From silence and drams and back to white noise

I'm back in London, with phone signal and internet and the multi-layered sounds of millions of people going about their business. If Christmas was wholly rambunctious then New Year found a way of pocketing it; producing it in the evenings and in the days providing something entirely new to contend with: complete silence.

We were on Mull, a place whose magic I'd been told about but never been able to quite imagine. A big, cosy houseful of people - by night we'd carouse to our hearts' content and by day would come the treat of roaming. Hardly anyone lives there - maybe 3000 people, some impressive looking rams, soppy Highland cattle, wild red deer and more Golden eagles than anywhere else in the world. From crunchy, frozen tundra to flattened out, yellowed fern; over volcanic rocks, mussel-bound beaches, gloopy marshes and heather-piled hills, each walk was different. But whenever I stopped and just listened I got a great pounding in my soul at the great, expansive sound of absolutely nothing.

New Year's resolutions: Take Choc Star to new heights, dance, be bolder and more adventurous. And seek out situations that make me feel as if I were on Mull - if it means returning; I'm in.

The next place you can find the van will be at the Valentine's Slow Food Festival on the Southbank, Friday 13th (!) - Sunday 15th February. Should be a hearty affair!

Out of the sunshine and down to the bleakness

I left Troon just as the weather was turning. It came in and glowered down on us, defying us to think summer might be anywhere near. Alanna hopped on a ferry to Belfast, Susie went for coffee with her mum, Andy went to make software and I cleared off down the road to Castle Douglas.

Everyone had urged me to take the low road and catch an eyeful of one of the most beautiful routes in Scotland. I didn't particularly have anywhere to get to since my plans for the night had been scuppered due to Jimmy's mental health problems. I talked him round and off we went - into the moody Tuesday, hungover kind of a day. It was a cocooning type of day that had me loathe to leave the van.

(Sometimes my favourite thing to do is just cruise along and let the scenery wash past me; let all the colours and smells surround me. There I am, out on the road, free and calm and able to go wherever I please. It's a magic that I never feel in London. I wonder if London is even necessary to me).

I came to a really bleak looking village with this great, austere and weather-worn church sitting atop a graveyard strewn old crag. The sky hung low and grey, the sheep in all the surrounding fields sat, blythely chewing, lost in thought. I wonder about their thoughts. Do they have any? Do cows? How can they all be doing exactly the same thing in every field in every county in Britain and be imagining anything exceptional? The smell of sheep shit bled out into the air, accompanying me as I picked my way to the church. This place of worship had such an air of presbyterianism - of Sunday vows, hard-edge pews and of knuckling down to the adversity of life in a dour climate.

I pressed on, through village after village of tucked away activity - I'm sure it was going on, I just couldn't see it. In the end I plumped for a night in a B&B at marriage central/wedding car heavy Gretna. I was absolutely shattered and just wanted to lie low. A knock on the door of a place offering 'parking space' introduced me to a very put-upon looking lady. The whole concept of plugging the van in was too much for her compromised mind and her hubby had to come out and tend to the situation. He was angelic and assuaged the chilly tone of the wife. I clocked her perfectly prepared home and offered some flattery which she responded to most warmly. We were friends! and the stay sorted me out no end.

Supper # 25 - Troon, Ayrshire

I dived into the local shop to pick up some cream and then took over the kitchen. I wanted to make something special looking but not too complicated as I had a couple of very zealous helpers. Or maybe that should be pot washers. Poor Susie had the kids all scrubbed clean and ready for bed when they ram-raided the kitchen and got their little mitts on as much chocolate as they could get away with. "Oor Nan always lets us lick the bowl/spoon/whisk/pan/tin" they cried indignantly and started pulling up chairs to get that little bit closer to the choc action. Hilarious. They were completely one-track minded and nothing was going to come between them and the sticky pickings. In the end Andy came and broke up the frenzy and put them to bed.

Andy had promised us Chicken Balmoral but Susie waded in to rescue the situation after she clocked our reaction to the haggis at breakfast. I was all up for a bit of chook stuffed with haggis - it was just a bit hefty first thing in the morning. Anyway, before they'd hear another word Andy was back in the kitchen prepping a wonderful cream, green peppercorn and whiskey sauce to go with some serious looking steaks. It was so nice to see he knew how to handle a bit of beef and cooked it nice and rare.

WHO CAME: Andy, Susie, Alanna and me.

WHAT WE ATE: Susie's moreish bruschetta - a big, glossy mix of cherry tomatoes, basil, pesto, garlic, onion and pine nuts atop toasted granary bread. Plump, super succulent Aberdeen fillet steak, cooked perfectly on the BBQ and covered in this dreamy, punchy sauce, with boiled buttery potatoes.


DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Reminiscing on the wild days of yonder. How Andy lost his virginity to Susie then didn't see her for years and finally talked her round with his legendary gift of the gab. We talked about our friend Joe who's big and brown and would be like this great novelty chick magnet up in Glasgow back in the day. Andy got all the girls who didn't fit Joe's big ass requirements.

THE PUD: We drank a lot of red wine and sunk a few limoncellos, our energy regained from somewhere, then I rolled out the eveining's pudding - chocolate mousse and whipped cream roulade. These are so much fun to make - just layer them with a big slather of naughtiness and roll that sucker up, dust it with icing sugar and wait for the cries of delight.

Susie was thrilled - she used to swim for Scotland and knew she's be able to shake off the excess in the pool the next day. I knew nothing of the sort but ploughed in regardless.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Finally it really was time for bed. We joked with Andy about the bed that he'd laid on for me - a roll-up mattress on the floor:"You're making me feel guilty now an' I'm no' even Catholic!" - but really, they both couldn't have been better hosts - 'our house is yours' they kept saying and never stopped looking after us. That's what I love about the Scots, their heart. It underlies everything and is as natural as breathing...or drinking.

Troon beach

It was so still down on that beach. Apart from the odd seagull and gust of wind the afternoon just lay there for us. There can be something so reassuring about sitting in a parked vehicle, like having your own little cocoon - a manageable environment to get your thoughts in order.

Customers came and went, cheerful and grateful of the heavenly weather. Lots of pale skin daring the sun to do its worst...but lots of brown skin too. Apparently the Scots are the most insatiable users of sunbeds in Europe.

Doon in Troon

While the rest of the country gets soaked we roll out of Glasgow with our arms scorching - down to Troon and its clear, languid light. Andy and Susie and their two wee ger'ls, Katie and Emma come running out to meet us and I furnish the kids with some ice creams then we pile inside. A big BBQ is under way and lots of their friends there, girls beautifully turned out in heels, CD shades, French manicures, blonde tresses. The guys are all in the local rugby team. All the guys are hooked up with all the girls - it's like an Ayreshire soap opera with extra bawdiness.

Everyone gets stuck into the booze - it's Bank Holiday Sunday and most of them are feeling pretty ordinary after staying up all night, raging: cider, wine, shots, hot choc with Morgan's Spiced and strawberries at 7am...but they're still standing and looking sprightly. I decide it's time to open Dave's Elderberry Wine ('alcohol content: lots'). Great big glasses are filled in a gung-ho fashion, which soon turns to quiet horror as the full reality of this dark liquid hits...back to the shiraz we go!

Andy tends the barbie outside, the kids run around in the big girls' heels, more booze flows. Conversation gets quite lewd - something about a dog and a couple of the girls and...lipstick(?!), and about Andy's controversial speech at his wedding, and Maryhill and what a rough place it is and how if you're from Troon you always have to rough up your accent when you go to Glasgow or you'll get jumped. And then we're introduced to the 'Wedge-otard'. One of the rugby players likes dressing up in this hot pink, high-cut leotard and launching himself on the local boozer in it, super-hero style and we get to see him in action.

The BBQ is really hearty - burgers, steak, sausages, lamb, kebabs, baps, salad and everyone swarms the table as soon as it's out. Eventually, after hours more of laughing and joking everyone leaves and me and Alanna fall into our makeshift beds with glee.

The next day Andy's up and at 'em with the most enormous cooked breakfast ever. "You ger'ls need to get a good Scottish breakfast insahd ye" he declares and then rolls out a platter that requires two people to carry it.

I load up my plate with sausage, black pudding, square sausage, tattie scones, haggis, beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, eggs, toast...but draw the line at the Aberdeen Angus steak.

Fully fortified we waddle off to the beach to do a bit of fly-pitching.

The Maryhill Tavern

My friend Alanna is my sidekick for the weekend. She was going to spend her first night with an old nursing mate in Glasgow's East End, but on Sunday morning at 7am I get a voice message from her - "Pez, when can you come and get me?...I've got to get out of here - it's a techno hell-hole and it won't stop". I wasn't even awake, let alone up so she stole away from the gurners and hopped in a cab over to Queenzieburn. Ross showed us around the farm and we got a real eye full of his prize bulls' great swinging nads. (Heavy). Then said our good-byes and got on our way - off to Maryhill, the home of the real ice cream wars.

No voyage in a choc-mobile that sells ice cream would be complete without a visit to Maryhill - it's standard. Everyone warns me about tyre slashing and windscreen smashing but I'm adamant. And besides, I have Alanna with me which means that it doesn't matter how dodgy an area we're in together, we will always gravitate towards the sleaziest, most down at heel old man's boozer that we can get our chops around and the rest of the world can disappear.

The Maryhill Tavern appeared like a great throbbing, pulsating beacon. I screeched to a halt and we accosted the first guy that came out of it, Wally. "Get the fook oota tha car and get insaad the fookin pub ya fookin speckies", he yelled. We decided he was probably saying this in good humour and went on in, flanking this great, gruff big teddy bear of a man.
"Oh mah god, Wally's not brought a burd in here fa years - let aloon twoo" cried a bleach blonde grandma at the bar.

We went and settled down with Wally and his pals and the whole pub started hurling questions over at us. As soon as they twigged we were English there was pandamonium - especially from Wally who'd thought we were from Ullapool or Harris.
"If ah'd knoon you were fookin English ah'd a told ya to fook off doon the rood" he shouted before making off to the bar and getting us a drink.

A guy called Jimmy heckled us from the other side of the pub, telling us to "get oot, you're no' welcome in here". I marched over to him, said "here Jimmy, I've got something to show you - come outside with me" and led him by the hand out to meet my Jimmy. He was absolutely delighted. The rest of the afternoon saw us taking endless trips out to the van with all the Jimmys that came in and dancing with old men to the karaoke croonings. It was absolute gold dust.

Supper # 22 & 23 - Aviemore, Inverness-shire

I had been promised all sorts of delights up in Aviemore. The Micklethwaites decamped from east London last summer when their grandmother died, leaving them as the only family members who wanted to hang on to the house. And hanging on they are, with all the rambling inventiveness that is reflected everywhere in the house. I am greeted like a long lost friend and can't believe my luck when I'm given the most desirable room in the whole place, Lairded over by an enormous Princess and the Pea style bed.

The grand tour of Inshriach is fabulous and poignant all at once. There is the air about it of a Nancy Mitford novel...mixed with Enid Blyton and a bit of Noel Streatfield. All the rooms have names and relate to the time when it was a fully functioning upstairs/downstairs kinda place. There's a nursery - complete with old Beano annuals and metal nursery beds, then we have the housekeeper's room, the French maid's room, loads of other bedrooms, bathrooms and, my personal favourite, the 'poor room'. Here we find a bare bulbed, crumpled bed, curtainless hovel which, if made a feature of, could be a deciding factor for parties looking to rent the house. Imagine this, a whacky old pile up in the Highlands, surrounded by great rollicking grouse moors, the River Spey and endless Douglas Firs, and replete with themed bedrooms just crying out 'role play'!

The dining room is being brought out of storage and a big feast is under way. There are loads of great strapping lads everywhere with names like Hamish and Angus and lots of activity - people returning from fishing trips, gin and tonics being made, kitchen table laptopping, pheasants being prepared. I position myself amongst it with a large G&T and get to work on the nights treat - hot chocolate fudge pudding. The crowd looks pleased. I size the Aga up and worry how it might cope with the responsibility of cooking it in time.

We eat dinner by soft candle light. We're a depleted group because most of them are glued to the Champion's League. The pheasant is served with broccoli and a kind of frozen med veg medley - Walter swears by it - along with healthy dollops of redcurrant jelly. We knock back bargain red wine bought from Tesco in Aviemore and talk about fly fishing, festivals and what the rental guests will require from the house that's not already there (duvets and a dishwasher, we decide).

The pud takes forever - long enough for us all to watch Man U grab it from Chelsea - but when the moment comes there is a roar of joy. This is a real, proper, straight up and down pudding and is entirely befitting of this kind of log fired, sheets and blanket kind of scenario. I lug the beast over to the hot plate and set about plunging a silver serving spoon through its top and into the molten underbelly. We cover our helpings with double cream and all have seconds. It is like getting into a warm bed on a cold night and there are eyes closed with pleasure as I scan the table.

I can't resist spending two nights when they insist. "You can't just be here for a night!" cried Walter "We've got to go fishing and swimming in the river and eat more cake and play squash". Cripes. And not only that but the house makes me want to curl up on a chair somewhere - in the Orangerie or the Cluedo-esque library - and devour novels and fill journals. It feels far far away from time or place; that very special Scottish sort of feeling of really and truly getting away from it all.

So the next day or so is spent doing all of this, as well as lots of congregating round the kitchen table and discussing minutae and rifling through granny's old utensils. We make pancakes from the eggs laid in the garden and talk about their friend who's training to be a spy. A course in international espionage - imagine! The house will be ready for rental soon and I'm already thinking of which 16 special people I'd like to take up there with me for a week - and who might be best suited to the 'poor room'...

Up to Scotland...

I burn rubber up to Scotland - got to shift Jimmy a couple of hundred miles to Aviemore. I get to Edinburgh pretty speedily (quite chuffed actually) and decide to reward myself with a trip to my favourite chocolate shop, Plaisir du Chocolat. I find the place surprisingly easy, locate a good parking spot, nudge my way in and am all ready to go and devour the choc shop when a rap on the window startles me. There stands a suave looking guy in a crisp white shirt and shades. "You hurt my car. Twicely." Hey? "Twicely you hurt my car!". Oh lord. I dismount the van and head round to the back to see what all the fuss is about. There's a massive scratch on his bumper. I'm mortified. "Oh no! I'm so sorry - what d'you want to do?". And to my amazement he tells me not to worry about it. I'm so relieved. I bound into the back of the van and gather a load of Millionaire's shortbread and press it into his hands before he can change his mind. His friend asks what I'm doing anyway and I tell the tale of the trip - about looking for strangers for supper and whatnot. "Do you like spicy food? North Indian?" Yes, yes, yes! "Well you must come and have dinner with us". Fabulous. They live in Reading but I'll be down there before long . We swop e-mails, have hearty embraces and leave with big beaming smiles on our faces.

I find the shop and pick up some of their brilliant chocolates - ganaches infused with all manner of exotic and far flung secrets - as well as some choc-chip shortbread and a giant kind of Bounty bar-style patty cake. There's a strange taste in my mouth and the treats make it retreat and make a good accompaniment to the dramatic journey up to Aviemore.