Sshhh...The Underground Restaurant

This Saturday night I will be parking Jimmy up in the driveway or Ms Marmite Lover, doyenne of the underground restaurant scene in London. This hush-hush thing is starting to take hold as the gap between eating in and eating out becomes bridged in this big ole changing city.

I'm excited for this change. I love a good restaurant but more than that I love an atmospheric one and London isn't always brilliant at pairing great food with this. It reminds me of being in Tel Aviv where so many bars are like homes - and you can always get a really delicious plate at the bar until early morning.

I'm excited for the personality factor of eating like this - a paying guest in somebody's home, a menu that has been decided irrespective of you and at a price you can definitely afford.

I'm going to do a spiced chocolate mousse to go with the Mexican dinner. I've even been invited to stay the night. It's reminding me of my days on tour, trundling around Britain looking for strangers to have me into their homes for supper. I may get re-addicted. I like London suppers but more than that I like life out there, on the road, free-wheeling.

I'm planning to do more. Abroad. The thought of this has me ebullient with delight.

LONDON LEG: Supper #47 - E1

Dinner in a high-rise - my idea of heaven. As a child, driving into London with my family, I would gaze yearningly at every tower block we'd pass. They looked so exotic to my country girl eyes. I loved the thought of living in such close proximity to so many others. My cosy sense of urban life had my imagination running wild with thoughts of intensive, relentless domesticity; of wall to wall carpet, 24 hour central heating and fish fingers and chips. My family all thought I was nuts and yet, decades later, a part of me still feels like this. So when I got an invite from Andrew to bring choc pud to him and his friends in his retro pad in Spitalfields I was there with big jangling bells on.

I was told to leave the van at home as parking was an issue so I wrapped up the night's offering and jumped on the 35 bus. Eventually, after some mind-numbingly confusing 'short cut' I should never have even attempted, I emerged at the foot of the big, ugly, but still kinda glamourous Denning Point on Commercial Street and got buzzed up to the 9th floor. I tried to share a lift with a Bangladeshi family but they weren't up for it at all, in fact I suspect that they hung back just to avoid joining me. I tried not to take it personally.

The door swung open to a glorious cacophony of swirling green, yellow and brown carpet. Could it have been more perfect?! I don't think so. I chased it from room to room, transfixed by its gaudy tone and flouncy ways. I could barely lift my gaze to shake hands with the people in the flat - it was just so much to take in. I was taken into the kitchen for a drink. All the windows were steamed up with the fug of cooking. All over the table were strewn packets of Tesco Finest sausages and bottles of red plonk. I clutched my half pint glass of wine and made off with the host to explore the place a little more thoroughly.

THE SET UP: Andrew rents this flat from the family of an old lady who died. All her stuff is still there - the tables, chairs, retro kitchen and, my personal fave, the fully kitted out open-up bar. I think this is what sold it to him; yes, the vistas are marvellous, but what's really dazzling is the glasswear in that cabinet. For a moment I even forgot about the carpet.

WHO CAME: Me, Andrew, his girlfriend, his brother, his brother's girlfriend, Eleanor, Eleanor's flatmate, Gen and Lucas.

WHAT WE ATE: Bangers and mustard mash with buttery cabbage & bacon and onion gravy. It was just what I felt like on such an horrific, wet night. The whole flat was moist with warm, cooking smells and I felt as if in a big, bright protected bubble held aloft in the sky.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: A lot of the guests are in TV production so we had tales of who was doing who and where, Charlie Brooker, new ideas for shows with Martin Clunes, a dog and a gimp mask. My host opened up to me about his 'bulimic urges' for chocolate which found him purging at the gym rather than down the loo. We got the real reason behind the Schweppes and Tango commercials and someone suggested playing the biscuit game (which biccy would you be and why?)...I went for a Penguin, though the game never really got off the ground as Lucas was busy discussing some woman at work's rack and how he stares at it - not because he wants to dive in, more out of fear of suffocation.

THE PUD: On such a cold and hostile night I pulled out one of the classics - hot chocolate fudge pudding, a dessert that I was raised on and which still gets the most squeals whenever I make it. This time though I decided to spike it with some Aztec flavour - chilli, cinnamon and vanilla. It was great - all that molten richness lifted completely by the spices. Andrew's brother said it was the most drug-like food he's ever had and, I have to admit, the place did turn from manic, Oxbridge raconteuring to hazy, glazy submission in one fell spoonful.

LONDON LEG: Supper #44 - N1

Last night saw the beginning of my London leg of the tour. I've been all over the place this summer and have missed the suppers. I wonder how things will be back in the Capital....in a way it's a completely different slant as I don't need to sleep over because I live here (SW9 FYI), therefore I won't be getting so rat-tanked because I'll be driving, which should aid my clarity and sharpen my observations. Hmmm, not sure about all this. I wonder, will the hospitality branch be extended to me by Londoners even though they know well and good I have my own bed?

I went and picked Jimmy up from his des res (parking lot in SW4), swung by my pad (deep in the heart of the hood), grabbed the part-assembled pud, revved the Gennie up so as to arrive all twinkling and flashing neon and braved the traffic from South to North. All fine until the atmospheric light show that throbbed out pleasingly to passers by turned spasmodic. Pink, black, pink, black went the on-off situation and my heart sank as I drove up Upper Street, wondering what the heck was wrong with Gennie now.

I arrived on a very swish looking street (in an Oliver Twist when he was salvaged kind of way) and felt sure that no yoots would come rootling around the van whilst I was flanked by such swank vehicles. I was late. As usual. But I carried with me a delightful offering so what could they possibly say?

THE SET UP: Madoc bought the flat six years ago with his sister who lives next door with their mum. Cosy. He used to be a chef but now works for Raleigh International in recruitment. He is a bright and perky host, despite orchestrating this evening's meal with a broken wrist. My God, I did feel honoured that he didn't call the whole thing off - the only mention of it at all was when he pondered the possibility of having a limp right wrist for the rest of his days (nasty). Joining us were Becky who used to work with him at Raleigh, Jezza who used to work with him at Raleigh and Kate, who kind of works with him at Raleigh. And it took me most of the night to get to the bottom of what Raleigh was.

After a visit to Jimmy (where Jezza quizzed me about technical things, telling me he'd spotted us before and pondered the logistics of the power and whatnot) we got back into the warm, candle-lit, Coldplay-soundtracked flat. Wine was offered. Oh God, I'm driving, better just make it the one - and instantly came an invite to stay. "Look," said Madoc "I have this beautiful spare room with a brand new bed". It did look kinda inviting with its pristine Broderie Anglaise bedspread and currently available to the right person for £850pcm (Jesus!), but the thought of fighting my way through the traffic in the morning made me abstain.

WHAT WE ATE: So the one-handed plating of dinner commenced. Becky helped, I took pics and the other two sat waiting at the table. Sainsbury's had produced a free-range chook which Madoc had roasted and served with crunchy boiled carrots, huge baked potatoes, crispy bacon, bread sauce and red wine gravy with a well-dressed salad on the side. Baked potatoes, cold meat and salad is actually one of my favourite things to eat in the world so this winter version put a smile on my face. And the chicken was really delicious - great chunky tranches of flavoursome, juicy breast. Delish.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Kate tried to explain to us about her Raleigh trip to Borneo. I wanted to know what they all ate but it didn't sound up to much (rice, mainly). The conversation switches pendulously - from Japanese caligraphy to how to get cheap tickets to the theatre. They'd all seen Warhorse and insisted I go. Becky lamented her friends' slightly moronic conversation skills since having kids and moving to the country. There she was at dinner with them and the only three questions they asked her were 'Have you got a boyfriend?', 'What's it like being single?' and 'Do you want kids?'. "I felt like Bridget Jones sat there, surrounded by them all - and when I made a joke about Sarah Palin I was met with blank expressions; none of them seemed to know who the hell she was!". I shuddered inwardly and outwardly.

Then Jezza - who I took to be a fairly mid-range, reg'lar middle class guy - got my attention when he began telling me about his dad's homemade fireworks and basins of explosives in the laundry room. And how, at uni in Southampton, he bought a little boat which he used to row chicks out to in the middle of the night across choppy seas. Now he likes vans. He buys them, does them up and then heads off on big adventures in them. Brilliant!

THE PUD: I made a double chocolate, Kahlua-injected roulade. Inside the moist, chocolatey folds swirled a vanilla and white chocolate cream. We all had a slice, Jezza had seconds and Madoc pretty much polished the rest off in cheeky slices directly to his mouth.


By 11.30 it was time to head home - Kate went off to Finchley, Becky cycled up to Highgate, Jezza to somewhere nearby and I took old Jimmy back across the river along nice, uncongested streets.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Mine! And I expect most of my London suppers will find me back here...unless one of my hosts pulls out a particularly special cocktail, which I would never be able to resist.

Touring the Capital

So the summer is coming to a close - just one more festival this weekend - and I am turning my thoughts back to the Tour. I need to be in London for the next few months and I want to take the opportunity to seek out some more supper safaris. There are so many opportunities! I'm always joking with the Romanian carwash guys, my mechanics, the dudes at the Jerk Centre about it. They may try and laugh it off but I'm going in - I'm going to work away at the London layer that tries to keep itself to itself. It's a very different beast to the rest of the country. It has its ways, its apparent hardness, its 'don't give a damn' gait - but I suspect there are soft patches and soft spots that chocolate will work wonders with.

So, if you'd like to take part in the Choc Star Tour (does London) - if you cook well or even if you don't, if you like chocolate , if you like new people - e-mail me (feedme@chocstar.co.uk) and let's put in a date! I promise to arrive bearing a wonderful Choc Star special dessert and I don't mind what we eat (as long as it's not tripe).

I already have offers in Camden, North Finchley, Shooters Hill...and a very fruity sounding Rocky Horror supper in Bromley. Yee-hah, can't wait to hit those streets!

On the brink

Tomorrow is my first festival of the summer. I'm up in Norfolk and heading over there tomorrow. I haven't even finished writing my West country blog entries. People keep asking if my tour's over now but I quash this scandalous talk. No, it's just on a pause, I say, while I take care of a few non-tour related concerns. The truth is that, though I've seen the most wonderful chunk of Britain (and eaten a huge great chunk of food) I'm not done. Not by a long shot. Well I haven't even been to Wales for a start and...what about abroad?? I'm going to sit on this for a while; mull it over and cook up some schemes. I want more of what the Choc Star tour gave me - more great languid voyages of wonder and delight, more new people to meet and countryside to explore.

I look back on the tour (so far) and am bristling with excitement at the distance I've travelled and the sequence of places I've dipped into. Often I got frustrated at not being able to stop longer and would yearn to stay, only to swiftly forget once I hit the road once more. It's addictive this nomadic state. It quells my restlessness. Yet within it is suspended an impulse I have to stay still and go nowhere - to embed myself in a whole new place.

London? London. I eye it with uncertainty. I'm interested in trying it back on again and seeing how it fits. But for now I just pray that the rain pisses off and let's the festivals be - the quagmires and deep, squelchy trenches still cry fresh in my mind. Forecast for the next three days: Heavy Showers...

Supper # 41 - Kingsdown, Bristol

I left Welham and headed north to Bristol for a much anticipated dinner with Elly. Elly owns a great little place called the Pear Cafe which I've been dying to investigate. I curved along the deep Somerset lanes, through Bruton, round the one-way system, through Bruton, round the one-way system...through Bruton. Bollocks - stuck in a kind of warped Chevy Chase renactment. I could not get on the road to Bristol - I tried everything, every possible option but it wouldn't take me where I needed to go. I nearly had a seizure. Until that point I had felt pretty relaxed about the lack of sat-nav and pretty pleased with myself for always managing to find my way - but I thought I might pass out with fury in Bruton.

In the end I found my way to Elly and her friend who hooked me up to his house in the most convoluted example yet of pumping power to Jimmy's interior - it really was beyond the call of duty and I felt honoured. With Jimmy all hoisted up and harnessed in, off to Elly's flat we strolled, stopping on the way to pick up some delicious wine and pudding ingredients. It was kind of the first time on the whole trip where I was just hanging out in a city with a friend in a regular sort of place...like being at home.

Glastonbury was going on just down the road and as I prepped the pud and Elly added final touches to her Lebanese extravaganza I cursed myself for not being by Jigga's side. I love him. I love his rhymes, his flow, his hustle and his swagger - and I knew he'd entertain the acoustic evangelists down in Pilton. My yearning subsided quickly when Elly produced a fabulous bottle of manzanilla she'd been saving for the occasion - she's a huge great shez-head and I am always keen to see what kind of style she'll introduce me to next. We snacked on cobnuts and marinated zucchini, quaffed iced sherry and chatted...and Hov did his thing on the telly. I continued to drink - in a way that spoke of being in the comfort of my own home - while Elly worked magic in the little kitchen.


WHO CAME: Elly and I

WHAT WE ATE: Roasted aubergine salad salad with saffron yoghurt, chargrilled asparagus, zucchini and haloumi salad with slow roasted tomatoes, roast beetroot, baby spinach, sunflower seed and chervil salad with maple dressing, flatbread with za'tar (sesame, thyme and sumac), fatoush and brown rice tabouleh. Phew! It really was a tour de force and I loved it. I can't get enough of all this delving in and layering up - it's so much more sensuous than an austere piece of 'art' on a plate. I fancy that a medieval style of eating may suit me rather well and who cares about meat when there's this much to make the table groan?


DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Well once the sherry had been drunk and then the delicious chardonnay and the amaretto - and a few rollies had passed my lips and given me a light-headed sensation, what we spoke about suddenly seems a little unclear.


THE PUD: So I threw together a chilled chocolate, amaretto, orange and almond terrine. After the Bruton debacle it seemed the best option and besides, I knew Elly would be able to slither cheeky little slices off that old rascal for many days to come afterwards. It's one pud that I never get bored of - how could you? It's not leaden and encumbering, nor overly rich. It's just a cool slice of brown gold dust that fills your heart with niceness and winks at you from the freezer whenever you happen to be passing by.


MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: I forgot to get a pic. Like I said, it was a heavy night.

Supper # 40 - Shepton Montague, Somerset

The rain won't stop. It throws down all it has with a kind of glib defiance. I drop my mum at Tiverton Parkway station after a huge lunch and a long, atmospheric walk round her boss' garden. We both agree that it's the most incredible private garden we've ever roamed - even the woodland is landscaped. I'm sad to say goodbye to my mum, I wanted it to be gorgeous weather while she toured with me. I wanted to louche about for longer with her - it's all gone so quickly. Off she goes and on I go - a quick stop-off at Willie's for some more chocolate and a bit of banter and then over to Somerset.

The rain makes me want to curl up and get my cosy on. I don't want to be with strangers tonight so I call and invite myself to uncle Jules' and aunt Di's. A more welcoming response would be hard - the warm wishes of encouragement floweth right through my Sony Ericsson and I attack the journey with gusto. I feel reassured that I'll be amongst family. I wonder if I didn't have the option - which I seem to have had a lot of in the West country - I'd miss it? Perhaps we lean into that which we know will catch us. Yet free-falling is one of my favourite things to do. Maybe I'm just not much of a wet weather free-faller....

So anyway, I arrive back at J&D's in the mid-afternoon. Diana is at work and Jules is running a multi-faceted operation in the kitchen. He's just got hold of the Ottolenghi cookbook and is devouring it in a most hands-on manner. We hang out a while and I offer to decorate the salmon. I realise that I've cooked nothing but chocolate on this entire safari - not a morsel of savoury fare has been fashioned by me so I take to the salmon with vigor, creating for him a translucent ruby coat of sliced tomatoes. I even make eyebrows. It's all very Robert Carrier.

Jules hands the kitchen over to me and I get to work on a sunken chocolate souffle. As it cooks the guests arrive; endless horsey couples from this village or that. Champagne is served in the drawing room, Kettle Chips passed around, the air is awash with the smell of perfume. I'm a recoiler of small talk and am starting to feel a bit like a stuck record:

"I'm having a big, chocolatey adventure in my choc-mobile". / "I look for people to give me supper and then make them a chocolate pudding in return". / "No I don't sleep in the van". / "No I don't have SatNav". / "Yes, I have piled on the pounds and am starting to feel pretty uncomfortable - maybe a more expansive seatbelt is in order".....

...so I talk to the kids about school and years out and...the tour. On the sofa my grandmother holds court. Dressed in one of her Chinese silk kaftans, her silver hair chignoned expertly, she holds her glass as if she might look somehow incomplete without it. The guests sit reverentially, listening in as she talks of days gone by - of business trips to Egypt, Colombia, Manila, New Orleans. Dinner is ready and we all file through to the dining room, the table laid beautifully, fresh flowers everywhere.

WHO CAME: Jules, Di, one of their kids (Emily), Grandjane, three couples.

WHAT WE ATE: For starters a salad of samphire, green beans, sesame and tarragon - vivid green, glossy and summery. Next the aforementioned enrobed salmon, bright yellow Bearnaise sauce, baked endive stuffed with gruyere and prosciutto and royal potato salad, studded with quails egg and smothered in salsa verde - my favourite thing in the whole world. The fish is pale and super fresh. I can taste its insistent upriver journey working onto my tongue. We drink Puligny-Montrachet and '97 Pauillac.


DINNER TABLE TOPICS: I sit opposite a caddish looking guy - very Jilly Cooper and, to complete the picture, am intrigued to discover that he is 'Master of the Hunt'. We dance along the delicate rope of convincing one another that we're not out to get the other. I wouldn't dream of criticising the Master's antics, besides, I'm distracted at the thought of the sunken souffle. Sunk? To go down it must go up and this poor mite simply rigamortosed in overbearing heat. Clamped tight and unyielding it sits next door awaiting an ordinary reception.

THE PUD: Luckily there are strawberries and raspberries and great, voluptuous folds of whipped cream to disguise my lacklustre offering. It passes without remark. Any positive on the S.S. I silently dismiss. I tell myself it was the oven's fault.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: I help Emily wash up while the rest of the party carries on drinking. Cigarette smoke wafts through, intermingling with the perfume, the wine and the smell of delicious food. It smells like a good time and yet it seems surprising to have the fag smell in there. How quickly we adjust - and how few homes I've been in on this trip where any smoking has occurred.

Bed is cool and reassuring and I sleep as heavily as usual.

Supper # 39 - Wellington, Devon

Sorry - this post is no longer for public consumption.

Weston Super (night)Mare

It just doesn't have quite the same retro appeal as my beloved Morecambe. My mum had joined me for a couple of days and we headed over there from Nailsea (after a fun night of boozing it up with the delightful Sue and Trev from Foresters). We'd heard that there were more charity shops in Weston than anywhere else in the UK. My mum's ears pricked up and that wild look took over her face: TAT! Off we trailed, along a particularly dreary part of the tour - along suburban lanes bereft of intrigue or funk - and into town.

There is the distasteful whiff of inertia about the place. It's as if there was a choice between sentience and coma and everyone in Weston chose the latter. The shop keepers can barely be bothered to look up, the waitress seemed joyless and those poor old donkeys...

I even discovered a 'farm shop' that haunted me it was so horrif. I tried my best to rescue some bags of grated cheese from their ambient, mould-inducing stupor but nobody in the shop seemed to care. I left in a hurry, past confused samplers wondering why I didn't want to taste the smudged bits of lemon cake. We pushed on out of there with relief.

Chocolate tasting - Clevedon Pier, North Somerset

I did a chocolate tasting last week at the most beautiful place I've ever had the pleasure to talk on this fine subject. Clevedon Pier is a Victorian fantasy - 200 yards of gappy planks marching out to a deathly looking sea miles below. The good people of Foresters turned out in their dozens to squeeze into the tiny little capsule at the end of the pier. We tried raw beans, roasted nibs, 100% pure, Venezuelan truffles, champagne truffles, 70%, milk and then finished off with a tray of chocolate martini shots. And then another tray...and another. By the time it was time to traverse back to the mainland we were all hugging and kissing each other like old friends.

This place flicked my switches and I'd return in a heartbeat.

Supper # 38 - Molland, Devon

Molland is really old fashioned. It lies up towards Exmoor coming away from South Molton; a small cluster of houses all looking like they're ready to drop into the road from their high up positions on the bank. As I drive along I lament my lack of horn - you can't see a thing and putting the chimes on is hardly much of a warning blast. If anything it confuses people and they look around, unsure of where the amplified music box sound is wafting in from. I curl around the corners, past the village pub and the tight group of teenagers hanging around on the side of the road and pull up to the Dart's farmhouse. They've said I can plug Jimmy in with their Red Devon bulls while I stay with my uncle Marius down the hill.

I arrive to hoots of delight from Mrs Dart and her daughter and get ushered into their huge, slightly retro kitchen. "You must be hungry", they say and bring out pineapple cake, carrot cake, still-warm quiche - and a large pot of clotted cream to dollop onto anything I fancy. Tea is poured and I get chowing, unable to resist almost anything anymore. It just all tastes so good and how often in London does one get offered cake as part of the daily, domestic routine? Not I and I'ma get mine while I can - before I know it I'm going to be back in that gym surrounded by slightly demonic individuals and craving such things as cake with clotted cream.

The Darts prepare great greedy lunches for the local shoot. A dozen or so men will come tromping down in their plus-fours and tweeds, chomping at the bit to blast those pheasants to the ground. Apparently it's now becoming trendy for city boys to come and have a pop. I suppose it's part of the rolling-around-in-the-mud-together in the woods impulse; a quick flight from the concrete to indulge the primal. Heck, I'd do it just for the big lunch at the end. They make all their pastry from scratch, cook their own cream, rear their own beef and grow all the veg in the garden. Heaven.

Uncle Mal turns up and can't turn down the cake either. We munch and chat and then settle Jimmy in and head off down the hill.

THE SET UP: My uncle and aunt have been given this house by my aunt's older sister. Sort of given it...it's complicated. Anyway, Marius comes down here all the time from London for work. The house has been part of the Molland estate for centuries, you can practically smell the goat shed. It's brilliant and wonderfully far from civilisation.

Marius goes into the house swinging a cloth bag full of shop-bought goodies: Lincolnshire sausages, bagged lettuce, packaged veg and I am quietly surprised. Normally it's a lot more rustic and there's a hare hanging about somewhere or a partridge laying ready to be plucked. Needn't have worried though as the window of opportunity for a hearty - some might say challenging - supper soon presents itself when we discover that the fridge/freezer has been turned off. Off we troop to the stone back room to investigate the damage. We sniff and dunk and prodd and soon have an 'in' and an 'out' tray: out with the gassy grapefruit juice, the defrosted dog food and the filthy melted ice, in with the defrosted pheasant, the lamb stew and the sliced brown bread.

It really does bond you when you're not sure whether what you're about to eat is going to make you both ill or not, but in my family it's almost a test of strength to see who's constitution can withstand the least likely of offerings. In no time at all the pheasant is perched atop a piece of dripping-slathered bread and roasting in the oven for another time and the lamb stew is bubbling innocently away on the hob, veg roasts in the oven and zucchini softens in a pan.

WHAT WE ATE: Defrosted borscht given an artistic flourish of scissored chives start the ball rolling. Tastes like the earth. As earthy as anything I've had in a long time. Soon enough we're onto the main thrust of the meal - the defrosted lamb stew. There it sits, surrounded by jewel-like veg: zucchini sauteed with tomatoes and oregano, peppers and squash from the roasting pan, streaked with rosemary, chunky discs of carrot - it's quite a sight to behold. We tuck in, our wine glasses at the ready should anything untoward start to occur in our stomachs...all fine we proceed with gusto.

Next we enjoy some salad, reassuringly clean and perky and fresh from the bag. Some camembert accompanies it along with...oh, what's this? The pheasant is out of the oven and it's fatty bed is being touted around as a possible partner to all this clean-cut fare. "It might be a bit greasy" warns Marius, which means that it's going to be so far beyond greasy I probably shouldn't. But, heck, I do and am soon transferring it onto his plate where it'll receive a much better reception.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Intrigue and suspicion over previous ancestor's misdemeanors, my grandparents and their barny when my grandmother discovered my grandfather had bought a house without telling her, Marius tells me about being sent out of London as a boy to stay on a farm in Cornwall and what a thrill it was for a King Arthur loving kid, more family disection. We get the map out a lot. I love going over maps - especially with people that really understand them. We gaze over Lincolnshire and its vast tracts of unadulterated farmland. We revel in the possibilities of the ancient kingdom of Arkenfeld. We slap each other on the back and pour more wine.

THE PUD: Venezuelan truffles and whiskey from the Co-Op. I bite mine tenderly, Mal tosses them back like popcorn. They're only just set and so perfectly supple. I love the way the cocoa powder acts as a serious case for the dreaminess within.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Marius marches round the house pulling back bed covers, investigating what lies beneath - not that different to the inspection of the fridge in fact. Eventually we find a bed that I can sleep in, complete with sheets, pillow cases and blanket. One more discussion on the history of the house and where things have been put in/taken out and off I trot clutching (embarrassingly) OK!, full of pics of Wayne and Colleen having a right old knees-up.

Supper # 37 - Wadebridge, Cornwall (again)

I returned to Wadebridge and the open arms of Rose & Ben. I was spaced out after a day of 5am champagne drinking, sunrise paddling, very choppy non-mackerel fishing, almost hurling, gritty fish & chips eating, convulsed seagull watching and then a fill-up of Jimmy's tank - always alarming of late. I had called in en route to visit some more old Sixties muckers of my mum's which was, as we like to say in our family, very emotional. By the time I got back to the fold it felt like coming home.

There was Ben rotating clay dishes and shredding coconut, popping corks and sharpening knives. We gathered round the kitchen table once more and carried on gas-bagging as if it had been months. What is it about some people where just being around them causes thoughts to domino through your brain so? Like no effort at all is required.

I was desperate to watch the football. So was Ben. Rose had to make do with Scrabulous as she can't stand it. Italy-Spain - what a decision. We always back Italy in our family out of respect for the old days up the mountain in Montelaterone, but Spain just threw down so much more convincingly. As Italy stood strong and sturdy but with little fire Spain raged around the pitch, powerful and hot...especially that guapo, Casillas. MMmmmm!

Anyway, back to the grub. A slavish day in the pan had reduced cubes of spiced lamb down to yielding, easy-going little nuggets; all dark in colour and deep of flavour. Calcutta chickpeas with coconut shavings and comforting daal were cleaned and cooled by a cucumber raita. Ben had invented a flatbread which came out of the oven a bit crispier than he'd hoped - didn't bother me, I just loaded it up with all the goodness of the rest of the plate and crunched right through that sucker.

Lager, curry, football, la-la-la-la! and followed by a sleep that threatened never to end...

Padstow turns it on

Crawling out of bed in the dark reminds me of going to catch a flight. It's exciting and I fairly bounced up and at 'em when Adrian woke me. No tea for this chick - get me to the beach and that chilled champagne! We drove quickly along the lanes, trying to make it to St George's Well before 5.08am and the shard of dawn that would surely greet us...or would it be horizontal rain? The dingy morning brooded overhead, giving little away. I grabbed my shades from my bag just in case and down we marched to join the party, headed up by David of Bin Two; wine shop par excellence of Padstow.

Coolboxes bulged with iced champers, paper bags brimmed with boxes of duck eggs, bacon was being parted and placed on the grill and activity was all very hive like. I met all sorts of fun individuals - Padstow stalwarts imparting tails of rollicking good parties and magical sounding houses. I sipped on. Sometimes allowing a spot of Tropicana to enter my glass but generally going a pelo. We ate strawberries and cream, barbecued bread, played with the dogs, louched about, rain came in fits but by 7 the sun charged through the clouds and gave us a heck of a gorgeous day.

Later we went mackerel fishing (organised by super host Adrian). I declined motion-sickness pills on the grounds that I should have better sea legs than anyone, given my time on yachts. After an hour or so I was ready to hurl great Bucks-fizzy chunks and pined for the tourist thronged streets of Padstow. We returned, fish-less and opted for Rick Stein's Fish & Chips instead. I went for grilled mackerel with a battered oyster chaser. Delish. Even though seconds before my mouth made contact with it there was a hug gust of wind that sprinkled dock grit on all the food in our pavement picnic. It didn't effect my enjoyment - might even have given the whole thing a touch more authenticity.

We finished up and set off to leave, but not before witnessing one of the most revolting things I've ever forced myself to absorb. This huge great seagull came sweeping past the crowds, over the dock and nose-dived perilously close to me. He had his eyes on half a giant sausage roll abandoned by one of the kids. Off he went with his beak wrapped round the bounty. All his crew came squawking over, desperate for a bit of twos-up. No way yer bastards, he seemed to say as he threw his head back and swallowed the thing whole. He stood there for a few moments, his white neck bulging with this meaty lump. It stuck out like a goitre; a great writhing, living goitre that he gurgitated down until it was gone from sight; no doubt landing amongst all manner of other horrors in the pit of his trash-compacting gut. Gross.