Cornucopia Underground

festival-review Back in August, I wrote about my impending ten year anniversary of living in Leeds. Ten years. Where has that time gone? Moving to Leeds was the best decision I ever made and so, a decade on, it was only right that that decision should be celebrated in style. As ever, my beloved Leeds came up trumps with the ultimate anniversary present – Leeds Food and Drink Association’s Cornucopia Underground. When I previewed Cornucopia Underground for the Culture Vulture in August, I knew we were in for something special. A food festival with a difference, Cornucopia Underground promised to celebrate Leeds’ well-documented independent spirit with a showcase of some of the best food and drink experiences the city has to offer. With Leeds Food and Drink Association’s Jo and Nick at the helm, I knew we’d be in safe hands, but the reality of Cornucopia Underground surpassed even my wildest expectations. Descending into the subterranean lair of the Corn Exchange at just before midday, there were no immediate signs of anything out of the ordinary. Filling the basement’s centre were stalls laden with all the usual hallmarks we’ve come to expect of a ‘food festival’: mouth-watering cakes, beautifully-presented preserves and enticing cheeses.

Cornucopia Underground, Leeds

Photo Credit: Jo Murricane http://www.jo-blogs.co.uk/

Harrogate Preserves at Cornucopia Underground, Leeds

Photo Credit: Jo Murricane http://www.jo-blogs.co.uk/

These stalls surrounded tables swathed in patterned cloths that were occupied by folk sipping on tea, munching on cake and generally having a good time. Everything was in order. But Cornucopia Underground was about looking beyond the obvious; beyond what you’d expect, and it was the spaces around the edges that revealed that all was not as it seemed. Continue reading

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A day at Beacons Festival

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At the age of 23, I decided to take early retirement from festivals. I had LOVED going to festivals so it wasn’t a decision I took lightly, but I felt like my hand had been forced. It was Leeds Fest, 2009, and I’d just woken up after a less-than-successful night’s sleep in a mildew-ridden tent. But it wasn’t the smell of damp that woke me, or even an overpriced beer-induced hangover. It was our neighbours.

“So, what did you get in your GCSEs, then?” one male voice squeaked, followed by a cacophony of responses; some gloating, some ‘I’m-too-cool-to-care-about-exams’ nonchalant. GCSEs? What did that make them, FIFTEEN?! No. No, no no. Their chorus droned on and on until they were told to lower their voices by an older-sounding voice. Thank GOD. I peeked my head out of the tent door to see who it was, ready to shake their hand and offer them a beer, but I stopped myself. That older voice didn’t belong to a fellow disgruntled camper, it belonged to one of two chaperones accompanying a group that looked barely old enough to be in high school, let alone sitting GCSEs.

That was it. I was too old for this. Festivals, it seemed, were to be one of those activities that I’d have to admit defeat to, along with wearing crop tops and dancing until 3am. I would always look back at them with fond memories, but they were no longer for me. I was no longer for them.

But things change. Dancing until 3am has made a triumphant comeback in my life, thanks to the ingenious swapping of sticky-floored clubs for my best friend’s kitchen and a fully-stocked fridge of chablis and cava. The crop top has also crept back into my wardrobe, albeit styled more conservatively with a high-waisted, midi 50s-stye skirt and only a slither of midriff on show. And over the last few years, I’ve been forced to reconsider my blanket festival veto after realising that maybe, I’d just been going to the wrong festivals. As I’ve travelled through my 20s at startling speed, I’ve discovered that there are so many other festivals to choose from; festivals that, like my newly demure crop tops and chablis-fuelled 3am dancing, offer a different, varied and more fulfilling experience for my older self than the teen-filled hell that made me swear off festivals for life.

Festivals like Beacons.

CREDIT: Giles Smith

CREDIT: Giles Smith

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World Curry Festival, Bradford

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I’ve got a confession to make, and it’s a big one. I’ve lived in Leeds for nine very happy years, during which I’ve dedicated huge chunks of my spare time to exploring the foodie delights of the city and surrounding area. My ‘must-visit’ list may be ever-growing, but I’ve done my damnedest to tick off plenty of the region’s culinary hotspots. Yet in these eight years, I’ve never once tried that most celebrated of cuisines. The Bradford curry. 

I know, I know. In case you don’t know why this is such a crime, let me put it into perspective. Curry is a big deal in Bradford. A very big deal. Renowned for its diverse multiculturalism, Bradford is a pulsating hub of art, culture and cuisine from around the world, with its highly-prized curries at the heart of this. The city has earned an esteemed reputation for the vast variety and quality of its curry offerings, and was in fact named the Curry Capital of Britain in 2011 and 2012. Most West Yorkshire folk seem to profess an opinion about which curry house is best, and it’s generally a given that you’ve tried a Bradford curry, and loved it.

I’ve clearly got a lot of making up to do.

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