In the shadow of Christchurch College

What a great view I had on Wednesday - looking onto the Oxford college...it's just a shame we were just round the corner from another Oxford institution, the G&D Ice Cream Cafe.

Oh well, it was fun to be there and the customers that I had proved good quality: students, town council members (thanks Kevin!), Japanese tourists, more students...

No supper - Beckley Park

I used to come here as a child. The house belongs to a cousin of my mum's. My mother has some interesting family members - a clairvoyant/alcoholic aunt who lives in a hotel, peyote gatherers, monks, and one, a dwarf, who worked in a circus and ran off with the strong man, but it is at Beckley that resides the only one I know of who is into trepanning.

Amanda was away in Jamaica but I was looked after immaculately by everyone who works there. Down a winding path is a little wooden house which became my home for the next couple of nights. No heating and little hot water but total peace and tranquility. I relished the chance to just eat crumpets for supper. Both nights. And to read my book and write my journal - and take long walks round the ancient, beautiful garden.

Supper # 7 - Lambourn

I left the Peppercorns in Earnley, having spent a glorious day lounging around in the garden and munching on freshly baked focaccia with chorizo, salad, cheese and pates - my favourite kind of lunch. I had nowhere to go in Hampshire. I know it's time for me to break out and find some real live strangers on the road but....Sunday night before the schools went back just seemed like a strong excuse for delaying on it.

I headed north to Berkshire to find my old friends Mark and Lou and the three kids they've had since we last saw each other. I had no idea they lived right in the midst of horse country. I knew nothing of Lambourn or that it is akin to Newmarket for equine activity. Huge signs announced 'Home of the race horse - kill your speed' (if only this was my problem!) and jockeys gyrated past on great majestic thoroughbreds.

I arrived to find a great pot of chowder on the stove and a freshly baked loaf of tomato bread on a chopping board at the table. We had a fairly kid-chaos dinner then all paraded out to the van for some ice cream. I put on my Mrs Shop Keeper hat and the little guys approached the hatch to place their orders: mint choc crisp, chocolate and strawberry, whilst I was excited to try Lou's homemade plum ice cream.

I slept like a dream in Gus's bed that he'd given up for me and the next morning awoke with a mission: find a random supper invite! I headed into Lambourn whose rough side I'd been warned about. It's funny the way everyone seems to think that I only want to go to the 'nice' places, where foodies abound and farmers' markets flourish. That's not it at all. If someone tells me that a place is a bit dark or a bit freaky then I'm in like Flynn, eyes a-blazing!

In the Lambourn Co-op I met a guy by the custard. "Good afternoooon" he said lasciviously and I had to have a word with myself about how freaky I was prepared to go. Not as far as pursuing wilted old men with custard in their hand and custard down their front I decided. I moved on.

The Malt Shovel was said to be a hot-spot of different characters so I pulled in there. Five p.m and the car park looked busy. I walked in as purposefully as I could. They all seemed half dead. I made my way to the bar, said hi to the barmaid and got nothing back. That really annoys me. "Hi there" I said again in case she hadn't heard me before, a faint arching of the eyebrows and a tilt of the chin was about as much as I was going to get so I left it at that. She stood staring at me intently while I tried desperately to figure out what to drink. Her big, oafish figure bore down on me. I couldn't concentrate - "I don't know what I want yet" I said, i.e. back off so I can have a bit of space to figure this fricking conundrum out. "I'm just standin' here" she said in a broad Northern Irish accent. She said it like she'd happily kill me if she thought no one would notice. I held her stare and ordered defiantly: "Magners and a glass full of ice, please"and that was the end of our happy banter.

I left the pub with half of the bottle and trundled back to base camp. I'd met Lou's parents earlier who'd invited me to supper with all of them and I needed to get back and make some nice warming chocolate rice pudding.

THE SET UP: Lou's folks are farmers. Her dad used to deal in livestock but DEFRA has made it too difficult for him so he now farms corn only. I had only ever known him as 'Get off moi laand', Mark's nickname for him, now shortened to just 'Get off'. He's a massive choc fiend and I don't think Mrs Get off was that thrilled at the prospect of a further assault on his cholesterol levels. This was the first time I felt that I was imposing on a family's dietary regime.

WHAT WE ATE: Usually they don't have a pudding, unless they have guests. But the supper, which was enormous, happens every single night. Proper farmhouse food: roast duck (the classic white kind with the yellow bill, straight from the garden), bubble & squeak, leeks & peas, creamed beetroot, lashings of gravy. I stared at my plate in wonder, as in 'I wonder if I'm going to be able to finish this'. Alarmingly it barely touched the sides and I found further cause for concern at my growing tum.


WHO CAME: Lou, her three boys (Charlie, Gus and Joshie), Lou's folks and me. A stable girl from Lincs. was on hand to look after the kids.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Charity fundraisers for the Conservative Club; Lou's dad being charged by a cow "...so I shot the beast dead"; the lack of demand for sheep meat these days; how Barbours aren't really proper hunting gear (Plus-fours and tweed if you're keeping it real); that by 2050 there will be 70 million more mouths to feed on earth and what that's doing to the crop situation.

THE PUD: I took the steaming pot out of the oven and swirled some more chocolate into it. It was classic nursery food and went rather well with the rest of the supper, I thought. It tasted like a warmer, softer version of Coco Pops. The kids enjoyed it and Lou's dad loved it. I know he was longing for a bit more but had to keep it together for the sake of the old C-levels. I develop a soft spot for Lou's dad, even though I can't exactly understand what he's saying all the time.

He and his wife left us to it as soon as everything was put away and retired to the telly room. I found them in there, him with his cigar, her with her crossword puzzle. They may have had guests but there was no may in hell their nightly routine was going to be upset by the grandkids + extras. We walked down the hill to the house and lovely Lou helped me ut the finishing touches to the tour postcard.

Pre-fabs and council houses and Miami-style show homes

South of Chichester is the most beautiful beach - a great, crunchy swathe of shingle hemmed by wooly marshland and shimmering sea.

Then there are the architectural monstrosities...



But I'm always a sucker for anything that smacks of South Beach - especially if it's painted swimming pool tourquoise!

Eclairs

We bought a load of eggs - of all different shapes and sizes - from down the lane: 70p for six! The fox had been in last week and beheaded all of Fanny's hens, and her prized duck. That's the trick apparently - they sidle in, Ozzy-O the birds, then return to feast in peace once they've all stopped their squawking.

Anyway, here are the results of Frieda's beating together of the eggs. I've never made eclairs before and had assumed they'd be a number to deal with but the choux pastry is basically just a pumped up roux. The hard bit is beating the swollen dough - I don't know what the heck has happened to my scooping arm but it had better get into shape soon or things may fall to pieces inside the van come summer.

Oxford tomorrow

We're going to be in Oxford tomorrow - one of my favourite cities. Lovely Kevin Keating at the licensing dept. has found us a spot on the High Street, opposite the Lincoln Library. We'll be there all day so come grab a milkshake, bar of Willie's chocolate or some freshly rolled truffles...

Supper # 6 - Chichester

It drizzled with rain all day on Saturday. Fanny and I went to pick Frieda up from her sleepover and she and her friends poured themselves into the back of the car, variously chatting about teenage stuff. They seem so much younger than I remember feeling when I was sixteen. You think you have all the answers! I think Frieda is a lot less reckless than I was though. I recall many a night spent knocking back Cadbury’s Liqueur, followed by Scrumpy, followed by Malibu and pineapple, followed by unmentionable carnage. Frieda sticks sensibly to Pimms.

We got back to the cottage by the sea and dragged damp logs out of the garden to try and dry so we might make a fire and get a fug up in the chilliness. Boy was it cold. My blood must have thinned living in London and I threw on every warm item I’d packed. Frieda suggested hot chocolate – great. Then the word ‘soy milk’ got banded around and a look of horror took over my face. I declined politely, but when these steaming cups of dark delight paraded out from the kitchen I couldn’t resist a taste: far out – it was perfectly palatable and had I not known about the S-word I’m sure I’d never have guessed.

The hot chocolate triggered the need for more chocolate. We made éclairs. Real live proper éclairs. When the yellow little fingers of warmth and joy emerged from the oven we dunked them into melted chocolate and our eyes rolled back. Mustn’t eat them all! We cried and placed them in a tin for later.

Later was a take-it-to-them supper at Fanny’s friends Chris and Elizabet. We left the world of open fires and rickety old lanes and surged through the driving drizzle to a whole new scenario: leafy, suburban Chichester – and a great big hub of a family.

WHO CAME: Fanny, Frieda, Bea, me, C&E + two daughters - Steph (new mum) and Camille (studying for A-levels). I really adore this family. There is a harmoniousness about them that is kind of unusual. I almost assumed that Chris was a recent addition to the family because of how upbeat and unencumbered he seemed. Isn't that odd? That such a thing should seem unusual? The daughters are beautiful, easy-going girls who carry themselves in the same serene way as their mother.

WHAT WE ATE: The plan was that Fanny would make paella, I would make chocolate soufflés and that we would put the finishing touches to the éclairs as we went along. What transpired was a really great, lemony paella, groaning with plump prawns and bulbous mussels and then a total choc-load of dessert. No one really drank (baby/exams/driving/too young) but Chris, Fanny and I laid in to some nice chilled shez and then a bottle of burgundy.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Bananas, mainly. Chris is a major fruit supplier to Sainsbury and I happen to be on the look-out for 2000 of the blighters. I've been asked by Le SportSac to supply them with enough frozen choc-dipped nanas to get the message across to Pitchfork festi-goers that they're doing a collaboration with Stella McCartney. Chris fairly rose to the challenge and started punching numbers and weighing fruit....and then came out with the fascinating fact that bananas are a herb. !. Imagine that. Plus, there's been this gossip knocking around other dinner tables that marrow is just an overgrown zucchini which I just can't accept. And don't even get me started on what I've been hearing about pineapples...

THE PUD: Hot chocolate souffles. Frieda got fully involved and it was great having such a proactive sous chef. There's always such a hullabaloo about souffles - this preciousness and reverence - which I think doesn't help. It puts pressure on the pud to perform and inevitably it falls short. These ones did anyway. Next time I'm taking them out of the oven two mins earlier. However, you could have heard a pin drop whilst everyone was digging in...real, serious, almost eerie quiet.


MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Chez Peppercorns with two hot waterbottles!!

Bird man

I was dawdling a bit as I wended my way to Earnley when this guy behind me starts hootin' and hollerin' for me to stop. I thought the gennie might be on fire so I pulled over and me and this guy shout at each other for a bit about where I'm going and what I'm doing.

"Are you gonna be on the telly?" he asked.
"Dunno" I said.
"Oi've bin troiyin' t'get on telly fer 20 years" he lamented.
"What for?"
"Oik'n do 40 different bird cries".
"OMG - let's hear a few".

And off he went - Mallard Green of Hunston, West Sussex.

Supper # 5 - Hayward's Heath

The last time I was in Hayward's Heath I seem to remember some kind of 4am dash out of a friend's window. We didn't have any clothes on and it seemed like a wildly inappropriate way to behave in the dull yellow light of a hushed cul-de-sac. This is how the town appears to me - suburbia carved into woodlands; the thickets blunted by an urban influx; sound-proofed and paired-down so that order is made and peace maintained. I imagine that down the paved cut-throughs there are hundreds of mini-rebellions taking place - commuter kids digging for some chaos.

THE SET UP: The Blockers came here from California twenty years ago. Their kids have disbanded to Santa Monica, Cornwall, UEA but their house still feels like a big, full family home. I arrive (late again) and am surrounded by loud, eager guests wanting to know what the hell this trip is all about; where the van is; where I've come from; what I'm making for pudding. I try and answer everyone as best as I can then make a beeline for the range and get prepping.
David brings me a great big glass of white plonk, Judith pulls great platters of sticky ribs out of the oven and we all buzz noisily into the dining room for a big old feed-up.

WHO CAME: David, Judith, their sort-of neice Zhinnia (working on a property programme in Brighton), J's uncle and aunt over from France, an American friend and her son, another couple and me.
WHAT WE ATE: Enormous, Coca-Cola sticky pork ribs, purple 'slaw, green salads, potato and bacon salad. Anyone would have thought I hadn't eaten for days by the way I attacked those suckers. Sylvia, the American friend asked whether we were going to eat them British or US style but most people seemed to have them gathered up in their mitts already and were slathering all over them. So so tasty. You really can't beat the pure physical pleasure of this kind of dinner - it makes you feel alive!


DINNER TABLE TOPICS: David's (silver) surfing with his medic son, Oliver, down in St Ives - he split his chin on a rock and, after a quick pint, went down to the hospital where Oliver comandiered A&E and stitched it up for him; the French health system that has helped both the uncle and the aunt fight cancer; Sylvia's amazement at the possibility of seeing a black president in her lifetime - her African-American father never thought he'd see a black quarterback in his, let alone a President Obama; how ignorant British people make themselves look when writing off the whole of the States as Dubya-lovin' raghead baters; progressive local government environment policies; my time at the University of Missouri; Brixton and the future of Angel Town.

THE PUD: I decided to do Brownie Fudge Sundaes in their honour. I slowly warmed a slab of it in the oven, pulled it out, sliced that old rascal up into ten, crowned each one with a scoop of vanilla ice cream then drenched them with hot chocolate fudge sauce and gave a jug of sauce for
top-ups. It all got poured and the Americans approved so I was happy.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: The youngest Blocker's room - full of CDs and Vans boxes, hooded tops and F. Scott Fitzgerald. My sleep was heavy like my supper.

Downtown Hastings

I left C&C and drove all the way down the long sweeping hill to the seafront - with things flying everywhere in the back - and made it onto the pedestrianised road by Debenhams. It felt a bit illicit but I'm sort of used to going against the grain, traffic-wise in the van.

Rob Woods at the licensing dept. in Hastings had been very buoyant about our arrival. Some people were a bit aghast that I hadn't been allowed to trade on the seafront or in the Old Town but you get a much better feel for a place by being in the main civic centre. Apparently the town is on the up since being named a few years ago as the '27th most deprived' place in the country.

Like most towns in the South, Hastings seems like a mix of 'types'. I served milkshakes and ice cream to yummy, London-fleeing mummies ("it's soooo much better down here by the sea"); teen-age mums with painful looking hairstyles ("ohmygod, ohmygod Shaneice - try that. It's aMAZing"); not very busy estate agents; lottery winning gran'mas and LOTS of Willie fans.

Dios mio, the power of TV! It's so rivetting how mobilised people's minds are over the Wonky series.. The main subjects of interest are: whether Willie is really that mad; the poor wife; the hot wife; are they really poor/how can they be when they live in such a big house; how brilliant that someone is following his passion despite everything else and of course, chocolate. I was sold out of truffles in no time and relieved to discover that a new shipment of Venezuelan Black had arrived at my next destination. Not much cop for all those disappointed Willie fans in Hastings though but good news for Hampshire, Berks, Bucks......

My favourite people of the day were the family who drove down especially to see me and Jimmy. They'd contacted me a while before as they're about to start their own mobile food biz - an organic waffle van. They've bought an old orange Ford and are getting it all together and had a million questions about this world of mobile trading. My heart leapt for them - it's such an exciting time but so scary too. They even invited me for supper that night. So did another lady. But my most tempting offer of all was from this trampy looking guy from Brighouse in Yorkshire - "Aye - ya can com op to mine f'ra bacon buttie an a cuppa tea, but that's aboot all". I shed a little inward tear as I declined and instead got on the road to Hayward's Heath.