Part 1 of Poncy Baking and You : The Garlic and Rosemary loaf.

Atlantic Drift.

Why is that that even if I know a deadline is looming I‘ll just ignore it until it’s snuck up on me, jumped on my back and started beating me around the head with its shoe whilst screaming down my ear?

I don’t even work better under pressure, I WORK under pressure sure, but that only because the alternative is giving up on the ridiculous dream of ever being a writer and burying myself in spilt cheesy Doritos crumbs whilst I vegetate on the couch watching yet another tedious US drama* purely from having nothing else to do.

I just need to organise my free time a bit better and spend more time writing reading and playing the flute and less time on the XBOX/internet/yawning through detritus brought over on the Atlantic drift.


(Please note The Wire, Mad Men, Justified, HIMYM and Burn Notice, amongst others, do not constitute tedious US drama being imaginative, superbly written and filmed with the kind of care and attention usually only given to new born babies. Basically if it involved some form of contrived elite crime fighting team, hired for their looks rather than acting ability, whose cases rarely last longer than an hour minus time for advert breaks it’s not going to be worthwhile watching. You may enjoy it, you may even like it but it won’t be good for you in the long run. It’s Junk Food TV.)

Lightsaber chopsticks baby!

I can't belive my little sister is THIRTY!

Had a stunning weekend down south with Jane and Wez. We drove straight
from Wrexham on the Thursday pausing only to buy a ridiculously priced
burger from a chain I'd never heard of but seemed to be copying the
Burger King style to the point that I'm sure lawyers should be
involved. Sorry to go a bit 'Daily mail' but why do we put up with this
indigestible overpriced crap at our motorway service stations? When you
have to be trapped in a car with my digestive system for the next
number of hours it's hardly fun.

Anyways we arrived at Bluewater shopping centre a mere four hours after
setting off. The complex itself is set into a crater in the Kent clay
and looks for all the world like an alien spacecraft settled into a
hole its bored in the earth, allowing, rather graciously for alien
overlords, ample parking. I celebrated the conclusion of our journey by
not crashing into the car that veered right in front of us. Perhaps he
was blinded by the dazzling lights crisscrossing the surface spelling
out weird alien names like John Lewis and TGI Friday.

We met everyone in the restaurant for Wez's birthday obviously too late
for the meal but in time enough to feel a part of the celebration.
After catching up we headed back into Gravesend.

Friday was a day of blissful nothing. We walked to the shop for beer
and then spent the day reading and watching dvds/tv. After the
hecticness of the last couple of weeks it was, frankly, awesome.

Saturday we drove to Wez's parents got our glad rags on and headed to
the 02. We had decided to posh it up and were wearing suits and evening
dresses and I have to say catching a bus through some of the less
touristy areas of London was intriguing to say the least. Every major
city has areas where the poverty is obvious but for me seeing that area
in New York or Paris is almost a shield from the reality of it. It's
foreign so it doesn't really count. But when you can see it in your own
country it sort of brings it home.

Now if you're of a certain age you'll remember the White elephant that
the Millennium Dome was on its construction and first few years of
being. Now, however, it seems to be the most popular evening location
for dining out at least by the hordes of people queuing for the chain
restaurants and bars. Ours however was a different sort of night being
Jane's 30th.

We were lead by the door manager out of the bustling crowds and into a
sparsely populated dimly lit lounge with dark wallpaper, massive
chandeliers and tastefully discrete jazz. It was how you'd imagine the
most exclusive of bordellos to be. The cocktails were varied and
delicious, although pretty expensive and uber-strong.

After we'd all assembled and I'd switched from pricey delicious
cocktails to pricey delicious beers, the twenty two of us headed
upstairs in a cow skin covered lift to our private dining room. The
food when it arrived was delicious including one of the best steaks
I've ever had in the UK. But the food however good, played second
fiddle to the bonhomie and atmosphere from the wide assortment of
friends and family that filled the room.

It was lovely to see all these people come to send Jane's thirtieth off
with a bang and it reminds me of how well she's settled down there. She
has friends and family that love and adore her and I couldn't wish for
anything more for my sister.

On a selfish note its always great to see the boys from Wez's stag do,
we all bonded on that day/night and its just great to catch up with
good friends.

One final point about the meal. It was without a doubt one of the
nicest three courses I've ever had but its the first time I've been at
a table and been presented with a bill that runs into four figures.
Quite a culture shock I have to say.

However when we presented ourself at the bus to go home the driver
asked if we'd been to a wedding and we explained it was Janes b'day.
Contary to everything you may have heard about grumpy bus drivers or
London transport in general he smiled widely and waved us onto the bus
for no fee! Awesome!

Sunday we all felt remarkably fine which was fortuitous as the Horan-
Healy clan were gathering for one of Paula and Joan's legendary
barbeques. Sadly no one had thought to mention this to the weather
which then felt duty bound to bucket with rain for the next few hours.
Paula and Joan, of course, had a backup plan which involved some
serious catering-standard George Foreman grills and the food was served
deliciously and on time.

All in all I think we counted over forty people there to wish Wez and
Jane happy birthday and I've met the family enough times now that I
feel comfortable with everyone. I'll freely admit its a little
unnerving at first but that's only my own apprehension nothing to do
with how warmly myself and the rest of the Welsh lot are greeted. The
beer helps of course.

Monday we rose late and recovered through careful application of bacon
butties and coffee and all too soon we were waving goodbye to everyone
and heading back north.

Roll on our next southerly visit for the August costume BBQ!

Cornwall 2011 day 3

I was woken at just gone midnight by a nightclub a few building across for ours and the thumping dush-dush noise kept me awake until one when it subsided into the random drunken shouts of revelers finding their way home. I think last time when I got so irate at the cricketers arms it was because I knew that when I went home I'd have the exact same thing to content with and this was after all meant to be a holiday. So once I'd dropped off I slept until the seagulls decided to start their own party with the dawn. Bloody things are just vermin plain and simple of and gave my sister in law whiplash (Long story).

Once I decided to rise I found it was another gorgeous morning, which is becoming a habit for Cornwall but one I remain very happy with. We had an excellent breakfast whilst the couple on the table behind had an intense but very quiet domestic about his mother. (Side note: is it still called a domestic if you have it in a hotel?) The argument reminded me of a theory I've heard many many times. It goes something along the lines of 'It doesn't matter where you go on holiday Llandudno or Borneo you will still be there. You're not a different person when you go on holiday you'll still be the same grumpy/happy personal you always are, you'll just be on holiday."

Anyway we packed up and headed out through what I thought were the narrowest roads you could find on mainland Britain... I was soon to learn my elementary mistake as we headed for the most southwesterly point of the UK.

In every way that the Eden Project succeeds in being educational without being money grabbing, Lands End fails. It is by some margin one of the most over commercialised tourist traps I've ever encountered.

The Good:
A short list but the views are spectacular,the cliffs poised as if they were divers frozen in time before plunging into the oceans. There is a artist's galley that has some stunning works in it and the pasty I had was rather tasty.

The Bad:
Overcrowded with the kind of people who wear t-shirts saying "The drinks are on me as I'll be on you later." screaming kids being dragged to see something they don't understand by parents who feel they should be going to these kind of educational places but not knowing why. The Landsend brand is available on everything from sweatshirts to jewellery to fudge but not one piece of tat shows the real beauty of the place.

The Ugly:
Those bloody seagulls followed us from Fowey I swear!! I'm sure I saw one with a tattoo saying 'Big Steve'.


Luckily Landsend-land is on the south coast path (yes that again) so we walked a fair ways along it away from the unwashed masses and it felt like a holiday again.

It was Ems turn to drive so we pointed the prow towards Zennor and found that in the same way that major arteries lead to blood vessels lead to capillaries the further south you go the smaller the lanes become until you reach the tip of the country and you can barely squeeze one car through!

Luckily it was only a few miles to the next resting spot The Guarnards Head named for the spit of land that juts out in the ocean. its a beautiful spot, really quiet and serene. Quite pricey but this was after all a holiday.

We took a wander down to the coast past near inaccessible houses to the end of the world or so it seemed the sunlight streamed down casting glittering reflections on a royal blue sea. This was the Cornwall we had come for. it felt like we were the only people for miles around in the baking afternoon of an endless summers day. We meandered back to the pub which featured four excellent ales including the by now ubiquitous tribute and had a rather masterchef style meal of delicious PLATES OF FOOD which were nevertheless a touch small.

The room was also on the small side but very comfy and with a sea view to die for. even the cupboard converted to an en suite couldn't ruin it, especially as there were books in every nook and cranny of this superbly literary pub.

We settled in for a night of reading and alcohol with a song in our hearts. Its the only pub we've stayed in so far that doesn't seem to have a telly anywhere. WOOT!

The day again dawned bright and clear. I wandered out with a coffee to the pubs beer garden to write for a bit with the blue sheen of the Atlantic in the middle distance. Quite an inspiring view I have to say. When we went in to see about breakfast we discovered we were the only residents that night which says something for the popularity of the pub seeing how the bar was chock full of people last night. Em noticed a symbol etched into the stone entryway floor. It was a circle with a cross through it which apparently is the symbol showing that pilgrims were more than welcome here.

If Kent is the garden of England (which it well can lay claim to be) then Cornwall has to be its nursery. I lost count of the number of signs I saw for Gardens, nursery's even herberys on our road. Everywhere is lunch and green and it give great pleasure to the eye to see all this lovely countryside.

Well, not all of it is quite so lovely.

We loaded up the car and headed south along windy twisty roads until we passed through an unpleasant little village called Bugle. The architecture has nothing to recommend it and the gardens were less than lovely but if I'm honest it was probably the millions of tonnes of spoil from the china clay mines pilled up in man-made muddy mountains that really spoilt the view. The industry has wrecked the countryside here but kept people in jobs by gouging out great craters of the countryside. In one such crater someone had the brilliant idea of creating a garden the like of which had never been seen before. The Eden project is a series of enormous geodesic domes which, along with the surrounding external gardens one of the widest collection of plants in the world all whilst being super-eco conscious. Its like looking into the future where the ecologists have risen up and burnt Jeremy Clarkson at the stake. Well, they'd probably mulch him down to compost over the alliums on the nursery slopes but you get the general idea.

Em being a keen amature botanist was in what I can only describe as a state of constant over-enthusiasm, bouncing from one plant to the next with such unmeasured glee it was simply a joy to be with her. Now I like plants. I like them lightly steamed, deep fried or otherwise. But Em's obvious excitement was nothing if not infectious. You walk around the sides of this deep bowl through meadowfield plants and industrial style crops to the bottom where you can go into one of their temperature controlled domes housing tropical or Mediterranean plants. Their focus on ecology is everywhere and their hope and optimism for a more ecologically conscious future is inspiring.

After five hours on our feet we were ready for a sit down and a cuppa/pinta something so we headed to our stopping point for the night Fowey (pronouced FOY). The car parks are clearly indicated on the edges of the town and once you head inland you find out why. The narrow turning streets are barely wide enough for three people to pass abreast, god help any cars that are foolish enough to trundle through these back streets. In fact you can tell the locals who drive as they effortlessly whip through the tortuous alleys whilst Toroids creep forward at a pace a snail would scoff at. Also the locals have more scratches on their cars.

We wandered the pleasant streets for a while seeing the boats sail through the harbour with enough breeze just to use sails. Watching a small boat catch a breeze and zip forward through the waves is a thrilling sight even to a complete land lubber like myself. We stopped at our pub located on the waterfront, where I believe we were promised a sea view. Well, if you crane your neck out of the window , avoid the roosting seagulls you can make out the barest sliver of deep blue so I suppose technically they're correct.

We headed out onto the pubs verenda which hangs over the bay and watched the comings and goings of this small town. The table behind us was occupied with the worst sort of English upper class twat stereotype. Making fun of the people their were moored next to who happened to be french so would 'stink of garlic' but would be 'bound to have a decent bit of plonk'.

You hear twaddle like that and you just feel sorry for everyone. from the person the lazy stereotyping is aimed at to the stereotype who clearly hasn't pulled his head out of his own arse long enough to experience the wonder and riches that other cultures can offer. How ever sorry I may feel for him he's still a twat though.

Finding the company a little off putting we headed along the bay and wound up in a tiny bar/bistro with a bunch of bohemian eccentrics drinking Budvar and eating tapas from fifties formic tables whilst listening to David Bowie and John Coltrane. And I'm ashamed to say I thought 'This is exactly the experience that the little englander is making himself miss out on.' Czech beer, Spanish food and American music in the Cornish sea air. Now that's a truly pan cultural experience!

Cornwall 2011 day 1

day 1


The day dawned sunny and clear which I am sure was a mistake as Em and I were embarking on Bimble 2 Son of bimble! We loaded the car up, said goodbye to the cat and started to drive due south. Once we'd apologised to the neighbours for ploughing up their flower bed with the car we decided to use the roads instead. We scudded through the sunny Welsh countryside with the temperature creeping up as the mileometer ticked over. Soon we were crossing the border into Eng-ger-land, that dark and fabled place full of mythical beasts and other pop factor idol rejects.

We turned south and met with my Uncle peter for lunch in his place in Bristol. Full of homemade bread and delicious pork pies we headed back out just in time for the weather to turn dark and wet but against all prior experience and the laws of God and man it stayed at what I can only describe as oven-interior levels.

We headed through Devon and then onto Cornwall where our first nights stay was located which is a 13th century inn that had previously been a chapel and many other things. I could be wrong but I think they might have decorated it since then. The upstairs bedrooms are light and airy and feel a couple of years old at most. However the downstairs two rooms are slate floored with nooks and alcoves for drinkers a distinct lack of jukeboxes and alcopops. Beer snob heaven in fact.

We took a walk out to the coastal path that loops around Cornwall and heads down along most of the south coast. I'm thinking about trying to walk the whole distance someday but I think that might be a daydream like walking up Everest or watersking behind two tame killer whales. i.e. fun to think about but the logistics would be a nightmare.

The road past the pub heads to a vicarage and teamrooms and stops dead. That's it. There's no through road, it ends appropriately enough just before the rolling countryside plunges about two hundred foot directly into the sea. The cliffs and sand are satanic,... sorry volcanic, black but apparently only few miles further towards the tip they turn a lovely golden yellow and are therefore more popular.

I found them very striking and incredibly visually arresting. I obviously wasn't the only one as this was where Hawkers hut was located. It's the smallest property in national trust hands and is essential a series of small steps down what would be a nigh-on sheer cliff. when you've dropped a handful of feet the steps level out into a small area and there's a small hut made of a driftwood that you can sit in in all weather and gaze out to see. The original priestly resident of the vicarage I mentioned was a poet and a friend of Coleridges and every day after attending to his vicarly duties he'd walk from the church to the edge of the cliff and sit in the hut he'd made and write poetry. Oh and smoke opium. I'm pretty sure the smoking of opium was important in the whole writing poetry side of things.

By now the pangs of hunger for Em and the my thirst demon had kicked in so we wandered over the gorgeous meadows and little country lane back to our pub. The guidebook states that with no jukebox conversation is the main form of entertainment in the pub and damn were they right! We chatted to one guy about his dog and how the cafe on top of Snowdon had been tastefully changed from the portocabin he remembered another guy at the bar chimed in about how Bugle is the armpit of Cornwall and should be avoided at all cost, and then we chatted for a couple of hours to a mother from Sheffield who was on holiday with her university student daughter about all the stuff they've seen while they've been down here.

A simple meal of bread and olives, fish/scampi and chips and cheese platter/brownie followed washed down with a few pints of excellent St Austell Ale, their 'Tribute' being my personal favourite. after a few more hours and random conversations we descended into the arms of Morpheus to see what spectacular sights he would bid us hold. (I think there might have been some residual opium left in that hut!