Vintage Vixen

A reflective blog post with a difference. You won't find the best of this year's outfits here because if you're a regular visitor you've already seen them. Instead I'm taking you on a trip back into the much more distant past.

If the council have their way these buildings won't be here for very much longer. Directly opposite the train station in the heart of our town centre, much of the lower part of Station Street has been derelict for over fifteen years. See HERE.

The powers that be say that the Victorian internal layouts "limit the options for future use" and have given permission for them to be demolished.

Described in 1855 as "a long range of neat, uniform buildings, being mainly private houses", 160 years on there is still a hint to Station Street's former glory.

These boarded-up buildings have been part of our lives for so long that we tend not to give them much consideration but don't they look beautiful in the crisp December sunshine?

Over the years far too much of Walsall's architectural past has been burnt down, bull-dozed or allowed to fall into a state of decrepitude so advanced that demolition is the only option. Our once grand town buildings are gradually being replaced by ugly, grey breeze block outlets offering endless sweatshop-manufactured fashion, fast food and chain stores.

Every high street in the UK is starting to look identical. New Look, Dorothy Perkins, Marks and Spencer, Poundland, Boots, Greggs, Subway, TK Maxx and McDonalds. No wonder people prefer to stay at home and buy off the internet.

It's not unknown for us to return from our travels to discover another piece of Walsall history gone forever so, with no desire to visit the sales or watch any lame holiday TV, we wrapped up and took a few snaps just in case we got back from India to find the entire street flattened.

Stand with a camera for long enough and it arouses everyone's curiosity. Passers-by stopped and cars slowed down, curious to see what we were so interested in.

The most mundane of places take on renewed interest when seen through someone-else's eyes.

My brother wouldn't agree. He worked at this metal-finishing factory when he left school in the early '80s and hated every single grubby minute.

Back in my misspent youth the street was home to the Five Star, a tatty Caribbean social club we'd stumble into after the pub had closed for late-night sessions of reggae, blues and rum.

The poster on the window gives notice for planning permission to change the building into an advice centre. There's evidence of work being started when you peep through the window.

St James Place is part of a Grade II listed terrace which was built in 1856. It was originally used as showrooms and an office for one of Walsall's many leather companies and apparently remains a perfectly preserved example of how the street looked back in its heyday.

The six panel front doors, fanlights and lintels are typical of their period. The house on the left has the original sash windows. According to a local history website the original cornicing, fireplaces, cast iron hob grates and internal doors remain intact.

How blue is today's sky?

There's still some thriving businesses at the top of the street. Smokey's is an American-style diner offering all-you-can-eat meat platters (not very appealing to a vegetarian like me) and Thimble & Threads is a family run dressmakers and alteration service.

The Carriages are former Victorian mews houses converted into flats.

Hope you enjoyed your trip! See you soon.

Linking to Patti's Visible Monday 'cos this might not be visible for much longer!

As we've spent much of the past week gripped to the vintage BBC espionage dramas Tinker Tailor, Soldier, Spy& Smiley's People I was pleased to find a mac of the same era in my favourite charity clearance shop a couple of days ago. There's no attire more fitting for a wannabe spy than a belted raincoat (although with its massive collars and dip-dyed skirt this one probably wouldn't have helped Alec Guinness blend in with the crowd.)

Made by Miss Dannimac it didn't take a lot of intelligence to work out the vintage, the dry cleaning label from 1974 was still attached.

Here's Twiggy modelling a splendid yellow mac for the same label back in the 1960s.

As you know, every good spy has a dark secret and here's mine. I often don't wear any clothes under my coats.

My Tits Ahoy* bikini I bought from Second To None when the bloggers took Walsall by storm a couple of months ago.

*Blame that minx, Curtise.

I'm a shameless hussy, me and a new year ain't going to change a thing. I predict a 2015 filled with bikinis, overly bright make-up, booze and unsuitable shoes.

We threw a New Year's Day party for the gang (New Year's Eve parties are so last year). This was us at 2am this morning after everyone had gone home and Jon got the vinyl out. The tune is Only Love Will Break Your Heart by St Etienne, the dress is Ossie Clark and the liquid refreshment by Smirnoff. God knows what we're doing. Step away from the vodka, kids.

Vintage 70s Miss Dannimac raincoat (£1, charity clearance shop - I could reveal my source but then I'd have to kill you), white leather go-go boots (the divine Emma-Kate)

Wishing all my friends, real and virtual, a very Happy New Year!

See you soon.

Nine years ago today my life changed forever. I went into hospital and, a week later, came out with a brand new hip.

Since then I've carried this card, which means that when my titanium femur triggers off the alarms I can placate the security guards. If that doesn't work, which is pretty often, after all I'm not what people generally expect hip replacement patients to look like, I simply hitch up my skirt and show them my 6 inch scar. (I always remember to wear a decent pair of knickers when I fly).

People often talk of invisible illnesses and how frustrating it is that no-one believes they're ill. Whilst it must be annoying , my problem was quite the opposite. For most of my adult life the endless pity drove me mad, I bloody hated it. Strangers stopped their cars to offer me lifts and people old enough to be my grandparents would insist on carrying my shopping home for me or give up their seats on public transport. Far too often I'd overhear She's such an attractive girl, what a shame about that terrible limp. Being the centre of attention isn't any fun if it's your disability, rather than you, in the spotlight.

My arthritis plays up when it's cold so, between Boxing Day and New Year's Day, I indulged in a bit of pom pom therapy and made this, a winter alternative to a feather boa. Creativity is far more effective (and better for your liver) than popping pills.

I used Xmas cards as templates. The wool was a combination of charity shop finds and Poundland deals.

Wearing: Annacat leatherette waistcoat (Vintage Village Clothing, Stockport), 1970s Art Nouveau print maxi (Second To None, Walsall), velvet boots (Office sale, 2012, pom pom boa (me!)

Ta-dah! Everything's better with pom poms.....

Including the mantelpiece in the dining room. These pom poms are from Poundland*, strung on fishing wire.

*No, this isn't a sponsored post. I spent £3 of my own money!

Wearing: Vintage Kriss of San Francisco patchwork maxi & Indian pom pom head-dress (Krista-licious), 1980s suede boots, 1970s suede jacket (vintage kilo sale)

Bloody hell, looking at these photos I don't half need a tan, I look like the undead. Never mind, just over a week to go until I get some much needed Goan sunshine.

Glad you enjoyed the New Year video but I've gotta set you straight, half of those records were mine!

See you soon.

I haven't been at home in early January for so long that I've forgotten what I'm supposed to be doing. There's lots I could do, get the stock ready for Vintage Village on Sunday, finish packing, sort out the travel insurance, crack on with the never-ending mending pile, cook and freeze some tasty dishes for our return, plan an itinerary for our trip but the internet keeps distracting me. I've spent so long reading the discussion forums I know more about what's happening in Goa than I do about home.

We had to pop into town earlier this week and, naturally, just had to have a quick look round the chazzas where this groovy tan leather & fake-fur trimmed coat caught my eye. Its not particularly old - possibly from the early '90s when the 1970s had a bit of a revival & Dee-Lite's Groove Is In The Heart was never off the CD player.

It might be even later, '70s style got hip again after the release of Almost Famous in 2000.

But who cares? It's my size, it was made in England & cost me a tenner. Besides us Brits spend at least 6 months of the year wearing coats so we might as well have a wide variety.

The sewing machine hasn't been idle. I took the Osti dress I'm wearing in a couple of sizes and my first make of the year was this maxi made using a 1974 pattern and a length of crimplene I bought from Malvern Flea market back in August for £3. Earlier today the postman delivered a pile of vintage patterns from Pam, a lovely blog reader, and I'm inspired to whip up something for my trip (if I can find some suitably groovy fabric in my stash).

Completely changing the subject. One of the reasons for resisting an e-reader for so long was because I thought buying second hand books was far more economical. I imagined e-books to be expensive & that the freebies were either dry old classics or dodgy bootlegs. Wrong! After a random web search a few days ago I discovered Smashwords*, a California-based e-publishing company specialising in indie writers with over 337,000 titles available, almost 50,000 of which are free. I've downloaded 86 books to take away with me with . That beats cramming 26 paperbacks in my backpack! I still read paperbacks at home though, nothing beats a battered old book!

*No, this isn't a sponsored post. I'm sure you know me well enough by now.

Leather coat, stack heeled boots (£10 and £2, both charity shops), Dents leather gloves (25p, car boot sale), Vintage Osti maxi dress & bastard massive earrings (Darling Helga), Huge Indian pendant (Vonda), Vintage 70s felt hat (courtesy of Zoe)

I woke in a cold sweat this morning, dreaming that I'd arrived in India having forgotten all my jewellery, I really ought to go and pack it now just in case I do (after I've checked IndiaMike& the Trip Advisor forum!)

See you soon.

What kind of a person dresses in marabou feathers at 5am on a Sunday morning? Me!

It was a bit of a cold one trading at Stockport's Vintage Village yesterday but, with my wool maxi dress, lace body stocking, two pairs of socks, thermal vest & leggings, topped off with a capelet, I was toasty warm.

Wearing: His Xmas present from me (burgundy over-dyed skinnies courtesy of the YMCA), vintage cherry red DMs & merino wool roll neck (both car boot sale buys), 1960s cashmere and wool overcoat (nicked from the rails), wool hat (had forever) Pom Pom (Jon made himself)

Unlike Jon who resorted to wearing the stock.

Our first vintage fair of the year was a blast (and not just an icy one). We were entertained by rockabilly band, The Barracudas, whose set included covers of Echo Beach and the theme to Batman.

Walsall town planners take note, here's a working class market town which has managed to retain its heritage. The Historic Quarter is packed with beautifully restored buildings filled with indie businesses, free houses and cafes.

As you know we work at a lot of vintage fairs. We're used to girls in red lipstick, victory rolls & repro dresses asking if we've got anything fifties? Stockport shoppers are different, dressed in a mish-mash of eras, they'll rummage our rails and snap up anything that takes their fancy, regardless of decade. They don't attend fairs with a wish-list. They'll buy retro wallpaper, tea cups, deckchairs, clothes and psychedelic trays. Like us, they believe vintage is a lifestyle not a style and we love 'em.

The people who attend, spend. The regulars would rather splurge once a month than shop on the high street. One of my favourites, an auburn-haired glamour puss, showed me her purchases, an immaculate tweed '70s Hardy Amies suit and an embroidered 1960s shift dress, bought for a grand total of £57. What could you get in Marks & Spencer's for £60? She said, A badly made, frumpy dress which would make me look exactly the same as every other woman my age. She bought a fringed suede jerkin in olive green from us last month, she had one in the the 1960s and regretted ever having parted with it.

There's the pretty young lady with cascading curls & retro-framed specs who pattern mixes & colour clashes like a pro. In the past she's bought a red MC's jacket from us and yesterday it was a vintage Aran beret with a pom pom the size of a hamster. After discovering my blog she's vowed to only buy second-hand from now on & I've suggested she starts a blog herself, tracking her progress. There's a real shortage of creative teens who dare to be different. I'd follow her in a heartbeat.

Lisa, a beautiful ex-California girl, who bought a soft-as-butter tooled leather, North African shoulder bag, presented us with a bag of deliciously scented soaps and a bejewelled eyed owl candle she'd made herself.

A stunning lady with a blonde elfin crop and the cat's head brooch bought a cool 1970s tartan wool midi dress and showed me the sleeping cat tattoo on her forearm. She once left the comment "Pawsome!" on a cat-related blog post, now a regular part of my vocabulary.

Pat & Matthew of A Vintage Affair, our neighbours at the market, presented us a new addition to the poodle parlour as well as a bag of vintage buttons and sewing notions.

Yes, Stockport is a joy, even with a 5am alarm call and sub-zero temperatures.

If you've missed Vintage Village then here's their latest venture, the 20th Century Stores, a collective of amazing (and fairly priced) vintage sellers all under one roof. In there you'll find both Tin Trunk Vintage (where I bought my Pucci maxi) and Vintage Village Clothing (where I bought my Annacat waistcoat). If you know what's good for you then you'll jump on a train and get up there.

Here's Snygg's space, isn't it groovy?

To be honest neither of us were much in the mood for work on Sunday but we had a top time and sold enough to keep us in the style we've become accustomed to in Goa for a few weeks. See you in March, Stockport!

Now we've unloaded the van we're officially in holiday mode which kicked off with a boozy lunch in 'Spoons.

Vintage wool maxi with matching marabou-trimmed capelet (Xmas pressie from my friends at Babouskha Vintage), me-made muff (made from two jumble sale fake fur hats) strung on Great-Grandmother's gold muff chain

See you before we go!

Linking to Patti & the gang for Visible Monday.

Heaven forbid I'd ever dream of giving anyone advice about what to wear! This is my choice, vintage all the way. My travel outfit has to cope with a lot - travelling to the airport in torrential rain and sub zero temperatures, the ferocious a/c on the Air India flight, looking suitably modest for transferring at Delhi and landing in 35 degrees of sunshine 19 hours after leaving home.

Then, after a taxi ride, we'll be wandering the first village that takes our fancy in search of accommodation. So my outfit has to look respectable enough to get us a room in a nice house.

After we've found somewhere to stay, dumped our bags, showered and changed then we'll go and have a sunset dip before feasting on fiery veg curries washed down with a couple of ice cold Kingfisher beers followed by, I imagine, an early night.

As we don't have a base, backpacking around South Goa (and possibly further afield), we've got to travel light and I can't be do with lugging around any excess weight. My holdall weighs in at 12kgs. (My travelling outfit has to earn its keep, so both the dress and fringed wrap will be worn during our trip. I don't bother wearing any make-up, as you can probably tell.

Up until several years ago I travelled in sandals, that was until we transferred at Charles de Gaulle and I had to trudge through 8 inches of snow to board the connecting flight. Never again! These Kurt Geiger beauts were £4.99 from a charity shop back in the Summer (when nobody else wants boots) , they're light enough to chuck in my bag and forget about for a month and easy to kick off when we go through immigration.

In my carry-on bag I've packed my e-reader along with a change of clothes and a bikini just in case our luggage goes astray. Also in there is my jewellery, the dregs of some Vitamin E moisturiser, lip balm, a comb, a hair band, tissues and a sarong to wrap round if I need extra warmth. I'll through my purse, camera and toothbrush in there just before we leave.

After a year of knowing exactly where we're going to be week in and week out I'm so excited about having no plans whatsoever. No room booked, no itinerary, no plan. I'm not even sure whether we'll even stay in Goa. Let the adventure begin!

Vintage Osti maxi (dearest Helga), 1970s fringed wrap (charity shop, 2011), Kurt Geiger boots, Ganesh tote (the lovely Yvonne)

Plenty of jewellery to detract from my scarily naked face.

See you in February!

Benaulim Beach, January 2015

Namaste, one and all! After getting home late last night I'm currently dividing my time between loading the washing machine, lavishing a month's worth of fuss on the felines and ploughing through the hundreds of photos we took on our travels.

Our cosy guest house

As always India wove her magic and we fell in love with her all over again. The Air India flight was smooth with unlimited gin, a sari-clad & dazzlingly beautiful cabin crew, deliciously spicy vegetarian food and a plethora of great Indian movies along with some old favourites (watching The Darjeeling Limited for the umpteenth time). On arrival we hailed a taxi to the South Goan village of Benaulim, bagging ourselves a £4.50 a night guest house with no hitches.

As our pasty European skin hadn't seen sun for months we went easy on the sun-bathing for the first few days, opting instead for long walks & exploring, only venturing to the beach in the late afternoon when the intensity of the glorious Goan sunshine had abated.

Our first adventure took us inland, taking an auto-rickshaw ride along pot-holed roads & rickety bridges past lush paddy fields, palm groves and dense jungle to the sleepy village of Chandor where the magnificent 16th Century Braganza House dominates the dusty market square. Regarded as one of the grandest of Goa's colonial mansions, the facade is over 400 feet in length with an impressive twenty-eight windows.

Built in 1560 for the sons of the wealthy Braganza family, the house is divided into identical halves. Braganza de Perreira was the last knight of the King of Portugal. Menezes Braganza (1879 - 1938) a journalist and freedom fighter, was one of the few Goan aristocrats to openly oppose Portuguese rule. Forced to flee Goa in 1950 the family returned after independence in 1961 to miraculously find the house completely untouched.

On entering, a polished Italian marble staircase led us up to a shady, window-lined veranda, crammed with leafy plants in crumbling terracotta pots. At the top were two imposing wooden doors each with hefty iron bell pulls swinging from the ceiling, we pulled the one on the right and a maid ushered us in. For a donation of 100 rupees each (around £1) we were escorted around by Judith, the current occupant of the West wing.

Crammed with the most incredible collection of antiquities, 350 year old Ming vases, ancestral palanquins, 16th century Murano glass chandeliers, Georgian silver platters and cutlery from England, imposing Belgian mirrors, silk covered love seats and Indian rosewood furniture, carved by local craftsmen employed by the family over 400 years ago. There's even an exact replica of the dining table and chairs used at Buckingham Palace commissioned by the family and shipped from Britain over a century ago. In the West wing you'll find India's largest private library, over 5,000 ancient leather bound books encased in glass and rosewood cases.

The ballroom or Great Salon, the length of the average school hall, has a wonderfully decaying zinc-embossed ceiling and a polished marble floor. The royal thrones at the far end were a gift to the Braganzas from Dom Luis, the 19th Century king of Portugal.

The family receive no help from the government relying entirely on donations from visitors to help maintain the property. Judith explained that possessions spoil easily in the tropical climate of Goa and a team of nine staff have to work seven days a week to keep mould, decay and pests from ruining the house and its contents.

There are no alarms, no guards on the door and apparently no insurance either. Unlike stately homes at home, visitors are welcome to touch, pick up the antiques and to explore cupboards and peep behind closed doors. These Portuguese seafaring chests particularly took my fancy, imaging the treasures they'd have carried across the oceans in their day .

These reception rooms were added in the latter part of the 19th Century. We instantly recognised the Victorian Minton floor tiles, the hallway in our last house had an identical floor.

A smiley maid showed us around the East Wing.

The perfect spot for breakfast!

In the East wing you'll find the family chapel. An ornate oratory (the small box you can see in the centre of the altar) enshrines St Francis Xavier's diamond-encrusted toenail.

We were shown old family photographs of some of the glamorous balls and parties held in this magnificent room over the centuries.

Even in its current state I'm still more than a little in love with this room!

A palanquin suitable for noblemen.

These stunning mosaic tiled seats were imported from Spain.

Many old Goan homes have these oyster shell shutters. The pearlised lining casts a pretty glow into the interior while the hard outers filter out some of the intensity of the sunshine, keeping the rooms cooler.

Hope you enjoyed the first instalment of our trip (and Jon's photos). Brace yourselves 'cos there's loads more, we ventured far and wide.

I'll be catching up with the wonderful world of Blogland over the next few days, it'll be a welcome distraction from the 4am jet-lagged wake ups.

See you soon!

If you want to see all our photos of Braganza House click HERE.

Thank you so much for the warm welcome back and your kind comments, it made coming home that bit more bearable!

Village cats

Ready for more?

Detail from Hindu temple

Roadside shrine

After acclimatising ourselves in Benaulim and rediscovering the area (if you're interested there's some photos of a morning in Margao, Goa's second city HERE) we gathered our belongings, jumped on a bus and two hours later arrived in Agonda, in Goa's deep South.

India's public transport system is efficient and easy. Climb aboard, take a seat, tell the conductor where you're going and you're charged one rupee (just over 1p) per kilometre. Women travelling alone even have a specific "Ladies Only" seats situated behind the driver. Often you'll be the only Westerners on the bus, providing the entertainment for the other passengers. You'll be stared at, photographed or tapped on the shoulder and asked where you're from, where you're going and what you think of India. The bus stops every couple of hours so passengers can stretch their legs, use the loo or stock up on snacks and chai.

Once we arrived I sat in a cafe and minded the bags whilst Jon went off in search of accommodation. Never look for a room carrying bags, it puts you at a distinct disadvantage for bargaining for the best deal if the owner knows you're homeless. If they ask then tell them you're already staying at another place in the village but fancy a change.

The Hindustan Ambassador, the taxis of India

Agonda has changed massively since our first visit 13 years ago. Back then it was a tiny fishing hamlet with just ten simple beach huts all sharing a bathroom, along with a couple of guest houses and a local store. Electricity was limited and sporadic at best, the village had a single payphone and a dirt track served as the main road. Nowadays it's the hip destination of choice for many, Kashmiri emporiums, tourist shops and cyber cafes line the tarmac road and the beach is fringed with trendy hut encampments with prices varying enormously but, despite the changes, its still hard to beat as a place to unwind.

The first place Jon tried charged £80 per night for a coco hut but next door he found one for £5. Both offered exactly the same view of the ocean, access to the beach, a palm thatched roof and an outdoor sitting area, the only difference being that ours didn't have colour co-ordinated sheets or WiFi.

Duck 'n' Chill beach hut. Our home in Agonda.

We soon fell into a daily routine - starting with a leisurely two hour walk along the beach at sunrise, watching the fishermen sorting their catch and squealing excitedly every time we spotted a dolphin cavorting in the water.

Breakfast was eaten in the tiny village cafe, often sharing a table with auto-rickshaw drivers and waiters on their way to work. For 40p each we'd dip crusty white bread rolls (pav) into plates of steaming hot & spicy veg curry (bhaji) and sip from glasses of sweet, cardamom-infused chai.

The rest of the day would be spent back on the beach, swimming, reading and basking in the glorious sunshine. We'd take a picnic to enjoy under the shade of a nearby fishing boat; locally-grown, buttery bananas, juicy Karnatakan oranges and bun, sweet bread flavoured with fennel seeds.

Cows would surround us, patiently waiting for the banana skins and orange peelings.

In the evening we'd head out to dinner. While the beach front is lined with trendy shacks offering increasingly sophisticated food in a sumptuous setting, the prices come at a premium and, more often than not, the only Indians you'll meet are the ones serving you. Instead we step away from the beach and head for the village instead, eating at one of the restaurants set in the gardens of old Goan houses. The decor won't be swanky and the menu will far smaller but its where the locals choose to eat so the food is authentic and, even with several ice-cold beers and a post-dinner gin/vodka and tonic, the bill rarely comes to more than £8.

Typical dinner for two - veg vindaloo, veg pakoras, cucumber raita, chutney and plain rice

After 12 days of beach life the lure of culture further afield beckoned so we packed up our bags and again, with nothing planned, headed off to the railway station, buying a pair of one way tickets to the neighbouring state of Karnataka.

And, yes, that really is a cow on the track!

See you soon.

After a couple of hours on the train we reached Gokarna in the neighbouring state of Karnataka, a sacred coastal town popular with Hindu pilgrims for over two millennia. It is believed that Shiva was reborn here through the ear of a cow (Gokarna means cow's ear). A statue, situated in the town's Medieval temple, is believed to be so auspicious that a mere glimpse will absolve a hundred sins, even the murder of a Brahmin.

Sadly, ferenghis are banned from most of the temples, so we were forced to live with our sins for a bit longer.

On the train we flicked through our Rough Guide, liking the sound of Nimmu House. We hailed an auto rickshaw at the station (a 20 minute ride from the town/ £2) and went to take a look. The owner took us to an immaculately clean room, with an attached bathroom, at the top of the house and we agreed on 600 rupees (just over £6) a night.

Our room had a tiny balcony overlooking the main pathway to the temple so we could watch the pilgrims pass by, unobserved.

Within minutes of arrival we encountered a scene straight from The Darjeeling Limited, the body of a child borne aloft on a bier, almost entirely covered with jasmine and marigolds, accompanied by a procession of white lunghi-clad & barefoot male mourners beating drums. A heartbreaking but hauntingly beautiful sight.

Nothing can prepare you for the wonder that is Gokarna, rituals and traditions unchanged for thousands of years.

Something to admire on every street corner.

Most days we'd find a shady spot and sit, watching with amazement as life unfurled in front of us.

Although we'd visited three years previously, we were again spellbound by the early morning activity at temple tank, wafts of incense & wood smoke, the devotional songs echoing across the water, punctuated by the tinkle of temple bells and the gentle splish-splash of water as pilgrims bathed before prayer.

Through the shutters of one of the Medieval houses facing the tank I caught sight of an elderly man dressed in a loincloth & lying on a bed, his breath laboured and his eyes looking somewhere far beyond me, while his wife and son sat at his side, watching and waiting. Further on a lady bid me a cheerful Namaste! whilst trying to drive a cow out of her hallway with a broomstick.

We chose an auspicious time to visit and were lucky enough to see several processions.

Although a pilgrimage site, there's a growing traveller scene with many of the old Goa crowd preferring Gokarna's simplicity and lack of commercialism.

Advertising, Karnatakan-style.

Graffiti like this is popping up around the town. According to a couple of locals the two little boys are by an anonymous English artist and there's an internet rumour that its Banksy.

A twenty minute walk away, you'll find beach shacks selling beer, omelettes and tandoori chicken if you tire of the pure vegetarian, alcohol-free lifestyle in town or, do what we do, buy a cheap bottle of white rum (£1.80 a litre) before boarding the train in Goa and have a candlelit drink (or three) on your balcony after dinner.

So that was Gokarna but not the end of our adventures in Karnataka. Next we embarked on an epic 12 hour journey, travelling to a place I fell in love with after reading about it in a book written 40 years ago.

See you soon!

PS Between us we took far too many photos. If you can bear to see more click right HERE.

As the bus began its ascent through the Western Ghats, the humidity which had lain heavily on our skin like a blanket since we boarded in Mangalore hours earlier vanished and the air felt cool and refreshing. If it wasn't for the monkeys squatting by the roadside & the heady aromas of coffee blossom and cardamom permeating the breeze, our surroundings were so green and lush that we could have been in rural Wales.

In the cardamom forest

This is Coorg, India's smallest state, a remote mountain paradise home to a warrior race widely believed to have descended from Alexander The Great and immortalised in Dervla Murphy's classic, On a Shoestring to Coorg. After reading the book over a decade ago, Murphy's tales of travelling through Southern India with her five year old daughter, staying at no-star hotels and in fisherman's huts, taking peasant buses and boats along the way captivated me, in particular her adventures amongst the coffee plantations of Coorg, where they stayed for months.

It was a bit of a risk, I suppose. A seven-hour journey on a packed passenger train followed by a bumpy four-hour bus ride five thousand feet above sea level just to visit somewhere I'd read about in a forty year-old book. Even the usually helpful Rough Guide only considered Coorg worthy of a single page.

Wild orchids, coffee beans, pineapples....a tropical paradise

Still, the worst case scenario was a night in a grotty hotel and the next bus out of there.

Raja's Seat - the place to be at sunset.

We needn't have worried. Whilst Coorg isn't on the radar of many Westerners, its a favourite destination for Indian honeymooners who stay in swanky home stays on coffee plantations and in boutique hotels, attracted by the slogan, The Scotland of India. After picking up a map from the tourist information kiosk at the bus station we jumped in an auto rickshaw and, after visiting numerous establishments, finally secured a room in a 1930s hotel in the centre of Madikeri.

Our £5 a night hotel

For a state capital, Madikeri is tiny and transport is super cheap. We hopped in and out of auto rickshaws all day long and visited most of the highlights on the city map.

The Rough Guide are clearly mad, there's so much to see in Coorg we could easily have spent a fortnight doing something different every day.

We loved exploring the splendidly imposing tombs of the Rajas, built in 1815.

This is Vira Rajendra Wodeyar and his wife who escaped imprisonment in 1788, joining forces with the British and successfully managing to drive out the tyrannical conqueror, Tipu Sultan, from Coorg.

Their daughter, Victoria, was sent to England for an education. She became Queen Victoria's god-daughter, married a British officer and was buried in London after her death at the tender age of 23.

Other than an Indian pop group taking promo shots in gangsta-style poses, we had the grounds to ourselves, there wasn't an admission fee or even a lock on the main entrance.

Just look at the gold-domed roof and the intricate carvings.

After a chance meeting in a bar with a couple of British eco-volunteers, we wangled ourselves lunch and a guided tour around an organic coffee plantation.

Pomelos, cinnamon bark, vanilla pods and a goose employed as a security guard to stop any prospective vanilla thieves!

We trekked through a cardamom forest.

I knew it was a good idea to travel with a pair of boots.

We visited the Omkareshwara Temple, built by in the Indo-Saracenic style by Lingararejendra II in 1820. Legend has it that the king put to death a Brahmin in order to fulfil his political ambitions. After being haunted by guilt he built the temple to appease the gods.

We drank plenty of the local brew, Coorg coffee.

Saw some beautiful people.

And found interesting things on every corner.

This posh planters' club is still going strong but sadly was strictly members only.

We were rendered speechless by the sunset.

We caught the late night showing of the latest Tamil blockbuster "i" (no subtitles!) at the tiny cinema next door to our hotel. We took rum and coke in with us and there was even an interval halfway through the three and a quarter hour show.

And possibly my most favourite thing. Every night, just after sunset, for a mere 5 rupees (5p) the public are treated to a fantastically kitsch water and light show set to Bollywood music.

Coorg was everything we wanted and more, fascinating, diverse and incredibly beautiful but, on a shoestring? Most definitely. We averaged a total spend of £20 a day which included all transport, accommodation in a city centre hotel, admission & entry fees, cinema tickets, breakfast, lunches, coffee stops, beers and dinner in some seriously fancy restaurants.

All too soon it was again time to pack and make the epic 13.5 hour journey to Goa for the final instalment of our month away.

See you soon!

PS For the full set of photos click right HERE.

The lotus lake

As a collective sigh of relief is heard throughout Blogland, after a fortnight spent exploring Karnataka, we returned to our beloved Goa for the final leg of our trip.

Main road, Benaulim.

There's a lot of negativity towards Goa and, I'll admit, that there are places we aren't keen on, over-developed, touristy, brash & dirty; but Goa is a state, not a city, and if you do your homework you'll find a spot perfect for you. Chatting to a Canadian at Delhi airport, about to tour India for the first time, she told me that Goa was the place she was least excited about but, as visiting India was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, felt she had to experience it. Wait and see, I told her, Goa, will get under your skin, don't write it off just yet.

Dressing up in my friend, Laxmi's traditional Lamani clothing.

After the 13.5 hour journey back up the coast we reached Margao railway station late in the evening, jumped in an auto rickshaw to nearby Benaulim and found ourselves a basic room for a night just so we could shower, dump our bags and go for dinner. Early the following morning we strolled through the village eventually finding ourselves a £5-a-night room in a private house in one of Benaulim's outlying fishing vaddos. From our balcony, village housewives cooked on open fires while their husbands chopped wood or repaired their nets. Parakeets, drongos, bee eaters, kingfishers, bubuls and, at dusk, tiny Indian owls & bats flitted between the trees whilst mongooses and squirrels shimmied up the coco palms.

Firmly on the tourist map, Benaulim is popular with Westerners and Indians alike, but still manages to retain its old-world village charm and the pace of life is relaxed and wonderfully laid back. You'll find all the familiar comforts if you need them but its possible to avoid the trappings altogether if, like us, fancy hotels, swimming pools and continental breakfasts aren't your thing.

Jon leads the way to our place, the butter-coloured house in the distance.

Our lavish balcony

Benaulim bird life - a pond egret

We walk past the shacks and the rows of sunbeds thronging the main entrance to the beach and have the powdery, white sands virtually to ourselves. With our usual picnic of samosas or sweet buns, finger bananas and juicy oranges, we'll laze around on our beach blanket until sunset, undisturbed.

A short walk away from the Kashmiri tourist emporiums, cycle hire shops, cafes & market stalls thronging the main street you'll find shady lanes dotted with exquisite Portuguese-era villas and lush gardens.

Peeping through the windows of this grand house we saw rooms untouched by time, black and white family photographs lining the walls, ornate carved doorways, dusty crystal chandeliers and fine, antique colonial furniture.

The lady owner of this gorgeous 150 year old ancestral house overheard us admiring her home and invited us in to take a look around. She told her that her passion in life was gardening. Can you tell?

That's her maid helping out with the watering.

While tourists gather in cafes to use WiFi, just yards away are acres of emerald green paddy fields, still ploughed by ox carts.

Wandering around the wonderfully tranquil lotus lake is a great way to walk off our pav bhaji breakfast.

Remember me mentioning a chance meeting in a bar in Coorg which led to us visiting a coffee plantation? Not only were they the only Westerners we'd seen in days but one of them used to date a woman from Walsall & was a regular at a pub we know well. To further add to the freaky coincidence, just after we'd taken these photos we bumped into him again, 305 miles away from where we'd first met. Although we'd swapped emails none of us and discussed where we were heading next.

And the Canadian? Walking along the beach on our last day in Benaulim, I felt a tap on my shoulder and yes, it was her. You were right, she said, I loved India especially Goa, it really is magical. I'm coming back for a month next winter, I've already booked my accommodation. I'll see you next year.

You certainly will, love!

Aboard the epic Goa-Bombay-Delhi-Birmingham flight home

That's the end of our travels for another year. Its back to business as usual, we'll be selling our wares at Moseley tomorrow and have already ransacked the Black Country chazzas...see you soon!

If you can stand it, you'll find all our Goa photos HERE.

After a month of living out a backpack and dressing in whatever smelled the freshest, its most perplexing to suddenly be confronted with two wardrobes stuffed with clothes. Do I go for mini, midi, maxi; a skirt, a dress, a catsuit; the boots or shoes; a coat, a jacket or a cape? By the time I'm ready to leave the house the bedroom looks like psychedelic nuclear explosion.

Sometimes I get so perplexed by the choice in front of me that I give up altogether and "borrow" something from the Kinky Melon stockroom. Like I did on Sunday, wearing this early '70s David Silverman dress to work at Moseley vintage fair.

Every year after living with so little in India, I end up having a massive clear out and donating heaps to charity. The fashion bloggers call it an "edit" which conjures up images of a smartly dressed woman in spectacles and a pencil skirt taking stock and making notes, a world of difference from me in my knickers clutching a can of beer, blasting out Royal Blood and tossing maxi dresses, laddered tights, knackered boots and free festival tote bags across the bedroom.

This is the end result. (The eagle-eyed amongst you might spot that the David Silverman maxi is a keeper).

As Grandma used to say, I can now see the wood for the trees. Maxis with sleeves in one place, separates, mini dresses and sleeveless maxis/catsuits in another. The stockroom is full to bursting and there's two industrial sized bin bags and a laundry basket in the van, ready to be dropped off at one of my favourite charity shops in the morning.

..this is why its a favourite. Last week I bought this Indian table parasol for 50p! (I bet I won't leave empty-handed tomorrow, either.)

I rediscovered my patchwork maxi, Liz crocheted for me last year, which had slipped down the back of the wardrobe and was making sweet music with a Glastonbury Festival programme from 2010, a turquoise wig, a long-forgotten shoulder bag, a box of business cards, my school Prefect badge and an energy saving light bulb.

I was fairly restrained on my travels. The Lamani coin belt is a new addition, the rest I've had for ages.

Crochet maxi skirt, worn with velvet and marabou-trim opera coat (£15 vintage shop, Birmingham), nylon leotard & vintage leather overnight bag (both pence from jumble sales), 1980s Finnish-made purple suede boots.

Thank you so much for indulging the frustrated travel writer in me. I'm so glad I didn't bore you too much with my endless photos last week.

See you soon!

Linking to Patti and the gang for Visible Monday (a day late!) and, prompted by the wonderful Kezzie, Maricel's Tardis Tuesday.

You wouldn't have spotted this chiffon & lamé number peeping out of my improved wardrobe as it's been on the mending pile for the past 12 months. The last time I wore it I heard a sickening rip and, on further inspection, realised I'd badly torn the sleeve. I blame my bulging biceps I've developed from my thirty minute a day workout on the Wii Fit.

I don't know why I'd put off the repair for so long, a length of hemming tape, a damp tea towel and a hot iron and it was sorted in no time. Its not perfect but with fabric this fancy who's going to notice?

The dress might turn heads in the Black Country* but in India I'd fit in a treat.

On the train from Mangalore, sharing a bag of chilli banana chips with a stranger, she remarked, I'm very happy to finally meet someone from your country who doesn't dress plainly, I thought all Westerners did.

Diane Vreeland once said that Pink is the navy blue of India. Unlike in our "developed world," you won't see the masses here clad in grey & black.

Heat & noise aside, the main thing I notice when I'm back in the UK is the absence of vibrant colour on our streets.

In India everyone embraces colour, regardless of age or gender.

As children we love colour but then we grow up and get scared. We try to blend in, imprisoning ourselves within the boundaries of fashion and perceived good taste.

I say stuff grown-up dressing, embrace colour and everybody will be too dazzled by your clothes to notice the wrinkles. It works for me.

I hope shoe-horning a few gratuitous travel photos in the blog pleased those of you sweet enough to ask for more (as if I need any encouragement).

Vintage Victor Costa maxi (Courtesy of Jo), Pakistani tote bag (25, jumble sale, years ago), 70s felt hat (my friend, Zoe), Massive vintage pendant (dearest Em), Stack heeled leather boots (£1.50, Charity shop, 2011)

We're outside on Saturday, trading at Nottingham's Fayre in the Square, come and see us if you can. We'll be dressed like polar explorers (brightly dressed ones!)

Updated to link to Judith's Hat Attack #20.

See you soon.

* The Black Country, the part of the Midlands where we live, was named during the Industrial Revolution because of the black soot in the air from the heavy industry that dominated the area.

For the second time this week I awoke to snow so what better to counteract the bitter cold than a pink Crimplene catsuit, big hair and some massive sunglasses?

It was a bit too icy to negotiate the hill of doom, our usual walking route into town, so we went via Dandys Walk, an atmospheric Georgian alleyway. You'll find a great photo HERE.

Today's mission was to pick up a pair of brogues we'd left with the cobbler last week and to replace my beloved Barry M lipstick (shade 52) and Cobalt nail paint, which had run out after two years of near-daily wear.

Naturally we had to pop into the chazzas. The 1960s St Michael nylon shirt and 1950s Mohair & Alpaca car coat are now in Jon's wardrobe. Sadly the green leather Made in Milan riding boots and red gloves are far too small for me so they'll be off to Vintage Village this coming Sunday to find a small-footed, dainty-handed vintage lover. Melamine's a big seller with the VW crowd so this vintage aqua set will be on one of our festival pitches over the Summer.

Wearing: Bri-nylon blouse (dearest Curtise), wooden beads (darling Tania), 1960s psychedelic maxi (£10, Vintage fair, 2007), Vintage 1950s Maflline specs (20p from a flea market, re-glazed to my prescription by Glasses Complete)

As our inbox is gradually filling up with festival organisers wanting some Kinky Melon action at their events, I thought I'd knock up a few summery skirts for our pitch to use up some of my overflowing Ottoman of vintage fabric. By the rate I'm going I should be able to close the lid by the end of the week.

1970s catsuit (Baboushka Vintage), Fake fur & leather coat (£10, British Heart Foundation), vintage Ted Lapidus sunnies (£2.99, Acorns Hospice, 2009)

Right, back to the sewing machine, I've a nightmare of a blouse which I'm determined to finish if it kills me...

See you soon!

Linking to Sacramento's Share-in-Style (and here).

Chill out, pedants! I didn't forget to spell check before I posted, this really is a wastecoat, the latest creation in my mission to shut the lid of my bulging fabric stash. Made from scraps too small to make anything of much consequence, I've trimmed it with pompoms left over from a me-made patchwork lampshade.

My Mum used the West African waxed cotton as a throw at home when I was a child and, as I left home 30 years ago, I can safely say it's vintage.

The McCall's 1971 pattern I adapted was so simple that I ended up making three! I used the fringing off an old bath mat to trim the other two. Needless to say the fabric was bought for pennies. If you're resourceful, sewing can be one of the cheapest (and most rewarding) pastimes ever.

I added to the ever-increasing skirt collection with two more, both made from vintage curtains bought from jumble sales over the years. I used zips salvaged from tattered old clothes destined for the rag bag.

The awkward blouse didn't kill me in the end. It looks pretty harmless but the draped neckline (which makes my boobs look inexplicably huge) was a killer.

The 1968 pattern I used also has maxi-length culottes, my next make providing I find some groovy second-hand fabric going cheap. I also rediscovered some ridiculous Thomas the Tank Engine curtains, which could make the perfect dress for this year's IndieTracks (a music festival that combines indie music and steam trains).

Me-made wastecoat worn with 1970s Scandi patchwork print maxi, fringed body, Bertie boots (all bought second-hand)

My mission is finally accomplished, I can shut the lid of my fabric stash so I'm off to the pub to celebrate.

Have a fab weekend & see you soon.

So, there we were at Stockport, working our pitch in the usual understated manner when one of our regular customers presented me with a carrier bag, This is for you, he said, it belonged to my late mother, my wife never wears it and we felt you were the only person to do it justice.

...and this is what was in it. A fake snow leopard swing coat by Martin Blau of London.

Obviously I was overwhelmed by their thoughtfulness and generosity but, on further reflection, I'm rendered speechless by how incredibly cool Phil's Mum was. Can you imagine the attention this coat got in dreary, post-war Britain?