I have always considered the Eurostar the most civilized way to travel: my memory plagued by the terror of reaching the airport at 3am, waving goodbye to my bags, wondering if they would ever be seen again, setting up camp on the floor due to the lack of seating and then being called to run to the other end of the airport when they change the gate number. No, Eurostar is definitely simpler, easier and friendlier. I did, however, expect my experience to be a little different for this trip. With all airplanes grounded, I approached St. Pancras clutching my paper-gold Eurostar tickets feeling simultaneously smug and guilty, expecting chaos and madness like the press had articulated to me over my morning croissant and juice. Contrarily, the scene was devoid of any excitement whatsoever. Not even so much as a queue through passport control. In fact, the only real excitement came from the cutest of all law enforcement officers—the sniffer dog. A black and white spaniel, perhaps dismayed at the lack of sniffing to be done at Heathrow, set to work sniffing every bag he could, then looked to his bipedal colleague for a biscuit. When he did sniff out something suspicious, he was rewarded with a tennis ball, which he happily played with while the bipeds searched the suspect case and uncovered what appeared to be a dirty sock.

We arrived in Brussels a nippy 2 hours later and set about locating the train to the Hague. I think it was here, or hereabouts, that we realised neither of us spoke Dutch, Flemish, nor for that matter any French or German that would be useful in the circumstances. Not that this mattered greatly as the vast majority of station staff were locked in the information area, fielding off the great—and somewhat angry—planeless. After our aimless wandering, we pounced on a tall, jolly (jolly tall, if you will) man with an excellent hat, who very kindly directed us to the correct platform. Joined by a similarly lost American backpacker, apparently because we looked “English speaking”, and a lost Chinese traveller, who could find neither his train nor his ticket, we stood tentatively on the platform, trying to decide whether the train before us, was indeed going to the Hague. Motivated mainly by boredom, and having confirmed the trains destination with the confident bearded man on board, we took to our seats.

The journey itself was varied. Starting in the backstreets of Brussels: we hurtled past the seedy underbelly of the home of European politics. A whole row of glass fronted ‘shops’ each with what appeared to be mannequins in the window. Appeared to be, at least until you notice one smoking. Parading about in their underwear, with, for the duration of our passing, no audience, waiting to be picked among their contemporaries, in what must be the most depressing definition of winning ever. The British tradition would not have such behaviour on show, in broad daylight, where tourists might see – it belongs in the dark, fueled by drugs and crime, and yet you can’t help but ponder whether this open acceptance in Belgium actually gives more protection and safety for the girls involved. And with that you are thrust into the Belgian countryside, Antwerp bound.

Holland was as flat and watery as one would expect. We stopped at a series of towns and crossed a series of large bridges, before hitting Rotterdam and eventually, the Hague. Leaving the station, Den Haag Hollands Spoor, and not Den Haag Centraal as we had expected, left a challenge of trams. Left with a choice of about 6 stops, one was chosen almost at random and after a short wait, boarded. With only a vague memory of the google maps image of the town, and a tram map lacking both street names and tram stops we felt, though were not entirely sure that we were going in the wrong direction. This culminated in us abandoning the tram and walking in what we considered the right direction. The trams had clearly been rerouted for maintenance works, though nowhere in the whole of the Hague did it say this. In our stroll from the East to West of the Hague, I would say I learnt two things: firstly, to go to the toilet before leaving the station, and secondly not to take a case with wheels to a cobbled city and expect to drag it. Our journey was pleasant: passing the Dutch Parliament and Ministry of justice, several typical European squares full of cafes, spilling on to the streets, beautiful buildings and the magnificent Grote Kerk. Unfortunately I could enjoy none of this, concentrating exclusively on the fullness of my bladder and the annoyingness of my case.

The Peace Palace

With a new day and a new found understanding of the tram network, I embarked on a journey to the Peace Palace, home of the International Court of Justice – the highest world court and primary judicial organ of the UN. Exciting times. The imposing building: a statement of architectural grandeur, a symbol of international justice, equality, egalitarianism and a place where facilities for women were clearly an afterthought. An afterthought that took a good few decades to come.

In the grand chamber, where hearings take place, judges, about 15 of them, line the front of the court, in what I imagine to be a deliberate endeavour to intimidate those smart aleck lawyers and serve as a constant reminder that however smart they are, they will always be at least 16th smartest in the room. Along the side of the court are the ‘commentary boxes’ like at the races, or other sporting events, I suppose. Except here their function is to give translations into either English or French, depending on what language the judge or advocate in question choses to speak in. They do seem to frequently flip between the two. Show offs.

After a session in court, we awaited our briefing from one very kind judge. He had expected there to be 15 cantabridgians, however most had been deterred or disabled by a distinct lack of air travel, and so the two of us who made it were welcomed, for convenience, into the inner quarters of the Peace Palace. First the robing room, which contained only judgey essentials: a table with chairs, judgey robes and biscuits. Very important. We passed through several other rooms and corridors, each with magnificent paintings and busts of past judges and other important figures. The judge’s room that we visited was smaller than I had imagined, but not small by any stretch of the imagination. It contained, as one would have hoped, a large collection of books on international law, but also a lot of nik-naks, which served as a reminder that judges are, at least part, human. Probably.

We discussed international law, its development, its future, its efficacy, the key players, the past triumphs, the bad decisions, the ICTY bitch-slapping. A man of great intelligence, but also humour and understanding, who appeared to take a real interest in the lowly graduate students before him. A truly class act. We were told that judicial discussion often took place in the restaurant upstairs, which was frequented by most judges. This implied there were judge cliques, and I couldn’t help but wonder, ‘which ones are the cool party judges and which are the geeks?’ I thought it best not to ask.

The ICC and SCSL

A short bus ride away, the building of the ICC couldn’t be more different from that of the ICJ. In a somewhat industrial setting and encased in barbed wire, this modern building lets you know it means business. While the ICJ has a grand setting and feels civilised, the ICC is entered through what used to be the carpark. Despite the best effort to work with the space they have been given—fancy TV screens, bright white walls and modern furniture—the whole area still felt unmistakably car parky. I don’t suppose there was very much they could do about the low ceiling. This seemed to be an accurate representation of the difference between the two institutions.

The ICJ is where states go to resolve their disputes. They are gentlemen, really, and they go to other gentlemen who tell them who has behaved most gentlemanly. They shake hands for the press and its all forgotten. States have done this for over 50 years now. It makes sense. The ICC, on the other hand is new and therefore a little bit scary in the traditional legal world. There is also no hand shaking, and no forgetting. This is where people go to explain how they were forced to go to war, aged 12; where people tell how their whole village was burned to the ground. This is a far cry from the friendly ICJ. The ICC is in many ways like Little Cousin Scampi, to the ICJs Sooty. The mischievous child of the international community, lacking support from the majority of the big players. Nobody is, yet, really sure why its there, and what it adds to the international show. Its a newcomer stepping on all kinds of toes, toes that have never been stepped on before. A tap of the magic wand and a whisper in the ear will not take this court away.

The court building was donated by the Dutch government and doesn’t seem particularly appropriate. The court rooms are small, bearing in mind most trial require an unusual 4 sets of legal teams, assistants, judges and translators. The public galleries, where we set up camp, are separated by a glass wall, which can be closed off with blinds should the court require a private session. This is used, for example, if there is a strong possibility that a protected witness might reveal their, or another witnesses identity. A pretty important consideration given that many of the witnesses are putting their own, and their families lives at risk by coming to give evidence, from places where conflicts are still ongoing.

When you can see through the glass window, you can’t help but notice the defendant. He (all male, so far) sits in the corner of the court and listens and takes notes, very occasionally prodding counsel. If you saw him on the street you probably wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. He wears a suit. I had heard tales of fantastically exciting and yet simultaneously court-mocking spectacles of defendants sacking their attorneys and demanding that they run their trial themselves. This has, for some reason, been most prevalent in the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, though Mr Charles Taylor in the Special Court for Sierra Leone has had his fair share – he took to the stand for over 7 months to give his defence and has voiced his intention to call over 200 witnesses. He has no chance. Today, however, he sat quietly, eyes wandering around the court, and into the public gallery. I made sure as to avoid eye contact. Do not feed the lions, never smile at a crocodile, etc.

Charles Taylor is only residing currently in the Hague, and when I say residing I mean on remand in a Prison facility, because his trial was undesirable in Sierra Leone. Despite being heavily implicated in the war, he, as the former President of Liberia, still enjoys considerable support and so a trial in Freetown, where his contemporaries have been tried, would just not be safe. One of his supporters was in court today, giving evidene. The prosecution, fantastically precise and targeted, lead by an American Attorney, obliterated his testimony in an almost awe inspiring way. Every inconsistency was magnificently drawn out and paraded before the three judges, who politely requested clarification. The court is an interesting one: started at the same time as the ICC but with a slice of the budget, all based on voluntary donations. Similar subject matter to the ICC, but with 8 trials completed—that’s 8 more than the ICC. Perhaps that’s what you can do when hindrance is limited and largely ineffective.

Back to the Peace Palace

Contemplative, we grabbed the tram back up into the more serene ICJ. Serene in nature at least, but today, with a buzz of excitement. This was judgement day in the pulp mills case between Argentina and Uruguay. A little dispute over the stretch of water between them. TV cameras, photographers and people with head sized microphones littered the steps of the ICJ. Diplomatic representatives met in the court room and all shook hands, posing for the cameras as they did. A little ironic it seems, two plane loads of people fly from South America to the Hague, to hear a judgment on an environmental issue. A judgment that can be accessed online, in south America, even from their own beds if they really want. I shouldn’t judge, perhaps they had a plane-pool. In any case, the judgment appeared to apply a car insurance style ‘knock for knock’ to environmental law. ‘You dirtied my water!’ ‘Well, it was dirty when we got here!’ Argentina won on a slim procedural element, and Uruguay more substantially. Not ground breaking for the environment, but probably right in the circumstances.

So that was it. A whistle stop tour of the Hague. Small, quiet and reserved as a town, but at its heart lies the epicenter of international law.

We started with drinks and menu pondering in the lounge, I pretended to be interested in this novel menu but really I could probably recite its entirity having snooped on the internet for days beforehand. The first nibbles brought were some tomatoey thing, thin tangely breadsticks with a black humous dip which is possibly the most intensely garlicly thing I have ever come across. In a good way though. The final, and by far the most interesting was the croquets. Cauliflower and sweetbread croquets. I wasn’t feeling so brave but I am told these were largely potato based and couldn’t be characterised by their sweetbread component.

The dining room I would describe as granny mac friendly with regards to its temperature and the comfort of the chairs. Waiter/Waitress service was almost constant, with water and tiny bread rolls – cheese, onion, brown or white. Small and often enough to try each. Delicious.

Corned Goosnargh Duck, Ham and Scratchings (G B Menu)

This is a course I had seen on tv the previous week so an easy choice to make. It was served beautifully on a wooden board with a wee pot layered with a chicken liver pate type thing, duck meat and jelly with a pea and broadbean sort of mousse on top. My first taste was a little bizarre, this cold green goup of which I had no idea what flavour to expect. The duck meat was delicious and the flavour of the pate really complimented the green goup, which I was able to get used to after a few mouthfuls. Alongside the wee pot was a bag labelled Goosnargh scratchings which were a sort of deep fired exceptionally crispy duck skin, much like crackling but thinner and with a distinctive ducky taste. The final component was a scewer in its on wee ducket on the board with a piece of duck ham. This tasted just like generic cured meat – similar to a procuitto I suppose, not especially discernible as duck. Nice, if a little salty for my liking.

Black Pudding & Buttered Pink Trout, Mustard & Nettle Sauce

This was robs starter. Apparently the black pudding was delicious and sort of cakey in texture, topped with a light trout mousse resembling a ball of ice cream and a pale green sort of foam moat surrounding the tower. At the very top rested what we assume to be onion rings although these were tiny and only had a faint oniony aftertaste and were mainly just crispy.

Roast Goosnargh Chicken Breast and Leg, Bacon Crumb, Crispy Skin, Smoked Shallots, Creamed Cabbage, Tangled Carrots, Roast Potatoes, Bread Sauce, Onion Jus

This was my descriptively named main course. The chicken breast was sort of a half cylinder shape and soft and moist, propped up at one end by the leg meat which was wrapped around some small onion pieces. The carrots and potatoes were miniature, the potatoes being about the size of a penny coin and the carrots deliciously new and sweet. There was a thin bacon/pancetta type crisp, so thin that it was actually see through. The creamed cabbage was that dark savoy stuff, shredded in thin strips – not the highlight of the meal but far from unpleasant. What I assume to be the bacon crumb was hardly distinguishable from sand in colour and texture. The shallot was of the banana variety so massive and crispy, slightly pink in colour with its skin left on – not entirely sure how it was meant to be eaten. The best part of the dish would have to be the amazing onion jus.

Rob had fillet steak and braised ox cheek which were both perfectly cooked and delicious, served with the braising juices, some chive green goo and tempura potato (isn’t that just a fritter) and cauliflower.

Dessert

“Tiny Chocolate and Cherry Desserts” Liquid Chocolate, Chocolate Brulée, Jelly, Cherry, Sorbet, Malt and Smoke

A stunning plate with a tiny mound of chocolate brulee topped with what resembled a twisted shard of glass, though I assume this to be the interpretation of the ‘brulee’ part. Taking a lump, I screamed when the exploding sensation hit the back of tongue. On closer inspection I found top to be covered in popping candy. Charming.

Rob tried the Melting Ginger Pudding, Simpson’s Iced Double Cream, Caramel Custard .

Dinner was followed by coffee and tiny delicious petit fours – some form of poshed up crunchie, mini eccles cake, liquid mint chocolate, truffle and posh fruit pastel. Delightful.

It turns out that a walrus shaped cake tin is hard to come by so I improvised.

Ok, so its not a walrus, but it has a tail and with a breast reduction op and a haircut it’ll work…maybe.

The next step was finding how to fill it. Having been advised to make madeira cake because it lasts longer we stocked up on *stuff*

and also some other *stuff*

and began some hardcore mixing:

Though this clearly wasn’t enough for the epic cake tin

So the whole process started again but with a double batch

and then to the oven!

Next came the difficult part – deciding how to turn a mermaid into a walrus. I took pictures of the finished cake, loaded them up and microsoft painted on various designs for how a walrus might look.

After consulting many friends on msn with my walrussy quest I decided on the second design as it was more cakey and fatter, like a walrus should be and more importantly – like a cake should be.

So the finished article, iced, smiling and ready to go. Cakey masterpiece.

With just the washing up left to do. Later though.

Ingredients: lots of flour, lots of butter, lots of sugar and some other stuff.

Cooking time: ageees.

Been stitching again. The panorama is not as good as my last, I recommend looking at that instead.

I have edited this since the last post. It has lost some weight and gained some colour.

Reflecty. Approve.

faded to black

Here goes. Tree is out of focus

Also I could link to my flickr here. we shall do that. http://www.flickr.com/photos/supergilface/

yes. supergilface.

Note to self: diary up events of the week for CV purposes. AH HA use for blog.

confidentiality, schmonfidentiality (I don’t mean that)

You kids and your weird phrasing. I would never guess I’m nearly a lawyer.

Note: I’m not actually a dog.

Went clicking

Welcome to my world. Amigo.

The monkeys in the park are barbary macaques, chosen as they suit the Staffordshire climate, though they are found naturally in Morocco. They were all different shapes and sizes from the tiny little baby monkeys to old, wise looking fellows/fellettes. The males are the leaders of the groups and are larger in size with larger canines as can be seen in the pictures below. The monkeys could be described as neither friendly or timid. seemingly neither interested or bothered by the presence of humans in their home.

This guy was watching the rest of the monkeys feeding on the human side of the fence. He was obviously bored.

This fellow was hard to expose for. He didn’t seem interested in lunch with the others

Monkey portrait

Piggy backs!

This one is waiting for a bus. I’m sure of it.

Poser.

Watching the humans from a tree.

At trentham gardens there is also an Italien landscaped garden, a shopping village with restaurants, a lake with a passenger boat as well as a mini train. None of this compares to monkeys.

I do not approve of monkeyless views.

Over and out, schnookums.

I love how the same woman appears at both ends of the photo, that’s an extra special feature that you probably wouldn’t get with a real photographer.

Zoom into southport. Classy gas tower.

Yowza.

zoom zoom zoom.

Photos taken on Nikon d40 with ‘I don’t remember which’ lens and zero post processing because I have zero patience. Fly my pretties.

I just like his flappy ears in this one. Obviously had a itchy nose after some hardcore snaffling. Good paws.

A rose from the garden to brighten the kitchen. Attempted bokeh. I don’t even know if that is the right term. It’ll do.

The view from Doune Hill to Jedburgh. Historically it was named Doom Hill, but for some reason nobody wanted to live there. Unfortunately the Abbey is not in this photo. Though it was the end of the annual Callants festival so everything was most likely covered in beer and silly string.

Hendrix appears to be tired, but proud of the destruction he has caused to the hallway and surrounding doors.

Angled

Can I do an faceless self portrait?

guess so!

Consider yourself flown. Pretty.