Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Our first stop at the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland? Mulled Wine. It’s £4 a cup, but when you’re standing in freezing night temperatures, it’s a must to keep your hands from going numb and to warm you from the inside.

We had some good laughs trying on hats (for example, one that looked like a fish – you stick your head up into its mouth), ate some bratwurst smothered in ketchup, watched the pretty lights of the rides and bought a a couple goodies from the Christmas market. There’s also an ice skating rink if you’ve got good balance or don’t mind a few bruises.

You pay for rides and food at regular fairground prices, but entry is free and it’s a nice experience just wandering around and soaking up the atmosphere. Friends of mine went on a weekend which is apparently crowded, but we went on a Monday night after work and it was just right. The Wonderland is open till 10pm. Dress warm!!

http://www.hydeparkwinterwonderland.com/

Autumn in East London

On the corner of Wilkes Street near the Sunday UpMarket and Brick Lane, this brick a house draped in pretty Autumn leaves. I wasn’t the only one who stopped to snap a few photos. Walking on through the market, I caught a drift of mulled wine in the cool air – true Autumn/Winter season in London!

A Wander Around Borough Market

Last Saturday, I decided to visit Borough Market, pick up some orange-stuffed olives and have a warming glass of mulled wine before the holiday season escapes completely and the mulled wine stalls disappear. The market is unique from other London markets because it only sells food – and some pretty unique choices and delicacies at that. (Ostrich, anyone?) It’s down near London Bridge, open Thursday – Saturday. If you go, I recommend a stop at Monmouth for coffee and dinner at Brindisa (a Spanish tapas restaurant near London Bridge station – you can’t book a table, but it’s worth the wait!)

Here’s a few photos from the market:

Check out their website for a list of traders, events and open hours.

Mulled Wine Toes

A girl with a porcelain face, void of emotion, passes me on the pavement every day. In the morning, our paths cross around number 102 on my street; on the way home, near house 17. She has perfectly straight chestnut hair that rests on her shoulders. Her jeans stretch down long thing legs without a wrinkle. They nearly hide the wooden wedges, but never the tips of her rounded shoes, coloured as if she were a ballerina who danced on a stage flooded with mulled wine.

Perhaps I see her more than most of my friends, but that is all I know.