Blackpool: OMG

I cruised out of Morecambe with the sky laying out its most sultry clouds; off down to Wallings farm to collect more ice cream and then....I really had no clue where I was going. I'd had an invite from a nice man in Morecambe but...I don't know, sometimes you just want to get on the road and see where you'll end up - it's part of the thrill.

And so it was that I was drawn to Blackpool. I hadn't particularly thought that that's where I'd go but, sure enough, after a bit of lane wending the great signs proclaiming 'Pleasure Beach' seduced me in.

It was getting late, too late to get a supper invite and too late for a B&B or campsite but I didn't care because I was gathered up by a sensation so kitsch and exotic that it didn't matter what happened.

I cruised and cruised through the adjusted night sky. The balminess of earlier still hung, warm and encouraging; people perched on walls outside hotels - hotels like you've never seen! One after the other, tromping up every street, on either side. Out back, round the corner, up above; all brimming with the proud sleaziness of multi-coloured neon.

I gasped in wonder and all-out awe. I'd never been anywhere like this in Britain and my only references were of holidays in Greece, Spain, America....places that are so wholeheartedly consumed by the provision of non-stop pleasure and vice. Hen parties cackled past, replete with pink fluffy bunny ears; checked-shirted guys with shower-fresh glows released a riot of aftershave into the debauchery; clubs throbbed with boozy desire and all the while the sea sat calmly, riding out the storm.

I eventually tore myself away from the strip and unearthed a hotel that had space and power - a near miracle in this super-condensed town. It smelt of stale fags and air freshener and the carpet seemed to hold a lot of history within its deep, putrid weave. Martin, the owner (cheap aftershave, shiny suit) introduced me to his collection of single malts - I knew there'd been a reason for choosing this joint over all the others. There were whiskeys in there I'd never heard of - from New Zealand, Japan, the USA. I opted for the Japanese one and sat at the bar, my eyes shimmering in time with the spangly backdrop and Martin's suit, gassing with the barmaid about her days off in the pub.

Bringing it and slinging it in Mor-ecam-be

Kind Kate from Sunset Ices lent me her pitch for the day on Saturday, she had a '40s car rally to do and thought the spot may as well get utilised. What a peach of a pitch! I had no idea what kind of reception I might get - I mean the place is so ridiculously retro I wasn't sure people were up to what Choc Star is saying. But they were! And the people that weren't (as everywhere) only needed to focus on the cones in front of them, secure in the knowledge that a frozen, portable dessert would be in their midst within moments.

From the minute I'd scaled the promenade and opened up the hatch these folk were on me like four dogs on a three-legged cat, I mean I could barely keep up with the unrelenting demand for ice cream. It's not like pulling up in a high street or even a park; this is the British seaside and come hell or high water people are going to get an ice cream.



I actually sold out and so, regrettably, had to close that hatch. I made up for shutting the door on Morecambe by investigating a bit more this place that has captured my imagination so.

Supper # 26 - Lancaster, Lancs.

A fortuitous e-mail appeared in my inbox while I was still out on the moors. Gina, an Oxfordshire discovery, just happened to be enquiring about my proximity to Lancaster on that very night. 'If you're anywhere near you must come to supper', she urged and I didn't even need to look at my haggard old road map to know that this would work just perfectly.

I'd been back to Morecambe to have a scout around/eat some potted shrimp/chat to some locals and arrived in Lancaster ready and rearing to go. Carys, who I'd never met, opened the door to me and I immediately felt as though I knew her - she is the dead spit of my friend Manuela - and so felt right at home.

The trouble was the van. The plug-in situation was pretty tenuous: a succession of three leads snaking through her back garden, along the pavement and over the road to a far flung Jimmy. "You'd better turn your wing mirrors in" said a passer-by "or they'll kick them in when they come back from the pub". No need to ask who, mindless morons of course. Yes, I know them well...may have hung out with a few in my time. May even have been given over to a bit of mindlessly moronic behaviour myself. So I started to fret - and even more so when Carys dropped into the conversation that her VW camper van had been set on fire out there by the same m.ms.

If only I could sweet talk a neighbour into letting me pull up to their driveway and plug in through the letterbox, I thought. And with that idea out it was only a matter of moments before I found myself talking to a lovely man called Graham. He didn't know me (obviously), didn't know Carys and was already late to meet someone for a drink - and yet he was kind enough, on hearing my plight, to move his own car, see me into his space, feed the lead through his door and then toss me the keys to his house, telling me to move the van at my leisure the next morning. Unbelievable. I fairly skipped back up to Carys' house with delight and tucked into the glass of bubbly that was passed my way with relish.

THE SET UP: Carys looks about 35 but has four kids of 20 and below. She lives with her husband (absent on this occasion) in a house to die for. It's all painted wooden stairs and great, decadent high ceilings. The bookshelves sigh with fascinating reads and the garden seems made for teatime. She has invited Gina and Miriam up from London/Oxford for Miriam's birthday supper. I am to bring the brown.

There is an air of excitement about dinner. Gina thinks it's 'witchy' that we coincided on Lancaster and the mood is one of settling into the evening knowing that we all have lots of interesting stories to share. As Carys cooked we got stuck into an evening of candle lit confessions.

WHO CAME: Gina, Miriam, Carys and moi.

WHAT WE ATE: Smoked salmon on rye bread to nibble on, then baked, salted chicken legs with tzatziki, pitta, cous-cous and green salad. It's the perfect summer food and I could eat it forever. Great juicy chicken eaten with cold, tangy yoghurt and salads - my favourite.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Miriam's family's move from Catalunya to Essex in the '70s - how her brilliant artist father had tried for years to introduce Halstead to the concept of whole foods, macrobiotic food, a renaissance-style restaurant with spit roast game, jugged hare, wild winter salads....and all to aghast non-customers. We talk about the sea glass up at Easington Colliery, Co. Durham, that was all washed up from an old glass factory and all the ex-miners who've taken collecting it up as a hobby. Gina makes us laugh with a hundred different stories of brief encounters and then we all share our own tales of interludes with hot AA men. I learn about Sirius. Serious.

THE PUD: I made a warm Cloud Forest cake. It had to be cake for a birthday but it also had to be unfussy. I threw all the ingredients together and slid it into the piping hot Aga with a watchful eye. Out it came to oohs and aahs and onto it went a silken layer of melted Valrhona. It really is the business and managed to silence us all for a good few moments.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Miriam was going to do our Tarot but it got too late - we were all so sleepy. I was shown up to Carys' daughter's room where I slept to the sounds of smashing wing mirrors on the street below...or maybe I dreamt that bit.

Chasing the gypsies...

I ducked back into the moors - went round the other side this time - rootled out my old flatmate in Barcelona, Arlo. We lived high up a flight of stone steps in San Pere, right above the most gruesome, twisted family you could ever imagine. They would snarl and belch and shout in their bestial dialect and we would conjure up all sorts of scenarios we imagined they might be engaged in.

We had a fun night in the local boozer - conveniently situated right next door to their house. It's proper Last of the Summer Wine land where the pub feels like this great communal arena, made a home of by everyone in all the surrounding lanes. We drank Thwaites and gin & tonics then went back to the house for Arlo's mum's famed sausage plait - a great tome of juicy sausage meat closely swathed in crumbly, buttery shortcrust pastry and eaten with shredded spring greens and mashed potato. It went right well wit' Thwaites.

We went out to explore the moors the next day where wild ponies run and relics from the Ice Age abound...and then I bolted and discovered this pair trudging off to Appleby for the big horse fair.

The day I fell in love with Morecambe Bay

I always had a feeling about Morecambe. Something just sang inside at the thought of it and then bust into a full-blown aria as I joined the stream of traffic that wended its way along the promenade. I had been in touch with Kate at Sunset Ices and was keen to track her down. It's so interesting encountering other post-Mr Whippy mobilers and the website also sang to me a bit too.

There she was parked outside the resurrected art deco Midland hotel. I went round and round the roundabout before making a dash for it and traversing the cyclists lane and onto the promenade, actual. Kate had said she was happy for me to trade on her pitch with her but I was too enraptured by everything to even think of opening up the hatch. I roamed around like a ravaged old coyote, licking my chops with glee at the pure, uninhibited kitsch of the place.

Kate gave me an Angostura Ice which flicked my switches still further and I hung out in her van with her while she worked. Fascinating to be in the passenger seat of someones elses operation. She does all these retro treats like Oysters and Snowball Toppers and has jars and jars of sprinkles which the kids receive with total glee. The Midland was winking at me through the window so I set off to try and persuade one of the builders to show me around. This was achieved by impressing upon this one hot guy that I wasn't in town for long and would miss the big opening ceremony on Sunday.

"Ok, but if the boss comes then just keep yer 'ead down" he warned.
"Don't worry - let's just walk about like we own the joint and if that fails I've got a whole van full of chocolate outside" I assured him.

He then gave me the most comprehensive tour of this grand old dame I could have wished for - round the kitchens, the spa, the bar, the ballroom - up the curling stairs to the penthouse suite and onto the rooftop. I beamed happily away at all the hard-hats who looked like they had shed loads to do before the place could be opened and then dodged off when they started yelling for me to give my guide my phone number. I might have handed it over but I had to get back onto my and Jimmy's beloved moors.