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“Tyne O’Connell is the Queen Bee incarnate!” The Daily Telegraph
“Draped in pink and sipping saki in her fashionable London Warehouse,the impossibly glamourous O’Connell!” Elle UK
Tyne O’Connell inhabits the worlds she writes about: exotic, unconventional, off-piste in every way.
Working with artists and artisans like a latter day Medici, Tyne designs her own range of artwork, clothes, jewelry and crocodile accessories under her label Apis Regina; a range which is exclusive to her and which no one else can purchase.
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Contact us: info@tyneoconnell.com |
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travelling in heels |
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Our Man In Angkor Wat By Tyne O’Connell
My teenage daughter and I decided to go to Angkor Wat in the rainy season to avoid the nuisance of the pillaging coach hordes that afflict World Heritage sites in the modern age of travel. I’ve visited a good few world heritage sites in my time and I’ve learned from bitter experience just how easily beauty can be plundered by thousands of brightly dressed foreigners with their state of the art cameras, attitude and fanny packs scrambling over ancient temples.
I like to travel elegantly, so we opted for the coach horde-less Raffles Grand D’Ankor built in the 1930’s and largely un-modernised. There is only one phone, one lattice worked wrought iron lift built for two and one man manning the desk. This is the only hotel that remained opened (under order) throughout the cruel rule of Pol Pot, so when the mood took him he could drop in and luxuriate in all he denied his people. There were no other guests during that time but the kitchens ran a full service to an empty restaurant in terrified anticipation that he and his thugs might turn up any time and order escargot. There are numerous luxury hotels to choose from in Siam Reap now but none with such charm. It really is a trip back to a gentler, pre-genocide time. The sturdy furniture, the Bakelite phone, the large solid brass room keys and uniformed staff are all so gloriously of another age.
Cordelia and I booked a helicopter flight for later that afternoon because given the enormity of the jungle temple complex – 400sq km – you need a helicopter to take it all in. And at $150 it was worth the extravagance.
Once we’d sorted that, we hit the rickshaw line up outside. The thing about spending ten days at a hotel is to pick your rickshaw man carefully. I go for the tall ones so they can reach the peddles and sit on their seat simultaneously. On the long eight km cycle through the jungle where the temple complex sits, you need a rugged young sort of chap. A sweet disposition and bit of English helps too. We were offered ludicrously cheap prices so I gave the tallest fittest chap ten times what anyone else was asking. The deal was sealed and names exchanged. He asked me to call him 24, the number of his rickshaw – I guess he didn’t want another chap of the same name to take advantage. We had our man. He assured me that he understood that he’d be My Man for the entire duration of our trip.
By my man I meant he would be available - as the whim took me - between 10 and 7 every day just for me. His colleagues were in awe, he was backslapped, high-fived and all but carried aloft. For the next ten days he treated Cordelia and I like queens. Every time we stepped outside the hotel there he was.. He had a nifty zip up cover that sealed us into our rickshaw pod to shield us from the monsoonal rain and a hooded long mac for himself. Peddling us out to the temple in rain so hard it came above the rickshaw carriage floor, he was delighted to discover we found this funny rather than annoying.
On arrival, 24 produced a massive umbrella from nowhere to shield us from the rain. The pillaging coach hordes were there – huddled miserably in their coaches - enviously watching as we were escorted over the long bridge to the temple by our tall careful guardian.
The water was knee to thigh deep but we felt safe with 24 leading us through the virtually deserted temple complex. He acted as interpreter each time we came upon one of many saffron garbed monks that appeared to lurk in every nook and cranny. Although the temples were erected to honour the Hindu god Vishnu, Buddhists have their own myths and legends about the twelfth century temples. They have been pilgrim-aging here since 1432 along with the jungle that had hidden the site for so many hundreds of years. 24 advised us on the appropriate alms to leave. He took our photographs and showed us narrow passageways and secret crannies no fanny pack could ever hope to squeeze through.
En route through the jungle on our return journey we saw a group of hens crossing the road. 24 heard Cordelia and I going mad for them and he pulled over so we could have a better look. We were mobbed by village children selling postcards. No one could get why we were photographing the hens when there was a perfectly good elephant right there. The next day the same children hailed us down and several boys pressed love notes on Cordelia. 24 took photographs of them and us with their hens. The day after that 24 presented us with the gift of an egg. They were good times.
Each day was the same. Whatever time we stepped out of the hotel, 24 was waiting, or whizzing around the corner tingling his little bell. One day we waited all of a full minute while the rest of the rickshaw mafia made sure we didn’t move as they sent out a search party for 24.
We came away with a lot of memories; the helicopter flight over the complex was spectacular, the hotel Amrita spa offered the finest Indian massages I’ve ever experienced and the French food was one of the many unexpected delights of our little old fashioned hotel. But for Cordelia and I, 24 was the real highlight. We remain to this day hopeful that 24 thinks of us as often and fondly as we think of him.
Scotland - there's a lot to be said for a man who knows how to look good in a skirt!
By Cordelia O’Connell
The minute I arrived in Inverness I was taken to a reeling practice. There were about fifty people of all ages in the hall but only three of us who didn't know how to reel (Scottish dance), and it was obvious. We paired off into couples to do the dances, and not knowing anyone in the room, or knowing how to reel, I found myself partner-less. I then had 20 grandmas on me all trying to find a willing partner who would teach me how to reel. Of course I ended up with the five foot 13 year old. Having had my right foot trodden ad absurdum, I was glad when the next reel began to find myself being thrown about by a 6'5" Caledonian fully kilted-out with his sporran (pouch) and sgian dubh (funny little knife worn in the top of the sock). Reeling with him was much easier as he just whirled me about—no thinking on my part was involved. The names of the dances are great - The Duke of Perth, The Reel of the 51st, Strip the Willow. I think my favourite had to be The Dashing White Sergeant. You get two boys for that one! I thought the reeling had been terrifying enough. The next day I was dumped with ten of my friends to swim in a freezing cold river. In Inverness this is considered a holiday treat. Even the salmon were trying to jump out, the water was so cold. This was followed by a grouse shoot. I can't shoot so I just walked along with the party. I had no idea what I had let myself in for. All the men were of course in kilts. I was starting to realise by now that the kilt is in fact the standard item of clothing for men in Inverness. We were expected to walk all the way up the grouse moor, and all the way back down. I only made it one way - give up your yoga or your daily jog - walking up a hill of heather is far better exercise. Because I couldn't shoot I was one of the beaters. We were accompanied by 6 family dogs. Apparently they'd been bred for this sport but it wasn't apparent to me. As far as I could tell my job as beater was to be yelled at by anyone holding a gun/wearing a kilt. After three hours of watching the 30 guns we managed to kill a grand total of 3 grouse. Apparently that's normal. Applaudable in fact. After all this, we were expected to reel again. The energy of the Scots is remarkable. I was ready for nice lie down. As I began to pick up the steps of the dances, I began to appreciate being swung around by strapping young men with bare knees. Things were looking up. After a week of this I started to think maybe Inverness wasn't so bad after all. Despite being 5° colder than the rest of the UK and lacking modern comforts, there are a lot of gorgeous boys up there who knew how to look good in a skirt.
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