Londoner About Town At Pitt Cue Co

Last weekend G and I met at Oxford Circus underground station ostensibly to spend the afternoon shopping along Regent Street although truth be told, we really just wanted an excuse to eat out on a Sunday afternoon.

After half an hour of wandering the shops and watching G try on numerous permutations of outfits while sipping a glass of white (I salute the sales staff at Gant - kudos for keeping me engaged in the process) it was time for lunch.

There were two options: one, a delicate lunch of a sushi platter at our current favourite Japanese restaurant - Sakura on Conduit Street or two, a meal at Pitt Cue.  Now Pitt Cue was something of a sore point between me and G as, before Christmas, I had made a deal to take G for dinner there only to go with my flatmate before G and I had arranged a suitable date.  Given that the previous night's excesses meant a meal of rich carb loaded goodness and deep meaty flavours was in order and also presented an opportunity to regain favour lunch at Sakura trailed in second place this time.

While G finished up, I headed to the restaurant tucked away off Regent Street on Newburgh Street.  In typical current London style, it is impossible to make a reservation and you can only put your name down on the waiting list once all of your party have arrived.  As I waited for G I sat at the bar and sipped an expertly made Old Fashioned.

When G arrived we were given the option to head to a table downstairs where the tiny seating space seats around two dozen.  Instead G and I opted to sit at the window of the bar.

Even with such a narrow selection G and I struggled to make our choices - every option suggested moreish mouthfuls of the kind of food we were hankering for.  In the end we agreed to share a couple of extras and split two mains.

The first dish to arrive was the least impressive of the day: Lamb Hearts.

The other dishes we ate left us scraping the tin plates clean and frankly none of them really needed washing up.  In stark contrast neither of us mourned the end of this dish.

The Jowl Scrumpet with Apple Ketchup was sensationally good.  The pork melted in the mouth and the crunchy coating and sharp ketchup ensured this was our favourite dish of the day.

As we scraped the enamel from the plate our mains arrived.

Smoked Lamb Breast and Green Chilli Slaw was good.  A belly cut of lamb this had been rolled, smoked and then finished on the grill ensuring the meat was tender and the hit of lamb was intense.  The slaw had a subtle heat and fresh crunch.

The lamb, however, was soundly beaten into second place by the Smoked Ox Cheek and Bone Marrow Mash.

The fact the cheek fell apart at the touch of a knife spoke of the hours of slow cooking this undervalued cut of meat had undergone.  The flavours were deep and each mouthful felt like a warm embrace.  The thick cut slice of toast underneath was inspired as it soaked up all of the glorious juices to provide one sodden mouthful at the end of the meal to help ease the sadness its passing inspired.  Served with bone marrow mash it is the kind of meal you want to eat as rain lashes against the window and logs crackle in the hearth.  This bowl of mash was every bit as good as the one we were served recently at Dabbous.

After food of this quality how were we ever going to refuse the offer of dessert especially once we learned the day's offering was Bourbon and Coke Sticky Toffee Pudding?

As G took the first bite I listened as she ran through whole gamut of culinary superlatives at her disposal.  This was impossible to fault.  The bourbon hinted at in the dish's title was evident on the first mouthful.  The hit of booze left you in no doubt that this was an adult dish.  The sticky sauce coated the back of spoons and was a joy to eat and the crushed biscuit garnish ensured that there was a little crunch to add finesse.  The biscuit was heavily seasoned with salt which enhanced the flavours present.  I tell myself that I was a gent for letting G finish the pudding, but in truth the look in her eyes left me in no doubt what would happen if I tried to fight for the last mouthfuls.

In summary: go, you can thank me later!

Londoner About Town In Jordan - Karak

Our time in Karak was personified by the kindness and warmth of reception we received from its inhabitants.  Even Lonely Planet and Rough Guides afford the town little more than a cursory glance out of the speeding window of the car racing south to Petra or north to the Dead Sea (an opinion rarely countered by the Jordanians we met).  In the world of this A-level medieval history student and past history graduate, the town; however, has the added cachet of having once been home to the dastardly Reynald de Chatillon (wonderfully portrayed by Brendan Gleeson in Kingdom of Heaven).  Where I go, G must follow.

As a result, no doubt, of the brevity of reviews in the guide books, there are only a limited number of places to stay in Karak.  We chose to stay at Cairwan (across the valley from the town).

The owner couldn't have done more to make us feel welcome and, despite it being one of the more budget rooms we stayed in during our time in Jordan, we both look back on our night there with fond memories.  The owner's sweet attempt to make us feel welcome extended to offering us both Jordan's answer to Capri-Sun while we checked in and, when we got to the room, we found he had left us various biscuits and sweets on the room's table.

Eager to see the castle, we left our bags and set off on the half hour walk into the city.  As we clambered up the hill into town in the fierce afternoon sun we understood why it had been such an impregnable fortress for the Crusaders.

The first stop was the town's taxi stop to haggle with the local drivers and secure a lift to Petra tomorrow morning.  After a frenzied bidding war, Muhammed agreed to drive us along the King's Highway to Petra for a rate we were happy with.

From there, we walked to what the guide book described as "the focus of town [the] equestrian statue of Salah ad-Din."

This "focus" quickly dealt with, we walked up the hill to the castle.  A guide offered to take us around the ruins and help put them in context.  We spent a good couple of hours walking among the ruins and enjoying the commanding views across the lush green valley the vantage point from the towers afforded.

Karak Castle is famous as a result of one of its former occupiers and his dastardly deeds committed within its walls.  Reynald de Chatillon secured his place in history by encasing his prisoners' heads in wooden boxes to ensure that they retained consciousness as they were ejected from the dining room window on to the craggy rocks below.  Defenestration at its gory best.

As the sun began to set and the staff looked increasingly anxious to lock the gate, we left and strolled through the town's souk.  We even entered a spice shop and haggled for some spices.  The language barrier had not really presented much of a problem up until now; we had been happy to try to use Arabic sentences we had been taught and, for the most part, the Jordanians we had met had a reasonable command of English; however, the owner of the spice shop didn't speak a word of English.  We left hoping to have bought the right blend of spices for fattoush, yet, in truth, uncertain what we had.  Anyway the bag was later packed away in G's backpack and served to perfume her clothes for the rest of the trip.

As with its hotels, there are a limited number of places to eat in Karak, but one of its restaurants regularly secures rave reviews: Kir Heres.

Unfortunately, they had run out of ostrich steak when we sat down to place our order.  The mixed grill we ordered was a decided miss: overcooked and gristly.  Thankfully, the rest of the meal was delicious.  The baba ghanouj was infinitely better than the one offered in Madaba and G began to understand why it is such a great dip with its smoky flavour coming to the fore.  The labneh with thyme was also better than the one served in Madaba; less salty and more creamy.

We sat at our table overlooking a backstreet of Karak as a young boy repeatedly pushed his bike up the hill in order to race back down it with no hands much to the delight of his watching friends.

Walking downhill out of town was much easier and as we passed another group of children they once again exhibited the friendliness we experienced throughout our trip calling out "Where you from?", "Welcome", "Hello", "I love you" and G's favourite "I miss you".  Pretty quickly a swarm of children had surrounded us and were following us as we made our way along the winding streets.  We looked like the Pied Pipers of Karak.

Things took a surreal turn when four young boys joined our merry procession holding live chicks.  Indeed, their leader made repeated attempts to force one of the young birds into my hand while gleefully waving a knife in the air.  As we reached the street corner the children bunched and called out "Miss you" repeatedly as we climbed down the steps to the main road.

On our way back to the hotel we passed a group of men he called out to us to join them.  Letting our London-sensibilities get the better of us, we walked on.  As G stopped to take a shot of the castle at night, I reconsidered their offer and said that we should go and say hello.

As we returned, the men called out once again and made it clear that we were welcome to join them.  After much shuffling, we were invited to sit down on one of the rugs set out on the pavement and watch the game.  One of the group, Omar, had a basic grasp of English and explained that they were playing a game called tâb and that there were two teams.  In its simplest form, the game required each player to bounce four semi-circular sticks (in this case formed from two separate sticks having been split down the middle) off a rock.  In the event that all landed flat-side (white) up, the move was worth six.  If one landed rounded-side (black) up, the move was worth one.  Two rounded-side sticks resulted in a move of two and so on.  This then allowed the players to move counters on the accompanying board.  Whilst we picked up some of the nuances such as how to knock the other side's pieces off the board and gain extra throws, in truth we just enjoyed the camaraderie and listening to the spectators running commentary and sighs as their suggested moves were ignored.  The trash talking that accompanied every good throw sailed well over our heads, but the principle was understood and made us smile.  We later googled the rules and had an insight into what had taken place.

As the muezzin's call rang out. play was halted, prayer mats were unfurled and the players completed the day's final prayer.  Completed, play resumed whilst one of the men went to his van and returned carrying a bag, tub, gas stove, kettle and jerry can.  

He settled the stove next to the board and as he lit it a great tongue of flame shot out a foot into the night air, causing the poor chap who had been resting his head on his hand nearby, idly fingering his prayer beads and closely watching the game unfold to jump.  Slapstick comedy translates in any language and all present laughed heartily.  Happy to have caused such merriment, the man with the stove repeated the trick a couple of times before he tamed the flame to a more manageable level and rested the kettle on top to boil.  He busied himself washing the glasses and, as the water boiled, added cupfuls of sugar and loose tea.  When it was ready, cups were poured and proffered to G and me.  Until we had declared it good, it was apparent that no one would be receiving a glass.  By now the chill of the evening and the cool of setting on the pavement had left me close to shivering so the hot, sweet tea was a welcome beverage and we were happy to give it the hearty thumbs up.

By the end of the evening G and I had mastered the Arabic for 1, 2,4 and 6, but, having rarely been thrown, 3 and 5 are still a mystery.

As the final evening's game drew to a close, the friends prepared to go home.  One man offered us food and a bed for the night, but with the hotel just up the road and, having only eaten two hours earlier, we had to say no.  Scrambling around in the back of our guide book for a phrase appropriate for the situation I was able to  offer "Shukran Allah ybarrak feek / Thank you God bless you".  It seemed to do the trick and I was made to repeat it for the men that had left and were bade to return to hear my felicitations.

Omar insisted on giving us a lift in his van to the hotel door (a mere 400m away).  This evening was one of the highlights of our trip.  It would be impossible to repeat and in its simplest terms it was merely a cup of tea with a group of men, but what it represented was so much more.  It was a sincere welcome from strangers to strangers.  In such circumstances, the differences of language were irrelevant.  We learnt by pointing, listening and repeating to the best of our ability.  We loved learning the rules of the game and the men showed childish glee posing for photos for G.  If travel broadens the mind that evening is indelibly seared in my memory as a example of how we are all the same at a base level.

Londoner About Town Floating In The Dead Sea

Amar, our driver, was unavailable for the drive from Madaba to the Dead see and thoughtfully arranged for his brother, Muhammed, to take us.  G and I were aware of the family connection immediately; Muhammed also drove like a nutter.

Back in the depths of the English winter whilst the itinerary was being formulated and the plans laid, G and I had decided to balance luxury extravagance with, I hesitate to say budget..., cost conscious choices.  The next few days were one of the extravagant indulgences.

We arrived at the Marriott Dead Sea & Resort Spa at noon and G and I were unsure whether the extensive security checks our car underwent before being allowed on to the hotel's grounds reassured us that we were safe or highlighted that it would be a newsworthy target.

We were greeted in the hotel's foyer with a glass of fruit juice and offered mini-Easter eggs; a nice touch.  Thankfully, we were able to check in earlier than the stipulated time of 3 pm.  We were invited to leave our bags at reception and make use of the hotel's facilities whilst our room was being prepared.

G and I had always intended to get a couples massage whilst staying at the Marriott.  In part to rid the tension of our London lifestyle and properly relax into our holiday and in part to maximise the "health benefits" of the Dead Sea experience (bathing in the Dead Sea and the benefits of the mud scooped from the shoreline supposedly works wonders for all kinds of skin ailments: cursed since childhood with patches of eczema I would be a perfect candidate to test these claims).  We, therefore, headed to the Customer Relations desk and enquired about booking a massage.  We were told that the spa was fully booked for the duration of our stay save for two 25 minute slots that evening; one at 5 pm and one at 7 pm.  We pointed out that we had intended to relax together and were assured that we could make use of the general spa facilities together.

Booking made, we headed outside to the pool.  As we stepped through the door from the relative calm of the foyer to the bright poolside area we were hit by a wall of noise.  The thump of the bass of Lady Gaga's latest chart topping number resonated through our bones, the shriek of young children chasing one another pierced our eardrums and this was all topped off by the visual assault of the children's entertainers performing some painfully choreographed number on one side of the pool.  Feeling middle aged before our time, we sighed and saw the prospect of a relaxing break fast vanishing.

Thankfully, as we explored the Marriott's grounds, we stumbled across the adult only infinity pool; a comparative oasis of calm.  Shown to our sun loungers by one of the pool boys and gazing out over the Dead Sea we felt the tension in our shoulders melt away.

Some of the guide books mention the haze that hangs over the Dead Sea as being capable of filtering out the sun's harmful UV rays.  Within half an hour of sun bathing I was exhibit A in the rebuttal against such a claim.  That evening I cursed myself for forgetting to apply suntan lotion promptly enough in my haste to soak up the sun and the experience.

Before our spa session, we hurried into reception to collect our bags and make our way to our room.

We headed down to the spa together.  Having checked in and confirmed the times of our appointments (mine was moved back half an hour), we walked down the stairs into the spa proper to be confronted with two signs: one pointed to the female section and the other to the male.  So much for relaxing in the spa's quiet environs together.  There was an indoor pool with mixed seating at least.  While G went off for her massage, I made use of the steam room and sauna.

Half an hour later I met G by the pool.  Arriving early I was able to watch her float in with a serene smile of contentment lighting her face.  We went upstairs to the lounge area for a cup of detoxing green tea and healthy nibbles.

As the time for my appointment approached, G headed off to make use of the sauna.  My masseuse walked in; she was built like an Eastern European shot putter.  I was led to a candle lit room sweet with the smell of aromatherapy oils and the soft sound of pan pipes (seriously, whoever recorded that album has done a roaring trade selling to every spa).

As the massage finished, the masseuse fell back exhausted; it seems as though London and its inherent stresses manifests itself in a noticeable way.  I left feeling as though a great weight had been lifted.  Money well spent then.

Dinner was a rather disappointing meal at the hotel's buffet.

The next morning saw us venture down to the beach.

At 400m below sea level and with no natural outlet, the water flowing into the Dead Sea evaporates leaving a strong saline solution; if you imagine that seawater is 3% salt, the water at the Dead Sea is 30% salt.

All of the advice about bathing in its water mentions that you shouldn't shave for a couple of days beforehand.  Of course, I had to disregard this and maintain my well turned out appearance.  I would regret the habit of shaving everyday that had been drilled into me at boarding school years earlier.

As you step into the water you can see the streaks of salt in the still water.  The further you walk out the harder it is to stay upright until your legs are forced from underneath you.  The sensation of floating with no effort is disconcerting at first, enjoyable as you relax into it and then distinctly unpleasant as you splash water across your face and feel every nick from that morning's shave.  Rubbing salt into the wound indeed!

The process of regaining your feet to exit the water is devoid of any elegance.

On the water's edge, the hotel had laid out buckets of mud and people were gleefully covering themselves from head to foot.  All in the pursuit of baby smooth skin and the associated health benefits.

Keen not to miss out, G and I took part and had fun smearing each other in the heavy clay.  The idea is to smear it on, bake in the sun and then wash it off in the Dead Sea.  Supposedly, repeating the cycle three times results in the perfect finish.  Just before our third "smear" a new bucket of mud was delivered and this stuff really did coat us.

Verdict: upon immersion in the water my eczema was painful, but over the course of our time in Jordan it was  noticeably quiet.  Now that could be a result of the water's healing qualities, but it could also be a result of the lack of stress while on holiday or the minimal amounts of dairy used in local cooking.  Who knows?

Another day of lying by the pool followed, well someone has to, before we returned to the room to get ready for the evening.

We headed to the Beach Bar at half past six keen to secure a table, order a cocktail and watch as the sun set across the Dead Sea over Israel.  Knowing that sunset would be at ten minutes past seven, if you are going to plan something you have to do it properly, we had arrived with plenty of time to spare.  The experience, however, was anything but relaxing.

When we arrived it was apparent that the staff were busily moving furniture; however, when we made to sit at one of the tables the manager came running over to tell us that we needed to wait in the bar while the seating was rearranged.  So we stood at the bar and watched as the staff played a giant game of Tetris as the sun began its descent for the evening.

At one point the manager came over to ask how we were and I mentioned that we had ventured down to the bar in order to see the sunset.  His response mentioned the need to rearrange to find space for additional furniture to seat the overwhelming number of guests.  Looking around at the empty bar, I merely nodded.

The highlight was watching the huge umbrellas being wheeled out, opened, closed, moved to a different spot and reopened.  This all took place while the manager adamantly refused to let us sit.  By now it seemed almost churlish to point out that, with the sun fast approaching the horizon and the lack of any cloud in the sky, the umbrellas may be redundant.  It all had a touch of Benny Hill about it and we were looking for the hidden cameras.

By now a number of other couples had arrived and they too were milling about the bar area.

Finally, at five minutes past seven we were invited to take a seat and our cocktails arrived as the sun hit the horizon leaving us to finish them in the fast enveloping dark.

Travelling is all about accumulating anecdotes, we reassured ourselves as we headed for dinner at the Marriott's steak restaurant.

Now our meal at the steak restaurant was good; there is little you can do to ruin a meal of steak and chips and, by the same token, there is little that you can do to lift it out of the ordinary.  The point to take away from this meal is not the meal itself, but rather the fact that G and I chose to eat there in the first place.  London bursts at the seams with excellent steak restaurants (Gaucho and Hawksmoor just two that come to mind) yet the paucity of good restaurants on offer by the Dead Sea leads the Marriott's steak house to be one of the top rated places to eat.

From luxury to basic, we set off for Karak the next day.

Londoner About Town At Tower Of London

When I moved to London two years ago I promised myself that I would use my spare time to see the city through the eyes of a tourist and not take its rich (and often dark) history for granted.

Last month G and I arrived at Tower Hill underground station on a Sunday afternoon intending to spend a couple of hours wandering around the iconic Tower of London.  The queues for tickets made it clear that the Tower is very much on the "Must See" hit list of London's tourists.

You can save yourself time and buy your tickets on-line here and, it is worth noting that, if you are a resident of Tower Hamlets you may be eligible to visit for just £1.

Throughout the day it is possible to take a tour given by one of the Tower's 30-odd Beefeaters.  These tours last an hour and are well worth it.  It requires 22 years of military service (and various medals) to become a Beefeater and it seems, from my experiences, that they spend that time honing their dry wit.  No one who joins such tours is safe from the rapier like barbs that will be used to add levity to the sprint through the Tower's thousand year history.

The tour takes great pride in its gory focus on the six beheadings that took place within the Tower's walls and your guide will point out the spot on which they lost their heads (now marked by an elegant sculpture).

The bodies were interred in the Chapel Royal of St Peter ad Vincula.

When the tour finishes you are free to explore the Tower.  G and I found ourselves running out of time (and we'd allowed 2 hours).

Obviously, no trip to the Tower would be complete without a view of the Crown Jewels, but the exhibition on offer in the White Tower is engaging and thoughtfully laid out.

Last summer G and I attended the Tower's Ceremony of the Keys and, if you have the opportunity, it is well worth the effort.  The Ceremony is the traditional locking of the Tower's gates that takes place at 10 o'clock every evening.  You will see the Chief Warder being escorted with armed guards as he locks the main gates.  As the party returns along Water Lane they are challenged by the sentry on duty.  Following the challenge, the group then marches away.  The spectators follow (at a brisk march) through the the Bloody Tower Archway allowing them to listen to the Last Post and watch as the Beefeaters march off into the night.  The history and significance of the ceremony will all be explained by your guide when you arrive at the Tower.

Here are a few of our photos from our recent visit:

Thankfully the ravens seem content.

It is easy to forget that the Tower is home to the serving Beefeaters.  I wonder whether Ocado deliver?

The juxtaposition of past and present...

Tower Bridge at dusk.

Londoner About Town In Jordan - Madaba

After months of arduous planning, the holiday with the girlfriend (G) had finally arrived.  Months earlier I had sat down with G and looked at a list of the 7 New Wonders of the World.  One by one, the options were struck off for being too expensive, impractical for the time of year we were planning to travel or having already been visited by one or both of us until our only remaining choice was Petra.  Seeking to maximise the cultural experience, we had built up a 17 day itinerary taking us along the length of Jordan.  It would also be our first significant trip away as a couple; plenty of firsts.  Oh and neither of us spoke a word of Arabic!

Our trip got off to an inauspicious start when we boarded the Easyjet plane to Amman only to be seated in front of two children with ambitions to join the Moulin Rouge's can-can line and a desire to practise their routine on the back of our seats for the entirety of the 5 hour flight despite stern glances from a less than receptive audience.  G christened the boy Damien and the girl Regan.

We arrived at Queen Alia International Airport and were met by our hotel's driver, Amar.  Our first meeting naturally led to our first experience of Jordanian driving.  Not for the Jordanians the stifling rules of the Highway Code; instead, speed limits are set as bare minimums, texts must be read and responded to irrespective of the perilously close and fast approaching 18-wheeler and lanes should be chosen as the mood dictates.  We arrived at the Rumman Hotel grateful to be alive and were quickly checked in to our modest room.

Feeling peckish, not having been tempted by Easyjet's fine cuisine, we opted to explore our surroundings and find a restaurant for a light bite to eat.  We made it as far as the restaurant across the street (Ayar) and enjoyed a light dinner of hummus and chicken livers.  Well, the silky smooth hummus was as far removed from the paste served in supermarkets as it is possible to be and the livers had been cooked in a sweet and tangy sauce that G and I both mopped up greedily with torn hunks of pitta.

The next day, we set about exploring Madaba and had intended to take in the view of the surrounding area from the tower of the Church of the Beheading of St John the Baptist; however, with it being Good Friday, it transpired that services were running all day and the tower was closed.

Undeterred, we moved on to St George's Church (otherwise known as the Map Church).

As the alternative name alludes to, the prime reason for tourists to visit is the Byzantine mosaic map of the Holy Land.  The 3D representation of the cities is interesting and the guide books suggest that the geographical accuracy is impressive (and who am I to challenge that?).

As we left the Church it was clear that preparations were under way for that evening's service.

As often happens, I was now feeling hungry and we spied a restaurant across the road.  Trying to distance ourselves from the London mindset of "anything near a tourist attraction must be a money leeching trap with dubious standards"; we decided to give it a try.  Darna is a tiny takeaway restaurant with minimal seating upstairs overlooking the Church opposite; however, the food on offer lends credence to the old adage that one should never judge a book by its cover.

The shawarma (chicken or a rather dubiously titled "meat") was delicately spiced and the accompanying pickles boldly sliced through the fattiness of the meat.

Having wandered the streets of Madaba, perused the wares on offer at various stalls and visited Madaba's tourist information centre, which usefully had plenty of leaflets for things to do...in Amman, we had worked off our lunch and were ready to refuel.

Not far from St George's Church (in Madaba nothing is far) stood Ayola Cafe.  Taking a seat at a table set out on the street, we ordered water and, more importantly, one portion of each of the two Arabic sweets listed on the menu: baklava and kanafeh.  While both were good, it was the latter that made the stop a worthwhile culinary detour should you ever find yourself in Madaba.  If you don't know what kanafeh is, and don't worry neither of us did before this holiday, it is soft white cheese covered with a thin noodle crust and drenched in honey (Kanafeh - Wikipedia).  Enough sugar to perk you up after a long day of sightseeing (and presumably enough to help fund your dentist's latest extension).

We sat outside taking in the hustle and bustle of Madaba's streets and enjoying the shade when a man came over and introduced himself as Samir.

Samir and his cousin sat at the table next to ours and Samir explained that he had recently returned to Jordan after 20 years living in the USA.  He was able to offer us an insight into life in Jordan and the devastating effect the crisis in Syria has had on a previously burgeoning tourist industry.  While Samir talked his cousin concerned himself with arranging their hubbly-bubbly pipe just so and soon great plumes of smoke were pouring forth from his nostrils.

G proved herself every inch the decorous English woman as she took the proffered hubbly-bubbly pipe from Samir's cousin and took the smoke into her asthmatic lungs causing her to cough, splutter and cry.  The sound of her coughing was only surpassed by Samir and Samir's counsin's mischievous laughter.  Anglo-Jordanian relations; however, remained unsullied.  In fact, Samir was such a gent that he insisted on paying our bill, just one of the kind gestures by locals that was to make our trip to Jordan so special.

On our first night in Madaba, we had a reservation at Haret Jdoudna a highly recommended local restaurant offering traditional cuisine.  As soon as you step in through a stone archway you are transported from a loud street to an oasis of calm.  The open court is romantically set out with soft candlelight flickering across the stone facade of the building with bougainvillea lending a splash of colour.

Disappointingly, the food failed to live up to magnificence of the setting.  First, let us start with the positives, such as they were.  The pittas were served warm, puffed up so that they released a mist of steam as you tore into the light bread.  With a crisp outside coated with various seeds they had a lovely fluffy inner texture.  The labneh (strained yoghurt) was served with thyme and its salty tang added another flavour dimension to the evening's meal, although G found it too much - she felt her blood pressure rising with each mouthful.  We ordered our first of many (see future posts on Jordan) fattoush.  This salad consisted of tomato and cucumber chopped into small cubes served with slivers of green pepper and dressed in lemon juice and finished with a sprinkling of sumac before being scattered with deep fried pitta pieces.  The crunch of the raw vegetables and fried bread and the sour punch from the dressing made this salad a firm favourite of ours throughout our time in Jordan.

These minor highlights, unfortunately, only served to show us what might have been.  The rest of the meal was distinctly underwhelming.  The sujuk (beef sausages) were a forgettable and rather greasy dish and the filo parcels of spinach and cheese were stodgy.  Our main (I forget the Jordanian name of the dish) was a lamb burger served with a yoghurt sauce and a scattering of pine nuts.  The lamb had been overcooked and lacked any depth of the flavour and what hits of flavour were present were washed out by far too much watery yoghurt sauce.  Finally, the baba ghannouj.  G had never tried this dish before and, while ordering, I had sung its praises.  I looked rather silly when we took our first bites of Haret Jdoudna's offering.  The astringent taste meant that Haret Jdoudna's offering had none of the wonderful smoky flavour traditionally associated with well made baba ghannouj and this dish was pushed to one side.  These failings were compounded by woeful service.  G and I were seated in the middle of the courtyard, yet we felt invisible for much of the meal and contemplated sending up flares at one stage.

We chose to share a carafe of St George a Jordanian wine having been told earlier in the day by a cafe owner that it was far superior to its main local competitor, Mount Nebo.  I'm afraid to say that if this is the best that Jordan can offer up French château owners will be sleeping soundly.  An initial tart taste failed to develop and shared all the qualities of a glass of vinegar.

Having enjoyed dinner's romantic setting, if not the restaurant's culinary offerings, we decided to order dessert.  Our waiter informed us that there was no baklava left, but that he would see what they did have.  He returned with what looked like a panna cotta topped with crushed pistachios.  I later discovered that this was the dessert known as muhallabiyyeh (if you would like to try to make your own, check out the recipe available on Lebanese Recipes).  This dessert is made using almond milk and the pudding had the perfect wobble lending it a creamy texture contrasting wonderfully with the crunch of nut.  As with any pudding flavoured with rose water there is always a danger that the resulting offering will taste like an old lady's bar of soap.  Thankfully, the chef on duty was a dab hand and the floral taste was merely hinted at helping cleanse the palate at the end of the meal and providing a high point on which we could end the meal.  Haret Jdoudna is highly recommended in guide books suggesting that it is worth a special visit from nearby Amman.  It is possible that we caught the kitchen on an off day, but our experience suggests that it is a beautiful restaurant to eat at on a warm summer's evening so long as you have low expectations of the food.

We had arranged for Amar to drive us to Wadi Mujib Biosphere Reserve early the next morning.  Once again we marvelled at our good fortune that, despite Amar's best efforts, we had arrived without suffering a messy crash.

The Wadi Mujib is a canyon which opens up to the Dead Sea.

The guide books had suggested that it was possible to take wander through the canyon and keep dry.  When we arrived at the chaotic reception in which people milling about seeking direction from the woefully few members of staff we were told that the only route available would require us to immerse ourselves in water up to our chests pretty much from the start and would take 2-3 hours to complete.  Before we could ask any further questions, the member of staff was off trying to deal with another party.

Feeling disappointed that we had spent an hour in the car to get to the Wadi and would now be unable to see it in its true splendour, save for the portion visible from the viewing platform, we returned to talk with Amar.  Our main concern was a lack of a change of clothes.  He reassured us that we should do it in our hiking gear and that sodden clothes would quickly dry in the Jordanian sun and any water/dirt we ended up transferring to his car seats would not be an issue.

Buoyed by this news, we returned to reception, paid our money, signed a disclaimer and were told to choose a life jacket.  Duly attired, we walked across the bridge to the ladder down to the Wadi.  Assuming that a guide would lead the group (there was a large group of Germans being processed at reception after us) we waited at the top of the ladder.  After ten minutes we returned to reception to enquire about the tour.  We were asked, "Have you had the talk?  No?  Do not take your life jacket off.  Follow the signs.  Only one way to go" and with that our safety briefing was concluded.

We retraced our steps and climbed down the ladder into the water, which was bracingly cold, and set off.  The initial 400m was a pleasant walk through ankle deep water, but after that point the bottom of the Wadi fell away and it was soon around chest height.  Ropes were on hand to lead us in the right direction (but as the man had said there were really only two options: forwards or backwards).  We floated along looking up at the clear blue sky and enjoyed listening to the calls of the birds as they fed their young in nests perched on rocky outcrops high above us.

We scrambled and leaped across slippery wet boulders and hauled ourselves up steep inclines with the help of handy ropes and, an hour later, reached the end.  It was worth the effort (and scraped knees), in front of us was a thirty foot high waterfall.  Two other groups were sat nearby, one of whom had had the foresight to bring a primus stove with them and were now brewing tea.

Retracing our steps was far easier - going with the current (in fact, at times, G leant back in the water and floated downstream).  On our way out of the Wadi, we met the large German tour party coming in the opposite direction.  True to form, the men were wearing eye-wateringly tight Speedos and little else.

G and I climbed out of the Wadi and sat down on a nearby rock in the sun to dry out and watch other groups as they made their way along the river bed below us.  Tristram's grackles flew overhead with their cheery call and drank from the water nearby.

Exhausted from our efforts, G slept on our return to Madaba while I stamped at an imaginary brake.  Having washed the Wadi water out of our clothes and left them to dry, we headed into the centre of Madaba for a snack.  Darna had been so good the day before that we were loathe to try anywhere else and its shawarma lived up to the eulogy we had already written in its honour.

Fed and watered. we returned to the hotel for a siesta.  We had dinner that evening at Queen Ayola (across the road from Haret Jdoudna) and it was an enjoyable meal of hummus, borek, fattoush and lamb saj (thin strips of lamb and sliced onions cooked on a flat pan, think fajita style).

Madaba done, we fell asleep ready to move on to the Dead Sea.