MasterChef pop-up a fine concept that falls down when it gets to the table

If the intent of the MasterChef pop-up restaurant is to give you the feeling of being a judge ... some highs, some lows, a couple disasters, all with charming personality ... then the culinary franchise's current London offering is a success.  If, however, it was supposed to deliver a fine dining experience to match a "proper" restaurant, I fear that, at least last night, they've failed.

The concept is a fine one.  Especially in this foodie-filled capital, where thousands of prosperous professionals follow the shows with the same devotion they'd give to a football club.  (My husband and I bonded, early in our relationship, texting commentary back and forth while watching Series 6 from our respective sofas.)


Take over the top-floor canteen of a London office building with a fine view (the Blue Fin) for five weeks.  Line up 12 former winners and finalists. putting three in the kitchen at a time.  Let each trio design a five-course tasting menu.  Advertise.  Sell out in advance.  Invite diners to arrive early for pop-up bar in the roof garden with stunning views.  Feed them, while allowing them to peek into the kitchen where the stars are at work.  Have the chefs work the room a bit as they near the end of service.


But beware, MasterChef.  These aren't just regular diners.  You've self-selected a group serious about their food, attuned to culinary criticism and with high, and informed, expectations.  Expectations that neither the food nor the service lived up to.

We started with 2010 winner Dhruv Baker's spiced crab cakes with tamarind yogurt dressing.  Which didn't hit the table until more than half an hour after we sat down; we were left alone so long we thought they'd forgotten about us.  Light on crab, heavy on potato; if he'd called them crab croquetas they would have worked, but as crab cakes they fell short.  The dressing was the best part of the dish, but I felt myself channelling Greg Wallace: I want more sauce, mate!  The elegant presentation was, oddly, let down by a black plastic plate.  Was picnic-ware part of the pop-up experience?  (No, other courses were on proper china.)

The second starter, a pork and prosciutto terrine (pictured), was more successful.  This came from 2012 finalist Tom Rennolds, who many will remember as the perfectionist plasterer turned king of presentation.  Mouthfuls of chewy porcine goodness, with a lovely textural element added by the crunch of popcorn and crispy prosciutto on top.  But I hit two pieces of gristle so hard I could have cracked a crown had I been chewing with more force.  Schoolboy error.

We were excited about 2012 finalist Andrew Kojima's scallops, mackerel and sea bass with soba noodles, miso butter and ponzu.  It was exactly the kind of Anglo-Japanese fusion that made him so appealing as a contestant.  But the balance was wrong, with the mackerel overwhelming the other fish, made worse by the fact its skin was flabbily inedible.

Dhruv rode to the rescue with a main course of Achari-spiced duck with carrots and plum jus, a beautiful balance of sweet and savoury with a complexity of spices.  We wanted more.

Dessert was another high point, with two offerings on the same plate.  To one side, Dhruv's lemon, lime and cardamom tart with chai masala, another triumph of Asian fusion.  But it was Koj who pushed all my pleasure buttons with a melt-in-mouth pistachio cake with burnt white chocolate ice cream.

These were served at erratic intervals, some coming quickly and others taking so long we expected one of those classic MasterChef scenes where the contestant pops out of the kitchen to apologise for a bit of a crisis and say he needed 10 more minutes.  Perhaps the fire alarm that went off mid-meal?  Though this, presumably, only excused the timing on the fish course.

The delays gave us time to ponder the extreme youth and variable quality of the wait staff.  The table beside us seemed to have chatty fellows who explained who'd designed each dish and gave a bit of detail.  Ours just put the plates down with a smile and recited the dish name that was in the menu.  We wondered if the whole pop-up was an apprentice scheme to train up new, young talent?  If so, good for them.  But warn us so we can modify our expectations.

As the evening wound down, Dhruv and Koj wandered out of the kitchen to do some table hopping.  No sign of Tom.  Clearly, nobody had organised this.  The ideal would have been to give the three a rotation, so every table got a couple of minutes with one of the star attractions.  Sadly, it was far more casual, with them spending lots of time at a handful of tables (not ours, sadly!) and drifting away.

I'm enough of a fan of the franchise to watch out for a return of the pop-up in 2015, and I'll probably book a table.  But I do hope they work out the kinks.  I'd prefer to be channelling a bit more satisfied diner, and a bit less John and Greg.

Undersea adventures make the Maldives truly unique

The sea turtle swam towards me with a fin upraised, as if wanting a "high five".  He looked at me for a moment, close enough that I could clearly see his beaked mouth and look into his gentle eyes.  I popped my head out of the water, looking to alert my fellow snorkelers, but they were on the other side of the reef.  So I returned to the turtle, who had now started poking around in the coral below ... a thicket of what looked like stag antlers, with bright blue tips ... for a snack.  I was close enough to stroke his shell, and he wasn't bothered.  We swam along like that for a while, at peace in the quiet waters.

And that was after I'd been swimming with whale sharks.

I've been on a lot of magnificent beach holidays, but never one as good as The Maldives once you get in the water.  I quickly realised that a holiday here is much like an African safari, alternating bursts of wildlife observation with breaks to recover from your awe.  People who think they'd be bored "just sitting on a beach" are missing the point; the magic here is beyond the beach.

The unique geology of the Maldives has a lot to do with it.  If you're lucky enough to need a sea plane to get to your resort ... something I highly recommend for the full experience ... you'll see that this place is very different.  Imagine thousands of tiny islands poking their heads above swathes of coral reef, made obvious from the air because of the variations of lighter blues that differentiate them from the indigo of the deep sea.  When seen from above, you realise the reefs and islands usually comprise circles, and these smaller circles form the line of much larger ones.

Together, these make up the atolls, of which there are 26 spread over 80,000 square kilometers.  The theory has it that this is what's left of an impossibly ancient chain of volcanoes.  The peaks themselves wore down long ago, but the coral reefs that surrounded them ... which, after all, are living things ... still survive.

An aquatic metropolis

Besides making for spectacularly beautiful views, this geology has tremendous advantages for the tourist.  All these reefs break and calm the waves, so at sea level you have the illusion of being in the middle of the ocean, but it's still calm and placid as a lake.  The shallows around the islands are expansive.  From our villa you could walk out for almost one hundred yards at high tide on nothing but powdery sand, the water never much past your waist.  The sand is white, the water turquoise, and the sun above gives the surface an undulating violet sheen.  Elsewhere off these islands, however, you can put on your fins, start swimming, and be over reefs and fish in 15 strong kicks.  And, of course, all these coral reefs are a source of food and housing for a dazzling variety of fish.  For humans, this might be the middle of nowhere, but it's a piscine New York City.

Snorkel and fins came with our hotel package and, I suspect, do at most resorts.  This means that once you're here ... admittedly, an expensive proposition ... activity is free.  You can float and observe for hours without ever getting bored.

My favourites were the obscenely coloured parrot fish, usually violet with teal accents and touches of red, yellow and green.  Though I saw turquoise and burgundy varieties as well.  These odd fish, about the size of a small lapdog, have industrial-strength gnashers they use to actually take bites out of the reef.  When they're swimming as a school, you can hear them chewing before you see them.  Their digestive systems filter out the nutrients, break down what's left and excrete it as sand.  Yes, those lovely beaches are ... parrot fish poop.

But they're just the showiest guys in the neighbourhood.  You'll spot every shade of neon in stripes,
swirls and dots.  Hover over a round coral, its filaments dancing in the current like hair, and watch 200 tiny, electric blue tadpoles dart in and out.  Laugh at schools of yellow and black striped fish that look like escaping convicts.  Inspect the horn on the odd unicorn fish, who can get away with being boring black because that thing coming out of his head is so distinctive.  Gawp when the giant clams occasionally open and close their garish orange and blue lips.  After day two, you won't even pay attention to the small black-finned sharks or the rays hovering in the shallows, so common are they.  It is often hard to believe this is real, rather than some animatronic set concocted by Disney for its "Finding Nemo" ride.

Of course, if you want to spend money, there are special excursions to be had.  Dolphin watching aboard one of the native dhoni boats, its prow curved like an Egyptian pharaoh's barge, is the most typical.  There are enough of our aquatic cousins gambolling in these waters to almost guarantee you'll end up gliding along next to a pod, watching them arch, dive and ... it you're lucky ... pirouette in flashy leaps.

The dive shop at Moofushi did an intro to scuba experience for $130 a person.  The entry barriers to this activity can be daunting: expensive and time-consuming qualifications, equipment, etc.  Here, we had half an hour of instruction on the basics (main take out: never hold your breath or your lungs might explode), got kitted out and headed for the water.  The two of us had our own dive instructor, Massimo, who stayed close and ensured everything went smoothly.  After making sure we had the basics of breathing down in the shallows next to the main dock, we headed for the adjoining reef and he pushed us down to two or three meters.  Quite literally "pushed"; he was above the two of us, hands on our backs, controlling our depth and ready to pull us to the surface at the slightest hint of trouble.

As an introduction, it was magnificent.  And great to do something totally new for a new decade (we did it the morning of my birthday).  Overall, I am yet to be convinced that it is worth the vast cost differential from the essentially free snorkelling.  Other than a menacing eel and getting closer to some of the more interesting coral, we didn't see much more from under the water than we did from on top.  But I'm open to further experimentation.  After all, I wasn't crazy about my first spa experience ... and now I'm an addict.

A whale of a time
Our biggest excursion investment, however, was a full-day whale shark adventure.  At $250 per person we thought about that one quite a bit before signing up, but agreed it was worth every penny.  It was the highlight of the whole Moofushi stay.

Whale sharks are the largest fish on the planet ... remember, whales themselves are mammals rather than fish ... and The Maldives hosts one of the world's largest colonies.  There are about 200 males and six females now living off these reefs.  They are gentle giants, on average about 9 metres long, who feed on plankton.  They rise from the depths at meal time and hang in the current a couple of meters below the surface, their massive mouths opened to filter the water bringing their food.  It's this habit that makes them easy to swim with, if you can spot them.  They're content to let you hover and swim with them, as long as you give them a fair buffer.  Get too close, you'll spook them and they'll return to the depths.

We quickly realised our premium pricing went for a fine boat, limited numbers and professional spotters.  One was even a fully-qualified marine biologist.  Our speedboat spent 45 minutes zipping us past reefs, other resorts and tiny uninhabited islands before we got to the long chain that formed the southern edge of our atoll.  Then the spotters went to work.  One on the prow, two on the roof, spotting for the telltale shadow in the water as we trolled up and down their usual hunting grounds.  For more than an hour we saw no sharks … just an entertaining pod of dolphins and several other boats doing the same as us.  These, however, were slow-moving dhonis, mostly filled with Chinese tourists.

We were beginning to give up hope when our crew told us to get ready and sped us to the bit of water they'd spotted.  Over the side we went, and there she was.  No more than four meters away, sometimes much closer.  So close, in fact, that I watched as Piers hit the water and, unsure where she was, almost collided with her snout as he got his bearings.

The fish are majestic and awe inspiring in their size.  Roughly the length of a city bus, with a mouth as wide as a young teenager.  Even though you know they only eat plankton, when you're in front of one, letting it swim toward you, you can't help but be terrified of that gaping maw.  Fortunately, our girl wasn't bothered by our presence at all, and we were able to swim along with her for 10 minutes.  Enough time to inspect her from every angle.  Hanging above her middle, seeing the way the white spot and lines on her grey skin formed the perfect "dazzle" camouflage in the sun-dappled shallows.  Swimming respectfully behind her, imagining just how lethal that swinging tail could be if you got in the way.  (Our biologist guide had been very clear about keeping well clear.)

And then the Chinese arrived.  I wouldn't want to make any generalisations about a whole nationality, I'll only say that these groups paid little attention to the instructions not to get close, and flailed around in the water as if they were all new to swimming.  The result?  Our shark dove to avoid the ruckus.  We swam back to our speedboat.  Three more times our spotters got us to a shark in front of the hoards.  And that, we realised, was what we were paying for.  The edge over the bigger, slower groups.

Having tired ourselves out with the sharks, we headed off to a desert island for a spot of lunch.  Then a bit of snorkelling on a reef full of sea turtles, including my special friend.  What a day.  What a place.

Welcome to paradise … it's called Moofushi

Americans of a certain age will acknowledge the formative influence of a show called Fantasy Island.  Every week, a sea plane dropped a new bunch of guests into a tropical paradise, where a benign, god-like host arranged scenarios to make the guests' deepest desires come true.

I hadn't thought of that show for years, but it was ... inevitably … repeating through my brain as our own sea plane touched down on the indigo waves and nudged the Constance Moofushi's floating dock.  Sure enough, a group of staff members waited to greet us by name, one person per couple, whisking us into their island paradise.  "No News, No Shoes beyond this point" read the entry sign; a fitting summary of the complete relaxation to come.

This luxury resort in the Maldives is, quite simply, the culmination of every dream of a beach holiday I've ever had.  White, sandy beaches.  Water at that perfect temperature: warm enough to stroll right in, cool enough to refresh in the heat of the day.  Reefs a short swim from shore busy with tropical fish.  Each room a luxuriously appointed thatched "hut".  Ours on stilts over the water.  Friendly, unobtrusive staff.  Tiki bar by the infinity pool with exotic cocktails.  Excellent food, fine wine list.

I banked cash for two years to get here, and it delivered on every expectation.  If I ever win the lottery, I'm coming here for at least a month each year.  The problem now is … how will any future beach holiday compare?

Browsing a brochure back in England a year ago, all of the resorts looked pretty much the same.  How to choose?  In true marketing boss fashion, I decided to go with brand loyalty.  We'd had a magnificent honeymoon at the Constance Prince Maurice on Mauritius.  Why not give the chain another try?  I was delighted to be proven right.

The mood here is different from its Mauritian sister, however.  That hotel had grand architecture and a sophisticated evening vibe.  Here, deep into the Indian Ocean close to the equator, they're going for luxury Robinson Crusoe.  The thatched hut look is repeated on all of the island's buildings, sand forms most floors and everyone, including the staff, is welcome to go barefoot at all times.  It took Crusoe a while to explore his island.  You could walk around this one in 30 extremely leisurely minutes.

Moofushi is really no more than a palm-crowded sand spit atop a coral reef.  At its heart there's a restaurant, sides open to the air with views over the lagoon where the resort's dhoni boats are moored.  Their colourful, curved prows whisper of exotic voyages.  The thatched bar next door features one of the few solid floors in the place, should you fancy a dance.  We were more inclined to settle into comfy armchairs to play backgammon; one of multiple board games available for guests.  Across from the bar, reception occupies another round, open-aired pavilion.  The sandy square between them is as close to a hotel lobby as you get, one side leading to the pier that welcomes boats and sea planes, the other fronting the dive shop and a small boutique.  (The latter is mostly filled with high-bling beach wear in very small sizes, one suspects targeted at the profusion of new brides from Russia and China.)

Heading away from the restaurant in the other direction, you find a library-cum-billards room before a path plunges into a thicket of tropical vegetation.  It's an illusion of density, however, as it's only 20 or 30 yards before you come to the spa on your left, its welcome pavilion forming a gate to a lagoon-topping pier off which individual treatment huts branch.  Tucked to one side on the beach is a yoga pavilion, positioned to catch the rising sun.  Not something we ever caught, as our slug-a-bed mornings meant we only made it to breakfast two days out of 10.  Beyond this is the second restaurant, really no more than a couple of tented decks and tables on the sand.

Across from the spa and restaurant is a small but fully kitted-out gym, which I did manage to get to on my first morning.  After that, I'd picked up my snorkel gear and thought: why exercise indoors when I can swim?    Behind this, cleverly camouflaged from the guests, the islands tiny "inland" houses the staff, the kitchens and the power and desalination plants that make life possible here.

Continue on 30 or 40 more steps and you've reached the Totem Bar.  It's decorated with those figures that look unspeakably tacky when moulded into plastic coconuts for Tiki Bar parties, but here somehow manage to look cool and elegant.  Outdoor sofas and thickly-padded armchairs are scattered in the sand beneath the palms.  Beside that, there's a crescent-shaped infinity pool, its tiles a deep charcoal so as not to compete with the shocking blues, whites and greens of the seascape beyond.  A few more steps, and you've reached the other end of the island, a beach to your right stretching backwards around that cleverly-hidden staff area, to meet back up with that reception hut that marks the other pole of your watery existence.

About 20 villas are nestled in greenery along that beach, so well camouflaged that you could easily walk by the area without realising there was accommodation there.  These are the least expensive options, and while I suppose it's better than not getting here at all, I don't see the point of coming this far unless you buy into what The Maldives is famous for: over-water villas.

The wooden piers extending from each side of Moofushi essentially triple the length of the island, and these are where you find most of the accommodation.  This being the big birthday trip, I splurged on a senior water villa.  These are strung along the tip of the Western pier, presumably for the finest views of the sunset.

I'm unsure that the upgrade was worth the money.  From what I saw the interiors were pretty much the

same.  Cathedral ceilings, pale wood, abstract decor in vaguely sea-creature forms, generous shower and dressing area, glass walls and sliding screens giving you the ability to close yourself off, or feel at sea.  Careful placement and bamboo partitions shielded you from your neighbours.  Beyond your sleeping area, sliding glass doors gave on to a deck with both chairs and loungers, with steps descending to the sea.  The senior water villa addition was a bit more square footage, and an outdoor shower and bath.

Now, I have to admit that I loved the bath.  I quickly developed a late afternoon routine.  Swing by the Totem, pick up a cocktail, bring it back to the room, run a bath and soak off the salt water while sipping away and reading my Kindle.  Though the bath is on the boardwalk side of the villa, it's enclosed by bamboo screening and on a plinth standing in the sea, so you look over the edge and you're peering into shallow water through which the occasional fish glides.  Peer over one shoulder, along the edge of the villa, and you could take in the whole seascape.  Magnificent.  But as the only differentiator, I could probably slide down to the regular water villa and save some cash.  Especially since we realised that it was the senior water villas, with extra room for extra beds, that were most likely to house that scourge of any elegant holiday:  children.  After careful consideration, we've staked out water villas 45 or 46 as our ideal for a return visit.

The Maldives has a "one island, one resort" policy, and each one is reached only by motorboat or sea plane.  (In Moofushi's case, it's a journey of about 45 minutes in the air.)  This means that once you've arrived, you're a captive audience.  Surprisingly, most of the resorts are not all inclusive.  Meaning you're stuck with whatever price their bars and restaurants charge for the duration of your stay.  Terrified by tales of £10 bottles of water and people tripling their total holiday cost with food and drink, we also chose Moofushi because it was one of just a few all inclusive resorts.  It worked out even better than I expected, as I'll relate in a future entry.

All the spectacular views and creature comforts are enhanced by a top-quality staff.  Again, there's a slight difference from the Prince Maurice.  There, it was all quiet and respectful; even though the staff-to-guest ratio was spectacular, the ethos was to make your life perfect and then disappear.  And it was always "Mrs. Bencard".  The formality fit the architecture.

At Moofushi there's a casual bonhomie that matches the barefoot chic.  Every staff member grins and gives you a merry greeting when you pass, and you're quickly on first-name basis with many.  Or is it just us who get to know the head chefs and the sommelier staff within 48 hours of arrival?  More of them to come, as well.

The Constance Moofushi has left me with a terrible problem.  In every aspect, it was so close to my idea of paradise, that I don't want to go anywhere else for a special occasion holiday for the rest of my life.  And yet … after superlative experiences at two of the Constance hotels, I'm dying to try some of the others.  If only that lottery win would come through.

Al Angham introduces us to spice, tomato-laden Omani cuisine

I've never been in a restaurant to equal Muscat's Al Angham when it comes to environment.

Of course, now that I've spent a few days sightseeing in Oman, I realise it fits perfectly into what I was

coming to know of the country.  Newly-built, yet modelled on traditional forms, with no expenses spared and an eye to a growing tourist market. Al Angham is part of the entertainment complex adjoining the new opera house, a stone's throw from the main door and undoubtably the place to dine before a performance.  From the moment the doorman in his impressive traditional costume ushers you in, you know you're in for something special.

I'd mentioned my birthday when making the reservations, so the manager arranged a table with a comprehensive view and a scattering of rose petals.  Ornate screens, lavish chandeliers, polished marble floors, pointed arches and lush textiles set the scene.  China, cutlery and glassware have all obviously been commissioned specifically for the restaurant, and every table is graced with that quintessential Omani touch: a silver frankincense burner.  The staff all wear traditional costumes, the women in jewel-toned tunics over narrow-legged trousers, decorated with sequins and embroidery and topped with matching head scarves.  It's all terribly grand, and gives visitors the sense they've snuck into the Sultan's palace for a meal.

The menu was equally exotic, and we'd come prepared to throw ourselves into a lavish chef's menu with intriguing dishes like dry baby shark salad and camel stew.  Sadly, it was not meant to be.  We'd thought Mexican was the most problematic cuisine for my husband's tomato allergy.  Now we know it's Omani.  The poor man could only have two things off the whole menu, so predominant is his culinary nemesis here. So we were limited to the a la carte menu and I definitely came out the winner.

Unsurprisingly for a country sitting at the centre of trade routes between East and West, you'll see a lot that reminds you of Middle Eastern, Indian or Malaysian cuisine, but it's all combined in distinctively Omani ways.  Seafood dominates, with lamb as the main meat.  They use spices lavishly, undoubtably built up in layers to create mixes where no one flavour dominates.  Given the inability to come up with much for Piers on the spur-of-the-moment, I'm guessing most main dishes involve lengthy marinades.  As with Asian cuisines, I noted lots of play with contrasts: sweet and savoury, spicy cut with mild.

I started with awal sambosa, a triangular pastry clearly in the same family as Indian samosas, but stuffed with dried baby shark flakes.  The taste of the sea, but the drying process gives the meat a bite and saltiness that's almost like prosciutto.  It came atop two different sauces: one spicy, one mild, sweet and laden with coriander.  Piers eyed my plate jealously, though admitted happiness with a soup featuring saffron-infused broth with herbs and the local hamour fish.  His jealousy increased at the main course, when he was consigned to simple, though delicious, king prawns.  I got to tuck in to one of the finest curries I can remember, kingfish swimming in a coconut-based sauce of medium heat and dazzling complexity.

This being a resolutely traditional place, there's no wine list.  Or alcohol of any kind.  Instead, you turn to freshly-squeezed fruit juices to complement your meal.  I'm sure there's as much of an art to this as there is to wine matching, and I'm not sure we got our pairings right!  But I can assure you that freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice is a treat totally unlike the stuff you get in stores, almond juice is tasty but should probably be saved for the dessert course, green melon juice is a moderate flavour that seems to work with everything and watermelon juice is a new passion I am going to try to replicate at home.


Freed of the tyranny of the tomato, dessert was the course we could both enjoy and the one that came in
celebratory abundance.

First came a traditional Western-style birthday cake, a rich chocolate mousse that came back to the hotel with us and served as our after-dinner sweet for the rest of the visit.  The manager and all the female staff, arrayed like a rainbow in their vivid costumes, presented it with a double chorus of happy birthday, once in English and once in Arabic.  It's my regret of the holiday we didn't get this on video!  Then came the house dessert platter, with little tastes of everything.  This was a true exploration of the exotic for us.  Halwa flavoured with saffron, cardamom and rosewater; frankincense ice cream; a dense sweet potato-based cake topped with chocolate.  All tasty and very different from anything we'd had before.  The star of the grazing platter, however, was date ice cream.  So fantastic I'm specifically holding back some of the dates I brought home to try making my own version at Christmas.

While the food is traditional, the presentation is on par with any trendy restaurant in London or Paris.  The service outstrips those cities by miles, however.  I have rarely met a team so eager to make sure we were happy.  They were mortified they couldn't offer more ways around Piers' allergy, and were so concerned about getting us home safely one of them was going to drive us herself if we didn't get a taxi.  They're also remarkably proud of the restaurant.  They obviously love the place, have a lot of themselves invested in it, and won't let you escape without a tour of the three exquisite private rooms opening off the main dining hall.  By the time they send you off with a traditional sprinkling of rose water over your hands, your head will be feeling as positive and cared for as your stomach.

The tomato lesson kept us at the hotel for the rest of our meals, which was no great sacrifice.

The Chedi caters to an international clientele with high expectations, reflected in the main restaurant menu.  You can mix and match across Mediterranean, Arabic & Middle Eastern, Indian, Far Eastern and classic French, with an expansive wine list to match.  We dabbled across multiple cuisines.  I had some fine curries, unsurprising as many of the kitchen staff came from the sub-continent.  My favourite dish of the stay, however, was an expansive Lebanese-style mezze platter.  We took our lunches at the poolside restaurants, swinging between Mediterranean and sushi.  Most memorable here was a classic insalata caprese enlivened by an exotic zatar ice cream.

"You've got to try this!" I exclaimed in delight, offering Piers a bite.  He agreed the taste was magnificent, only after he swallowed did he raise one eyebrow at the pink colour.  Sure enough.  I'd never considered they'd use tomato as the base for the ice cream.  Fortunately, he wasn't too sick from one tiny teaspoon.

But it did underline the truth of Omani cuisine:  it's a real treat for tomato-lovers.  Others should approach with caution.

The Chedi Muscat: Big yet boutique, a destination in itself

The Chedi in Muscat pulls off a neat trick, feeling like an elegant, urban boutique hotel despite the fact it has 158 rooms spread across an impressive estate.  At this size, it should feel corporate.  Instead, it's sophisticated, personalised and marvellously quiet.  I don't know what the square footage per guest is, but I'd guess it's unusually high.  Because even though we knew the place was operating at something close to full capacity, we always felt like we were two of just a handful of guests … and often wandered the lush gardens on our own.

The personal touch started early when reception pulled off the magic trick of greeting us by name as we came through the door.  You're then ushered into the main lobby, which is an expansive, modern take on a desert tent, and seated on the comfortable banquets that line the space.  Someone pads quietly across the marble floor with a cool face cloth and fruit juice while you take care of the check-in admin in smooth relaxation.  I'd swapped a few tweets with the General Manager, Markus Iseli, in anticipation of the big trip, so he swung by to add his personal greeting.  (One of many times we saw him across our visit.)  Once refreshed, we had a little tour on the way to our room, where a birthday card and celebratory bottle completed the impression that we were arriving at a friend's house rather than a commercial establishment.  The very definition of "boutique".

That boutique feel extends to the decor.  Neutral tones with subtle spikes of colour; tasteful modern design dominated by large black and white photography of Omani heritage sites; plenty of intimate yet comfortable chairs and sofas; gentle lighting augmented by lots of big candles at night.  In what I've now come to think of as typically Omani, the architecture is clearly modern but heavily inspired by traditional Arabic forms.

The library was perhaps my favourite example.  Comfortable sofas and chairs, dark wood shelves loaded with coffee table books on art and architecture, a small bar and computer tables share space on split levels.  Plenty of lamps are scattered for reading, but shaded to keep the atmosphere mellow … some in Fortuny's classic inverted cone lampshades; the quintessential Venetian statement of the merger of east and west.  The walls are high and white, punctuated by towering arrow slits of windows, and it's all surmounted by a dome.  It's an architectural triumph that I'd wager few guests ever even find, tucked away as it is in the gardens.

Which is unsurprising, as it's a big place.  There's plenty of room to wander, the garden paths meander, and you might not ever leave your room.  We chose a Chedi Deluxe room, one level up from their basic for a bit of a treat.  The hotel's trademark high ceilings, marble floors and mix of dark and light colours continued here, in a magnificently generous space.  A couch, chair and coffee table gave us a distinct sitting room area across from the bed, while inset bookshelves decorated with a few objects d'art continued the homey feel.  The bathroom area was equally generous, with separate sinks, big his and her wardrobes and a tiled shower room, with bench, that could have simultaneously cleaned a family of six.

Our room had a fabulous view out over some water gardens.  The landscape design is as impressive at the Chedi as the architecture.  Building on the essential role of water in Arabic gardens, the grounds are dotted with long rills, shallow basins, gurgling bowls … water is the dominant element here.  It's balanced with palms, lilies, grasses and desert loving succulents.  The suites are in free standing buildings dotted through the gardens, making the grounds look more like a village than a hotel garden.  On one boundary stretches a lavish spa and gym building (seriously, the most beautiful gym I've ever been in) with a spectacular long pool beside it.  Another pool is on the beach, and a third … specifically child friendly … at the other end of the complex.  All the pools have fantastically comfortable loungers that are more like overstuffed sofas than regular outdoor furniture.

Is it any wonder that we spent two of our four days on property, rather than sightseeing?  As magnificent as Muscat is, you'd be doing yourself a disservice if you came to the Chedi and didn't just hang out there for a while.

The integral bars and restaurants make that even easier.  Of those, I'll say more in the next entry.

We arranged our trip with Turquoise Holidays in the UK; our local coordinators and guides in Oman were Gulf Ventures. 

Off a beaten tourist track, we felt like explorers in the Omani hinterland

About 20 minutes into the drive from Muscat to Nizwa, you start to think that human habitation must be impossible in this landscape, and travelling across it seems unimaginable before cars.  It is an austere environment of jagged rock and no vegetation, alien as a moonscape.

In fact, it bears a striking resemblance to the interior of Iceland, though it's completely opposite in temperature.  Beyond the air-conditioned security of our 4-wheel drive, we could see the heat shimmer and the dust swirl.  The geological similarities are no surprise, as the landscape to the east of the highway is indeed volcanic, though long inactive.  To the west, however, the Hajar mountains tower, the striations in their rocks telling a tale of ancient geological shifts.  Under the blazing sun the landscape initially bleaches out, but let your eyes slip slightly out of focus and the mountains take on the pattern of Italian marbled paper, with golds, yellows, browns and reds shifting and swirling together.

The emptiness is as deceptive as the colour.  There are people here.  They're simply gathered around the oases created by reliable sources of fresh water.  Within these green spots agriculture flourishes; date palms, apricots, pomegranates and roses all see commercial production, with the former providing the fruit you're likely to bring home a tasty souvenir.

Nizwa started as one such oasis and grew into today's city of 700,000.  Rich with history, it was once the capital of a religious state run by imams and, up until as recently as the 1950s, in conflict with the sultans and their governments.  (Reading between the lines, it seems Oman is a peaceful and moderate place now because the Sultan and his predecessors won that church v. state battle.)  Today the imams, their forts and palaces are just history, architecture restored by Sultan Qaboos' direction to its 17th century peak.

Bastion of imams
At the heart of old Nizwa is a massive round defensive tower and the domestic buildings behind it, now turned into a museum.  There's a mosque next door and, spreading around both, a souk with different buildings for different kinds of goods: dates, goats, spices, etc.  It's all encircled by dun-coloured, crenellated adobe walls punctuated by the occasional round tower or arched gate.  Add the occupants in their traditional clothing and I felt that we'd stumbled onto the set of some French Foreign Legion film of the 1940s.  Exacerbated by the fact that there seemed to be only about 15 tourists in the whole town.

The souk here offers less for the souvenir shopper than the one in Muscat, unless you're after a ceremonial silver khanjar.  These curved daggers are critical to Omani men's formal dress, worn front and centre as a Scot would his sporran.  Local pottery was also abundant, but … much as an Ali Baba jar would look fine in my garden, and cost far less than the £250+ you'll pay at Whichford Pottery in the UK … it's not the kind of thing you can fit into your luggage.  We wandered happily through the fruit and veg market, particularly intrigued by the freshly-harvested dates and their byproducts.  Date juice, date sugar, date syrup.  Our guide Yousuf was dismissive of the prices in the spice souk, which he proclaimed to be far too high.  But in comparison with UK prices, whole nutmeg and white pepper was so ridiculously cheap that we set about bargaining and brought some home.

The fort is as interesting for its views as its defensive architecture.  (Though we did learn that, rather than boiling oil, defenders used boiling date syrup in their murder holes.)  Up top, you get a fabulous idea of the spread of the city, and clearly grasp the oasis concept.  All those picturesque adobe walls are ringed with palms, making the city from above a carpet of green.  You'll also see how quickly the city is growing.  It's ringed by highways under construction, there's a new grand mosque going up and new buildings are sprouting all over the outskirts.  The national police college is here, and there's a big university.  Again, we were reading between the lines a bit, but our guess is that the Sultan wisely invested state resources up here so that the munificence of the government could replace the memory of the historic religious hardliners.

The small museum here is well worth a wander.  It's mostly information boards offering snippets of history with a few artefacts on display.  Topics go well beyond the fort itself, however, including social life, culture and agriculture.  I was particularly intrigued by displays on the production of how indigo goes from being a plant to a wad of blue dye, and on the many uses of the date palm beyond the obvious fruit.

Elegant country retreat
Back in the car, we continued up the highway … threading plenty of construction … to the next oasis town of Bahla.  There's another big fort here, plus another of the big highway-spanning gates that they're building across the country to mark borders between different administrative districts.  Yousuf drove us to a hilltop for a panoramic view of the palm-dotted town ringed by golden mountains, before continuing on to the architectural blockbuster of the day.

Unlike the forts of Nizwa and Bahla, Jabrin Castle stands on its own in the middle of a dusty plain dotted with rows of date palms.  It was the country retreat of the imams of Nizwa, a place of privacy and exclusive entertainment which also held courtrooms and a school.  What you see today has been, like Nizwa, heavily restored, and gives a sense of the good life enjoyed here in the 17th century.

To the right of the entry courtyard is the administrative part of the castle.  Storerooms, offices, court rooms and council rooms rise in three stories around another courtyard, this one enhanced by balconies and decoratively-arched doors half way up.  Follow steps to the roof and you'll find more rooms for the scholars to conduct lessons with a view.

But it's the part of the castle to the left of the main door that really beguiles.  This was the private space for entertainment and living, a series of high-ceilinged rooms pierced by tall, arched windows.  Despite the blazing heat outside, the construction and breeze here keeps things cool.  Rooms are simply furnished with Persian rugs and pillows to give you a sense of the flexible use of each.  The stars throughout, however, are the ceilings.  Most are beamed and highly decorated with paint, some to mimic the rugs below.  Other ceilings are made from plaster embellished with geometric patterns or incised with verses from the Koran.  In some rooms, more incising and painting adorns window frames and doorways.  While there aren't many blooms to be seen outside, indoors it's a veritable garden of flowers and vines swirling in ornate arabesques.

One of the imams is buried in a tomb in the basement, under an arched ceiling inscribed with a spidery, calligraphically magnificent spread of Koranic text.  While the labels don't make it clear, I assumed his premium position and the decor of his tomb meant he was primarily responsible for the lush taste upstairs.

The large car park outside suggests this is a popular site, but we were alone in most of our wandering, occasionally crossing paths with two other sets of Europeans.  Yousuf assured us that on weekends, this place is packed with Omanis.  But, like Nizwa, it had the feeling of going well off the beaten track for Europeans, and discovering something really new.  And that's the sense I get about the rest of Oman.  It is an undiscovered country for tourism, keen to attract visitors, filled with fascinating history and architecture, and with locals eager to show you around.  Though you can wander on your own, local guides open doors and give context you won't get any other way … especially since the tourist trade is so new that there's not a lot about many of these places on the internet.

If you want an experience that feels like you're an explorer, discovering something new, but you're completely safe and well looked after, then Oman's the place for you.

We arranged our trip with Turquoise Holidays in the UK; our local coordinators and guides in Oman were Gulf Ventures. 

Muscat mixes old and new in the exoticism of ancient trade routes

While the Grand Mosque undoubtably deserves top billing in Muscat, it's just the tip of the sightseeing iceberg.  Our local guide Yousuf wasn't going to let us stop there. After stewarding us around the building and helping us to understand history, art and the local form for mosque visiting, he introduced us to more of the capital city of this fascinating place, which balances old and new with aplomb.

Modern Muscat is a long, neat rectangle stretching along the coast, traversed by a tidy highway lined with palms and ornate lamp posts.  Nothing here looks to be more than 20 years old, though it's mostly low-rise buildings in traditional architecture and pale shades.  Grander buildings tend to be government ministries, as this is the capital.

Not far from the Grand Mosque is the Sultan's other monumental architectural contribution from this century:  the opera house.  The English-educated ruler is a fan of opera and classical music, so has built this classically-European style of entertainment venue.  Architecturally, however, it's in traditional Arabic style, all pristine white marble and decorative flourishes.

They offer tours here, but we'd spent so much time at the mosque we had to move quickly, thus simply took a peek at the lovely entry hall and the grand foyer beyond.  Everything we saw was rich with the same pattern and detail we'd seen earlier, but without the jaw-dropping colour.

From there it's a 15-minute drive to the old town, entered through a monumental gate that spans the motorway.

Old Muscat is shaped a bit like a butterfly's wing: two flat valleys stretching back from the sheltered harbour that connects them, all ringed with high hills. It's obvious to see why people settled here.  It's a defensive dream.  The high hills are still dotted with old watch towers, which are now mostly decorative.  (Though some do provide a heritage-friendly screen for mobile phone masts.)  And while the architecture here is similar to what you see in the new town, it's obvious that this is the much more venerable source.

Shop 'til you drop
It's no surprise that, as the capital of a people whose prosperity rested on being a hub of maritime trade, some of the most fascinating things to see here are the markets.

Everyone heads to the main souk, which is a warren of covered lanes stretching back from a main entrance on the harbour.  (If you're lucky, you'll catch a glimpse of the Sultan's yacht at anchor before you dive in.)  The first thing that hits you is an exotic funk of frankincense.  This ancient substance … the sweet smelling resin of a tree that grows in just a few places ... is both a major product of Oman and an essential part of the culture here.  In addition to being burned in homes and public spaces as a sign of honour and welcome, it's used in cooking and medicine.  And it's the thing to buy here.  We paid approximately £10 for an amount that would cost us more than £80 in the UK.  Of course, the problem for us with the stuff is that it immediately triggers the desire to mutter a Hail Mary; we literally had to fight not to instinctively cross ourselves when we walked through the frankincense-scented lobby of our hotel.  I suspect we'll give most of our haul to our priest for a deeply topical Christmas present.

But there's far more than frankincense vendors here.  Omanis love scents of all kinds, and you'll find other types of incense, perfumes and flower oils.  These places often sell spices as well, with a deep cultural understanding that smell and taste go together.  You'll find antique and knickknack shops piled like Aladdin's cave with exotic Arabian gewgaws.  Silver ceremonial knives called khanjars, ornate incense burners, silver-mounted walking sticks, coffee pots and models of old navigational instruments are popular.

Men's clothing shops sell the basic white dishdasha robes, to be augmented with either an embroidered cap or a turban.  (Omani men wear a wonderful variety of these, in many shades and colours.)  The black abaya is the everyday anchor of the women's stores, but that's just a launch pad for a wonderful array of silks and sequins.  There are many tribes in Oman and all have different variations on clothing; around Muscat traditional women's dress is leggings with a matching tunic, in jewelled tones with embroidered and sequinned details.  Prices indicate this is clearly formal wear!  And, of course, in a country where it's traditional for women to cover their heads, the souk is a treasure trove of scarves and fine quality pashminas.  One area is nothing but gold vendors, windows filled with everything from modern designs to the traditional wedding headdresses and Koran cases Omani brides have been wearing for centuries.

Each shop is tiny, and most … other than the gold stores … are completely open to the lanes you  Indeed, locals in traditional costume wandering here add to the picturesque appeal.
wander down.  Most of the lanes are covered to spare you from the gruelling heat and sun, much with decorated wooden beams or old pointed arches.  Occasionally, these narrow tracks spill out into crossroads covered by fancifully decorated domes.  Negotiating is, of course, the norm, and half the fun of shopping here.  I found the shopkeepers less aggressive than my one other souk experience, in Tunisia, and the shops as much for locals as for the tourist trade. Of course, that might have had as much to do with having Yousuf at my back.

For an entirely local experience, Yousuf took us to the fish market.  An open-sided, roofed pavilion filled with tiled platforms, fishermen come here daily to spread their wares.  The hills behind town might be arid desert fit for few animals, but the sea is rich and thickly populated.  Tuna is dominant here, in several varieties and many sizes.  I think of it as a very large fish from which you slice thick fillets … a common sight in Italian markets.  But here they have smaller varieties that would feed just a few people.

From palace to model village
These markets are in Mutrah, the Western side of that butterfly's wing and site of the commercial harbour.  Continue up the coast, past some impossibly green parks created by the miracle of artificial watering systems, and an outrageous giant incense burner upon a hill that's the iconic monument of Muscat town, and you enter into the second valley branching off the harbour.  This one is more residential than commercial, and dominated by the Sultan's palace.  Mosques, military buildings and offices surround it, much of the complex hemmed in by 16th century defensive walls.

Surprisingly, the palace itself is modern.  It's perhaps the only one of Sultan Qaboos' architectural statements I didn't like.  Flat-roofed, dominated by bright blue and yellow lotus-shaped columns, it lacks the elegance and dignity of the Mosque and the Opera House.  There's a new government building under construction at the end of the ceremonial drive facing the palace; it will be fascinating how this brings the architectural scene together.

Tucked away in this district … and worth the effort to get here … is the small but fascinating Bait al Zubair museum.  Just eight galleries off a central hall tell the story of the country, its history, tribes and traditions.  This started as a private collection and the building was the owner's home, and it's suitably quirky.  I particularly enjoyed the sections on men's and women's dress, that showed the differences in costume from tribe to tribe, and the room that used costumed dummies to demonstrate the opulence of a traditional wedding.  My husband, unsurprisingly, was more intrigued by the weapons collection and the scale models of the country's major forts.  Maps, family trees and portraits of the Sultan and his ancestors helped Yousuf sketch out the country's history for us, and lay some foundations for our adventure into the mountains the next day.  There's an outside section that displays a traditional fishing boat and village house, and has a "model village" of forts, houses and castles in a desert landscape cut through with rivers and dotted with oases.

We packed the Mosque, and all of this, into a long morning.  We could have spent more time at each site, and there was clearly more to see.  We could not, however, have done any more in one day.  It is gruellingly hot and humid here.  Over 90F/32C, with moist air that will cover you with a sheen of perspiration without any exertion on your part.  Which means your energy for sightseeing is going to be limited.  You could easily spend three or four days in Muscat, touring in the mornings and recovering by the pool in the afternoons.  I would, certainly, be delighted to go back.

We arranged our trip with Turquoise Holidays in the UK; our local coordinators and guides in Oman were Gulf Ventures. 

On my 50th: Five lessons for a well-lived life

I interrupt the 50th birthday trip reportage on this, the actual day, for some philosophy. A younger friend asked me for five lessons from the first five decades of my life.  Here, cobbled from my experience, are the most important lessons by which I live my life.

1.  Every rose blooms at a different time.  
This was the mantra of a beloved journalism professor, and I didn't understand it then as I do now.  The world invents timetables for us.  Marry by this time, have kids by this.  Be on this rung of the corporate ladder at this age.  Buy a house by that.  NO.  Chill out.  Decide on your path, stay on it, and what will come, will come.  (Like getting married for the first time at 47!) Some things may not bloom ... no kids for us.  But that doesn't matter.  The journey is as the goal.  Free yourself from schedules and enjoy the ride.

2.  Get your work/life balance right.
A happy minority love what they do.  Most soldier on to pay the mortgage.  Either way, ironically, we  end up getting work all out of proportion.  It is certainly not what you're going to be reviewing in treasured memory when you are on death's door.  This is the biggest lesson that two bouts of cancer in my 40s taught me.  Find the things you enjoy in your work, embrace them, and do a great job at whatever you do.  But know when to stop, and be as serious about your leisure time as you are about the job.  A life of hard work and recovery on the sofa watching TV is a life half-lived.  And life is far too precious, and short, to do anything by halves.

3.  Make your home a haven of peace and beauty.
Whether it's a tiny urban apartment or a rambling estate, a home is the adult equivalent of the womb.  Make it a place that nurtures and restores you.  Surround yourself with things of beauty that evoke happy times in your life.  Decorate for yourself, not others.  Keep things tidy.  Bring in good smells and fresh flowers.  Make a garden.  Some people say a home is a castle.  I think it should be your refuge and your paradise here on Earth.

4.  Be a peacemaker ... until you must fight. 
In my experience, I share this with a lot of children of divorce from the '60s and '70s, who lived through parental relationships that should have ended long before society allowed.  Do anything to avoid a fight.  Look at both sides of an argument.  Understand the other guy's perspective; everyone has motivations for their actions and few people are actually "bad".  Understanding and kindness get more than fighting.  But when you do have to come off the fence, fight like hell and take no prisoners.

5.  Work at friendship.
Other people give our lives meaning.  You emerge into life sharing DNA with a subset ... some are luckier than others.  From there, you're on your own.  The relationships you forge have the potential to bring limitless delight and fulfillment.  But you can't take them for granted.  Relationships need to be nurtured.  Communicate.  Stay in touch.  Make plans.  Be there to listen ... often, that's what people need most. Don't let the special people drift away.

And if the friend who asked me to do this will indulge me, I'm going for a sixth.  A golden rule that, I believe, links all these together and is the basis of a good life: Know Thyself.

There's nothing new in this revelation: the Greeks carved it into the wall at the Oracle in Delphi.  Wise people.  Because it is, indeed, the secret to living.  Understand what makes you tick.  Appreciate your strengths.  be brutally honest about your weaknesses.  Know makes you happy when life is good, and the basics you need to keep stable when life lets you down.  Buy a designer handbag or a new car because you want it, not because someone else has one.  Choose a hairstyle because it  makes you happy and confident, not because someone said you should be blonde.  Spend time with people because you love being with them, not because they're popular.

All of this was a lot tougher at 20 than at 50.  That is the beauty of maturity.  You start to figure yourself out. And that unlocks all the other routes to happiness in life.

Muscat's Grand Mosque celebrates traditional design with jaw-dropping abundance

It's worth the long haul flight just to see Muscat's Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque.

This is an architectural and artistic wonder of the world, on par with any of the great cathedrals of Europe.  Most delightful to my eyes, it's a celebration of traditional craftsmanship, with stone carving, pietra dura work, hand knotted carpets, etc. on par with masters of the pre-Industrial Age. Despite the fact the building was just completed in 2001.  Like the restoration of Windsor Castle or the National Cathedral in Washington D.C., the Mosque assures us that these artists still exist.  And what beauty they create here.

Please put aside your religious prejudices and tour with an open mind, seeing this simply ... like any church or temple ... as a place to engender quiet reflection and get closer to God.  And do go with a local guide.  You'll be hearing a lot about ours, the resonantly-named Yousuf bin Ali bin Yousuf al Balushi, in the coming stories.  While you can wander around yourself with a guidebook, having someone who knows the details and purpose of all the rituals completes the experience.  (In the same way you'll never fully appreciate Chartres unless you grew up, or are taken around by, a Roman Catholic.)

The entire complex is walled, much like a medieval cathedral close.  It's dominated by its enormous dome and four graceful minarets, made all the more impressive because nothing in the surrounding area in more than a few stories tall.

You enter through a garden, an integral part of the experience.  We hear a lot about jihadis getting hundreds of virgins in heaven.  The more rational promise in the Koran, and one that's driven artistic life for centuries, rewards belief with "gardens, beneath which rivers flow ... and goodly dwellings in gardens of perpetual abode."  In a land of brutal heat, pale desert and stony mountain, the appeal of the garden is obvious.  You step from a harsh, hot world into one of ordered greenery, clipped hedges and pristine lawns, bisected by rills of water fed by gurgling fountains.  Blooming hedges and trees ... jasmine, hibiscus, rose, frangipani ... scent the air.  And because Arabic architecture is obsessed by symmetry, each intersection and line of view opens up another photo opp.

Your first stop is the women's prayer hall, much smaller than the main hall for the men because women ... with the responsibilities for the home and children ... are excused from the rigorous 5-a-day prayer schedule of the men.  (Yes, of course, as a Western woman I have problems with gender differences in Islam.  But we're putting aside prejudices, remember?  I'm telling you about a building and what happens inside it, not commenting on a religion.)  It's a soul-soothing rectangle of pale marble and crystal chandeliers suspended from a wooden-beamed, geometrically patterned ceiling.  Verses from the Koran provide the decoration carved into the upper walls, the flowing nature of Arabic script almost as floral as the arabesque decoration around door frames.  A row of intricately carved wooden doors topped with pointed arches faces Mecca, and thus the courtyard and men's prayer hall beyond.  Each is topped with windows, adding ... one assumes ... a sense of shared community to the divided sexes.

But the real fireworks, as you might expect, are in the main hall.  Which, btw, I was not sure I was going to be able to see as a Christian and a woman.  But tourists of all religions and sexes are welcome as long as they're dressed appropriately.  (Clearly, I am shockingly bad at arranging a headscarf since Yousuf, a model of elegant civility, could hardly restrain his chuckle when he saw me that morning.)

The architects have pulled that time-honoured trick of extreme contrast.  You enter from an arcaded courtyard of pristine, white Carrara marble.  There's minimum decoration.  And despite this coolest of potential materials, it's already blazing hot.  And then you step through the doors.  Into colour, pattern and decorative magnificence on a jaw dropping scale.  And the temperature has decreased radically, as if you've just jumped into a cold pool on an uncomfortably hot day.  You'll need several moments, once over the threshold, to restore your equilibrium.

The first thing you'll notice is the dome.  Since Islam forbids the representation of both God and the human form, there's no swirl of clouds, saints and gambolling angels to fall back on here.  Instead the garden has come inside, with floral arabesques in inlaid marbles and gold filling geometric patterns rising to the apex.  Dropping from the centre is more a feat of engineering than a chandelier:  German crystal, 14 meters long.  To put that in perspective, it's bigger than a London double-decker bus and the second largest in the world.

It illuminates the world's second largest hand-woven carpet, mosaic alcoves, pietra dura panels and carved window screens.  (Note the "seconds"? Both were firsts just a few years ago.  It seems there's an architectural arms race going on with new mosques in the Arabian penninsula.)  Any single square meter would be worth your attention for its decorative detail.  Taken all together, it's almost overwhelming.  A feeling enhanced by the interior architecture,  While Christian cathedrals normally have a long nave with screening columns that reveal their decorative gems a bit at a time, the space here has just four supporting columns.  Meaning all the decoration is laid before you in one mind-numbing blast.  If you're the type who treasures the austerity of Scandinavian design, you might find this a bit hard to take.

These are the highlights of the complex but, if you wanted to linger, there's more to see.  Courtyards and arcades expand the overall capacity of the complex to a staggering 20,000.  (Expanding from 750 in the women's hall, and 6,500 in the main hall.)  Like Christian monasteries, these are religious complexes with facilities for more than just religious services.  There's a library, school and meeting rooms.  There are also washing facilities, still part of Islamic ritual though it fell out of Christian tradition centuries ago.  It struck me that, minus a few angels on vault bosses, the washing courtyard here bears a striking resemblance to the monks' lavatorium at Gloucester Cathedral.

All these areas have more fine decorative detail to delight your eyes.  For example, between the arches in one arcade are mosaics representing the carpet styles of various tribes from Iran and Iraq.  In London, it would be a special exhibit at the Victoria and Albert to keep you captivated for an hour or two.  But here, it was just a drop in the ocean.

We needed to move on, however.  There are plenty of other things to see in Muscat, and we only had a day to do it.  Next entry:  on to the old town.

Oman's the place to introduce Arab culture

I've always believed that the most effective form of government is probably a benevolent dictatorship ... if you can come up with the right leader.  Oman's Sultan Qaboos bin Said al Said proves my point beautifully.

As one of the world's last absolute monarchs, he literally owns the country and has complete control over how it's run.  Since his accession in 1970 he's presided over a plan of careful, tasteful, culturally sensitive development.  None of the soulless, sky-scraping horrors of Dubai here.  Increasing tourism is a clear goal (an impressive new airport is under construction), but visitors to Muscat will be treated to a low-rise city with plenty of architectural nods to high Arabic tradition, and historic sites lovingly restored to show off the glories of the past.

The people clearly embrace this.  While there's plenty of choice, the preferred water tank to put on your roof is a white, crenellated copy of watch tower.  The new homes beneath them are painted white and adorned with fanciful arches, colourful domes, vivid tile work and ornate window screens.  Making even the newest modern sprawl look like an Arabian Nights stage set.  Civic works set that standard.

The Grand Mosque in Oman, of which I'll write more in a later entry, is not yet 15 years old and is a glittering example of how modern craftsmen can work in, and build upon, styles of the past.  Every province and major city has, or is getting, a new ceremonial entry gate spanning the pristine new highways.  They evoke castles, palaces and mosques, made with enough traditional craftsmanship that were it not for their size and pristine edges, you might mistake them as old.  The entry to the new airport will feature traditional watch towers and elements of Arabic gardens.  Quite simply, Muscat was a good place to look at.

The Sultan may embrace traditional architecture, but his social attitudes are refreshingly modern.  The majority of the country practices Ibhadi Islam, but there are plenty of minorities and the official line is rigorously non-sectarian.  Islam is Islam, and any practitioner is welcome to kneel side by side in any mosque.  It's an attitude that would transform the world's current problems if widely embraced.  

Female dress is far less restrictive here than in other Arab states.  Most women, and men, cover their heads. Out of tradition, respect, and protection from the gruelling heat.  Women can drive, are in the work force and hold roles in Qaboos government.  While traditions mean the sexes don't mix much, my limited sightseeing observed women out and about, living life normally to Western eyes.

The population is prosperous and well-educated, thanks to no income tax and state services that provide not just basics like health care ... but a parcel of land to each citizen and help to build on it.  The Sultan and his ministers are planning resources to keep income flowing steadily for years to come.  Oil and gas now, offshore oil and copper in the future.

An openness to diversity is, no doubt, helped by Oman's history.  The country wraps around the Eastern tip of the Arabian penninsula, faces India and controls the approach to the Persian Gulf.  A critical mid-point on the legendary spice routes, Omanis couldn't help but be cosmopolitan from their earliest history.  People came with the trade; today's native tribes have their roots in places as far flung as Africa and Central Asia.  (Muscat's Bait al Zubair museum does a great job of exploring the differences in tradition, culture and dress between these tribes.)

That spice route hub position also, no doubt, influenced local cuisine.  From our limited exploration, it's based on sophisticated spice blends and borrows from neighbouring countries to come up with something uniquely Omani, with dates, saffron and frankincense playing critical roles.

These are the observations of just four days, based in a luxury hotel and in the hands of a local guide when we went wandering.  These are first impressions rather than researched reportage, and I'm sure there are plenty of problems in the country as well.  Certainly, no matter how well I ran my benevolent dictatorship, I'd be mighty uncomfortable tucked between Saudi, Iraq, Iran, etc.  I'm sure there are social challenges with guest workers from India, the Philippines, etc. filling so many basic roles.  And the Sultan is 74, and childless ... even the most benevolent of utopian dictatorships can come unstuck in transitions of power.

But we'll lay that aside.  What four days told me is that if you want a dose of Arabic culture and Middle Eastern exoticism, in a safe place, with fine accommodation, good food and fun shopping, all wrapped in warm and magnanimous hospitality, this is the place to go.  And from what all the construction we saw tells me, this is likely to continue and get better.

10 months, 14 criteria, 12 options: The road to Oman and the Maldives

And so it begins.

Almost a year after jotting down my first thoughts about how and where I wanted to turn 50, I'm typing this at a white marble desk, looking out over a sun-drenched water garden studded with palm trees, Arabic domes and dancing fountains.  Shocking green parrots occasionally wing by.  Two weeks of luxurious repose in exotic locations follow.

How did I get here?  And what's on the agenda?

The first big decision was to party, or to travel.  Had I won the EuroMillions, I would have been the type to jet my nearest and dearest off to a Morroccan Riad, French Chateau or Italian Villa for a house party to live in legend.  But such funds are not kicking about, and it was just three years ago that I entertained all those people in style at my wedding.  (Held, to maximise celebration and minimise forgotten anniversaries, on my 47th birthday.)  So, no party.  Nice trip instead.

But where?  It had to be someplace exotic, that wouldn't come into consideration for a "normal" holiday. (Goodbye Europe and anywhere in the USA.)  It had to be somewhere I hadn't been before. (Sorry Mauritius, South Africa, Botswana and much of the Caribbean.)  I needed dependable sun. (The rainy season eliminated Thailand and Vietnam, Hurricane season the undiscovered Caribbean.)  Political stability was rather important.  (Killing the original No. 1 choice, my Nile cruise.)  Inevitably, I needed some history, culture and architecture along with my luxury.

After months of research and price comparisons ... and a final head-to-head comparison with cooking school in Jordan, followed by Petra and the Dead Sea ... the final agenda fell together like this.

Four days and nights in Oman, based at the Chedi in Muscat.  Here's my culture and history, with venerable souks, ancient mountain fortresses, impressive mosques and a famous new opera house.  Plus some interesting local cuisine.

On to the Maldives, where ... from a long list of luxury resorts that all look very similar ... the Constance Moofushi won my heart and tourist budget.  Partly because we had a magnificent honeymoon at their sister property, and partly because they do 5-star all inclusive packages.  And I'd been warned by those in the know that food and drink at Maldivian resorts can double or triple the hotel bill.

We took a sleepless overnight flight from Heathrow, certainly no fault of Oman Air, who probably provided the best "cattle class" experience I've had.  Certainly, it was the equivalent of business class on American.  We were just too wired to sleep.  And so it was up to the minstrations of the pool attendants at the Chedi to ease us through jet lag.  Helped by the GM, who welcomed us personally and sent a bottle of wine and birthday cake up to the room while we were poolside.

This is all starting very well...




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