Mrs PM and her folks, they looked at me as if I had just beamed in from the Starship Enterprise.

“Are you all mad? “ I raved. “What are you trying to do? Burn my hand off?”

Mrs PM’s dad then leapt to her defence with an unforgettable statement that made me laugh out loud.

“You’re not eating it properly.”

The other hotel guests were now openly chuckling.

Being told I can’t boil an egg properly is one thing, but then being told that once boiled, I don’t know how to eat it properly is the lowest insult of all.

“Do you think I am that thick?” I asked incredulously.

“It’s just been boiled,” he said staring at me in disbelief. “You should KNOW that it’s hot. Here, let me show you what you should do.”

I swear this is true. He held his egg by the egg cup and expertly lopped the top of it off with his knife. He explained it to me as if he were teaching a child of three.

I was speechless.

“What if I want to take all of the shell off?” I asked.

“Why would you want to do that?” he asked in all seriousness. “You won’t be able to dip your soldiers into the yolk. You’re doing it wrong. No wonder you burn your hand.”

Yes that's right: a grown man of over seventy years told me that I was eating my egg incorrectly.

“Is there a law about that?” I asked. “The ten commandments of boiling a bloody egg? How about: 

Thou shalt not pour cold water on your boiled egg. 

Thou shalt attempt to eat the egg when its temperature reaches 3000 degrees. 

Thou shalt not take off all the shell with the egg intact. 

Thou shalt slice your toast up into ten equally shaped soldiers. 

Thou shalt lop the top off your egg.

Thou shalt not have any naked boiled egg before one with its bloody top lopped off. 

Thou shalt dip your soldiers into the yolk. 

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s egg. 

Thou shalt not dip your soldier in your neighbour’s egg. 

Thou shalt only eat the remainder of thine egg when all of the soldiers have been doused in egg yolk.”

“Now you’re being silly,” he said.

Perhaps I was but at least I made a few people chuckle, including Mrs PM and her folks.

Do you agree, dear reader? 

Are my views about boiled eggs weird?

Don’t get me started on fried eggs.