Supper # 27 - Sherbourne, Warwickshire

After Dudley and all the accompanying network of dreary suburbs and never-ending roundabouts I was excited to get back out to the country. Petra and Paddy called me back to their Warwickshire idyll, where riverbeds burst with watercress and skylarks soar. As soon as I got away from the M40 the sun extricated itself from the gloom and sharded down on us like a celestial floodlight.

It has been so nice on this trip to sometimes be able to descend on familiar faces and just hang. To do normal things like watch telly and do laundry and talk drivel. The fish man had called by earlier and Paddy had shrimp and Sea Bass waiting in the wings.

THE SET UP: Petra is about to burst - she's pregnant and charging around at a hundred miles an hour, project-managing the work on half the houses in the village. Paddy is relaxed in a fairly dynamic way. There are dogs everywhere and I'm watching their interplay with interest.

WHO CAME: Paddy, Petra and me.

WHAT WE ATE: Delicious Grimsby shrimp with cayenne mayo and lemon. If there is something more lip-smacking than a good prawn with a citrus kick I've forgotten what it is. Then great plates of baked Sea Bass with parsley sauce, asparagus and mash. A soothing supper, full of reassurance and calm. The rose wine was also rather reassuring.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Family relationships, the kids down the road and their penchant for shooting rabbits, P&P's eco business and all the intricacies of having a third partner, meeting Yves Saint Laurent last year and how ill he looked, all the different industries in all the towns of the Black Country.

THE PUD: I rustled up some chocolate Moelleux - we only had three ramekins so I made extra big ones. They burst over the edges and gave us a run for our money. I actually couldn't finish mine despite the fact that it's one of my favourite puds in the whole world. Oozing, warm chocolate escaping from a baked, cakey tomb....and cooled with double cream. P&P make a lot of happy noises.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Paddy and I stay up late playing Backgammon. He's an absolute animal and almost succeeds in psyching me into losing, but as soon as I see what he's up to I creep up from being 4-0 down and whoop his Irish ass. Bed is really comfy and I go to sleep excited by the fact that I don't have to get up at any particular time...

A B&B...finally!

I leave Petra's after encountering Paddy in his jodhpurs by the aga. He gives it one last stab at persuading me to ride the massive nag before striding off with his bag of tobacco and whip. We all say big, hearty goodbyes and I'm away...

The first thing that happens to me is that I discover some witches. I'd pulled over to get some eggs and a jar of marmalade while I was at it and there they were! They live in a little Hansel & Gretel-esque cottage that is just teeming with witchy references: howling stone wolves, broomsticks, bundles of herbs and wildflowers, Navajo headdresses...ok, they could just be massive Willie Nelson fans but I have to ask. One is more conspiratorial than the other. She draws me close, her eyes twinkling "Oh, you can always tell another witch" she confides, "it's in the eyes". Her black, sparkly pupils dance at mine. Gulp. "Some people don't even know that they're a witch...". Ok, I'm going to say it - I think she thought I was one. But that's ok because they seemed cool - dungarees and patchouli cool, but fine by me. I paid for the eggs (£1 for six) and the lemon marmalade (£1 also), booked myself in for a reading when I'm heading back south after my northern exposure and revved on out of there.

A quick pit-stop to Stratford Ice Creams was slowed by a car accident on a dodgy crossroads. An old couple hovered on the bank looking really lost. Their assailant didn't appear all there but I kind of got the impression it wasn't because of the prang. Nobody was stopping (apart from to have a good old gawp) so I pulled Jimmy onto the verge and got the poor dear an ice cream while her hubby called the cops. I nearly blubbed into the freezer as she fretted and wept "I've just spent five months in bed from a hip operation...we weren't even supposed to be going out today...". Soon the rozzas were there and I cleared off.

All loaded up with ice cream (organic chocolate, white choc and mint choc crisp), I steered us onto Fosse Way. This ancient Roman road runs all the way from Lincoln to Exeter in a straight line, I, however, managed to get lost getting to Rugby so didn't pull up at Pear Tree Farm B&B - a mere 50 miles away - for some hours. I stagggered in and was immediately taken into the bosom of Tim and Bev's family. They nourished me with beans on toast and mugs of tea and I fell asleep with the tiny little high up telly raining down images of embarrassing body issues. (I'm not going to go on about it here but there's one picture which I just can't seem to get out of my head - and it's horrif).

Supper # 12 - Sherbourne, Warwickshire

I prised myself from the flouncy lushness of my bed and rendezvoused in the kitchen for an early morning hike. By God they live in a stunning place. It was like jumping into the property pages of Harpers & Queen and taking a long, dreamy look around. And this, despite the hot, dark head of horrors leering up against the backs of my eyes. I managed an hour of sheep fields, bridle paths and bright/shadowed hills before returning to the ranch and my still warm bed.

What a nightmare – an Australian plonk-stained nightmare that then had to be carted around with me until I reached the next venue and the dubious sanctity of another drink. First I had to swing by an industrial park in Marlow to sell some ice cream. This wasn’t the success it might have been had I not been melting into the freezer myself but I soldiered on...

I bolted for Sherbourne, just off Junction 15 on the M40. I hurtled along roads that cut through thick spread, buttery fields. Whacking great flamboyant clouds posed low in the sky and the green fields seemed electric. My favourite Petra of all lives here with her husband Paddy and their four dogs. We revel in all the Brummie builders’ confusion when Petra introduces me and then head for a bracing dip in her brother’s pool.

THE SET UP: As far as I can gather her whole family owns and occupies the entire village. There’s her big brother in the massive Queen Anne mansion with his Jilly Cooper-perfect tiny blonde girlfriend, Petra and Paddy in the rollicking, womb-like farmhouse, her sister and Rasta husband down the road in a cottage, her other sister up the road with the local tycoon…I need a map with pictures…

The sisters come round for drinks before dinner, minus Rasta but plus tycoon. The tycoon and I hit it off immediately and I’m soon showing him round the inner portals of a neon-tinted Jimmy. As it turns out he’s involved with chocolate. In a big way. In fact the way in which we’re both involved with chocolate causes some light bulb popping for both of us.

WHO CAME: Paddy, Petra, Paddy's mum Valerie and me.

WHAT WE ATE: Supper is simple - some beautifully retro starters of smoked salmon, avocado and brown buttered bread, all arranged in curlicues. Very Marie Rose. Then Toad-in-the-Hole which had been hanging out in the Aga waiting for everyone else to leave and gotten a little crispy. No bother - lashings of onion gravy juiced it up and my rum & Coke prevented any dryness in the mouth.

(Rum & Coke: what is it about a nice, iced Cuba Libre with a squeeze of lime? The clinking of dense cubes spark a glint in the eye and a flash in the mind. When Petra lead me off to the drinks lobby and started pouring Mount Gay into sturdy tumblers I knew we'd have a fun night. Then she showed me her collection of sloe gin, vodka and rum...)

THE PUD: Pudding was truffles; Willie's Wonky ones. Sadly these power balls did nothing for Paddy and his mum and I watched as more than a couple were tossed into the slobbering chops of a lurking hound. This isn't a cool way to treat the truffs but I let it slide on account of the gripping nature of the dinner table banter.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Fox hunting. These two are into it and I have to keep asking what they mean. There is a whole lingo that means nothing to me - all about who you follow over the fence and knowing your neighbour and trust and country codes. I grew up in the heart of the country and yet I felt like some twatty urbanite. I used to send them in the wrong direction when the hunt would come thundering through our garden ("Red bushy tail? Oh yeah - saw it bobbing off towards John Gleed's field".) and have never got involved. But it's so riveting hearing about it and so important to consider it properly - and how fundamental it is to the culture of the country .

We stayed up gassing til 3am after Paddy spent a long time trying to persuade me to ride his enormous horse and marvelling at the thought of their friend in Paris who has a pig living in her appartment with her.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Every inch of my bedroom is covered in an autumnal, swirling paisley fabric to give a kind of padded feel. The walls, ceiling, shelves and cupboards are covered in the stuff and then finished with pearly roping. I've never seen anything like it.