Anhui Province, in eastern China, often sits in the shadow of its more famous culinary neighbours such as Jiangsu and Zhejiang. However, its cuisine, known as Hui cuisine (徽菜), offers a distinctive flavour profile that is said to reflect the rugged landscapes, abundant rivers, and rich history of the region. Anhui’s culinary traditions are deeply connected to its geography, drawing on local ingredients and time-honoured techniques that emphasise simplicity, freshness, and the skilful use of natural flavours. The trouble is, if you are on a press trip to the province with a great many other people, you are probably only going to eat buffet-style breakfasts, lunches and dinners - which, alas, is what we did for a week recently. You do get some of the regional specialities featured in those buffets, but mass cooking is never going to be as good as the stuff that’s made specially for just a handful of diners. If you are enjoying this article you might also like Madeira Food Geography and Ingredients: A Mountain’s Bounty It goes without saying that Anhui’s diverse terrain, ranging from the majestic Huangshan Mountains to the fertile plains of the Yangtze River, plays a significant role in its food culture. The province is known for its use of wild herbs, bamboo shoots, mushrooms, and fresh river fish, all of which are harvested from the surrounding hills, forests, and waterways. This connection to the land and water sets the stage for Anhui’s unique approach to cooking, where local ingredients are celebrated for their natural tastes. One of the most characteristic ingredients of Anhui cuisine is the use of foraged mountain herbs. Ingredients like dried lily bulbs, Chinese yam, and fern root powder are staples in local dishes. The province is also famous for its stone frog and turtle, which find their way into various stews and soups, showcasing a cuisine that often leans on the wild rather than the domesticated. Cooking Techniques: Slow and Steady Anhui cuisine is notable for its slow-cooking techniques, which aim to extract the essence of the ingredients. Stewing, braising, and steaming are frequently used methods, resulting in dishes that are rich in umami and deeply comforting. The emphasis is on enhancing the natural flavours without overpowering them, allowing each component of the dish to shine. A hallmark of Anhui cooking is its use of high-temperature oil to stir-fry ingredients briefly before simmering them in broth. This process locks in flavours and keeps the integrity of the ingredients intact, creating a blend of textures and tastes. Anhui’s chefs also make use of “wok cooking” to achieve the right balance of char and tenderness, an approach that distinguishes the cuisine from its neighbouring styles. Anhui’s Signature Dishes: A Taste of Tradition Li Hongzhang Hotchpotch (李鸿章杂烩) : Named after a famous Anhui statesman, this dish is a complex stew featuring a mix of chicken, sea cucumber, ham, bamboo shoots, and dried bean curd. The ingredients are braised together to create a rich, savoury broth that’s both hearty and subtly flavoured. It’s a dish that reflects Anhui’s tradition of combining local produce with diverse ingredients for a deeply satisfying meal. Stinky Mandarin Fish (臭鳜鱼) : Perhaps the most talked-about dish of Anhui, the stinky mandarin fish is not for the faint of heart. The fish is fermented before being steamed, giving it a distinctive aroma that can be off-putting to some but beloved by others. The fermentation process imbues the fish with a rich, umami depth, balanced by a mild sweetness in the sauce. It’s a dish that epitomises Anhui’s adventurous spirit and willingness to embrace bold flavours. Bamboo Shoots with Ham (火腿竹笋) : A simple yet classic dish, bamboo shoots with ham captures the essence of Anhui cuisine: fresh ingredients prepared in a straightforward manner that highlights their natural taste. The tender shoots absorb the smoky, salty notes of the ham, resulting in a dish that’s both earthy and elegant. Wuchang Chicken (无为熏鸡) : This smoked chicken dish is known for its delicate flavour and tender texture. The chicken is marinated, smoked with camphor and tea leaves, and then steamed to perfection. It’s a recipe that showcases Anhui’s preference for preserving the natural qualities of the ingredients while adding a subtle layer of complexity. Herbal Medicine and Culinary Crossovers Anhui cuisine is also closely linked to traditional Chinese medicine, with many dishes incorporating medicinal herbs. It’s not uncommon to find dishes infused with ingredients like wolfberry, ginseng, or angelica root, believed to provide health benefits ranging from improved digestion to enhanced vitality. This medicinal approach to cooking is a distinctive element of Anhui’s food culture, blurring the line between the culinary and the therapeutic. The use of herbs and traditional medicine in cooking isn’t just about health; it’s also about achieving a balance of flavours. Bitter, sweet, salty, and sour elements are carefully calibrated to create a harmonious dish that satisfies the palate while also nurturing the body. Anhui Cuisine on the Cusp of Discovery While Anhui cuisine may not enjoy the widespread recognition of other Chinese regional cuisines, its distinct flavours, rich heritage, and focus on local ingredients make it a culinary tradition worth exploring. From the extensive bamboo forests to the bustling markets of Hefei, the food of Anhui offers a window into the province’s soul: a place where the mountains, rivers, and forests converge on the plate in a celebration of natural simplicity and quiet sophistication. For those seeking a deeper understanding of China’s culinary diversity, Anhui’s food provides a compelling narrative that goes beyond the familiar, inviting diners to explore the flavours of a region deeply connected to its roots.

I am in the process of writing a plethora of articles about a recent trip to Anhui Province in China - but some reason I can’t quite put my finger on I decided to knock out a quick piece about Chinese motorway service stations and the truly weird and perhaps not so wonderful food that you can find to help fuel you on your way. Curiously, at none of the service stations we stopped at was anyone - not a single soul - eating in the restaurants. They were open. They were big and bright. They had smiling staff waiting to welcome anyone through the door. Maybe it was the wrong time of day. I don’t know. But they were empty. Unlike the snack shops which were all busy. But… What truly strange stuff was on the shelves - as you will see in my photographs. Cheese latte anyone? No thanks. The average Chinese service station represents no ordinary pit stop - these places open up a whole new world of snacks and culinary curiosities. 1. Instant Noodles: The Snack King of the Road Forget boring old sandwiches. In China, instant noodles reign supreme as the snack of choice for travellers. You’ll find entire aisles dedicated to every imaginable flavour, from spicy beef and pickled vegetable to seafood and mushroom. Some even come with extra packets of dried meat, veggies, or chilli oil for a little DIY customisation. Most service stations have hot water dispensers, so you can whip up a steaming bowl of comfort food in minutes. Fast, filling, and oddly satisfying when eaten in a car park surrounded by fellow noodle slurpers. 2. Tea Eggs: The Hard-Boiled Hero Tea eggs are a quintessential Chinese snack that you’ll find simmering away in a soy sauce bath at almost any service station. These eggs are boiled, cracked, and then steeped in a fragrant mixture of tea, soy sauce, and spices like star anise and cinnamon. The result? A marbled egg that’s savory, slightly sweet, and packed with umami goodness. The perfect pick-me-up when you’re tired and in need of something warm and portable. 3. Chicken Foot or Duck Neck: The Chewy Challenge Chicken feet and duck necks are a popular snack on the go. These chewy, spicy treats are marinated in a blend of Sichuan spices and often sold vacuum-packed, making them easy to snack on (if you don’t mind some mess). They’re not for the faint of heart (or the squeamish), but if you’re up for a culinary adventure, these spicy, chewy bites are worth a try. Just remember to have some wet wipes handy—you’ll need them. 4. Dried Tofu Strips: A Savory Snack with Substance If you’re looking for something protein-packed, dried tofu strips are your best bet. Flavoured with soy sauce, chilli, or five-spice, these chewy strips are a satisfying alternative to jerky. They’re high in protein, low in fat, and perfect for munching on the road without the greasy fingers that come with a bag of chips. Plus, you can almost convince yourself they’re healthy. Almost. 5. Fruit, But Make It Dried Dried fruit is a staple at Chinese service stations, but it’s not just the usual suspects like raisins or apricots. Instead, you’ll find everything from dried hawthorn slices (sweet and tart) to preserved plums (salty, sour, and an acquired taste). One of the more intriguing options is dried jujube, a small red fruit that tastes like a cross between a date and an apple. It’s a sweet snack that provides a nice contrast to all the savoury, spicy options. Dried, but still vacuum wrapped in plastic. The Chinese are obsessed when it comes to sealing all edible products in a tomb of plastic. 6. Buns and Dumplings: Steamed Perfection No Chinese pit stop would be complete without some form of steamed bun or dumpling. You’ll often find racks of warm, pillowy buns filled with pork, vegetables, or sweet red bean paste. There might also be dumplings or jiaozi, ready to be gobbled up with a dash of vinegar and chilli. These snacks are warm, comforting, and just the right size for a quick bite before hitting the road again. 7. Mystery Meat Skewers: Choose Your Own Adventure If you’re feeling brave, head to the skewer counter, where various meats are grilled, skewered, and doused in spices. From chicken hearts to beef tendons, you’ll find an array of skewers to satisfy your carnivorous cravings. Some are mild and savoury, while others are coated in a fiery blend of Sichuan peppercorns and chilli flakes. It’s the perfect snack for anyone who likes their food with a side of adrenaline. 8. Exotic Chips and Crisps: Flavours You Didn’t Know You Needed Think chips are all about salt and vinegar? Think again. In China, you can find crisps in flavors like cucumber, hot pot, grilled squid, and even Peking duck. It’s a chance to explore new flavor frontiers while sitting in your car, marvelling at how something so odd can be so addictively tasty. These crisps are crunchy, flavourful, and guaranteed to make your road trip a little more interesting. 9. Bubble Tea: Because Why Not? You might stumble upon a service station with its own bubble tea stand. The sweet, milky drink filled with chewy tapioca pearls is a beloved beverage all over China, and it’s perfect for a caffeine hit on the go. There are countless flavours to choose from, so whether you’re in the mood for classic black milk tea or something more adventurous like matcha or taro, there’s something for every boba enthusiast. Yuck! I hate this stuff! 10. Mystery Beverages: Good Luck, Have Fun Chinese service stations are packed with an array of drinks that range from the familiar to the bizarre. You might see brightly coloured bottles of herbal tea, functional drinks promising energy or beauty benefits, and cans of jelly drinks with chunks of aloe or coconut. Then there’s the infamous White Rabbit milk drink, based on the flavour of a nostalgic Chinese candy, which is creamy, sweet, and oddly reminiscent of childhood (for those who grew up with it). It’s always a gamble, but that’s half the fun. Final Thoughts: A Tasty Adventure Awaits Chinese motorway service stations are interesting, to say the least. Some might say they’re a snack lover’s paradise, offering everything from comforting classics to daring new flavours. I’d say that visiting one and relying on its food offer is something akin to visiting another planet. Ovaltine Cake anyone? No, no and no. Not for me anyway. Brings back too many memories of a hot sweet drink we used to endure as kids.

Not a sniff all summer… Strange, because in recent years there have been plenty of delicious edible fungi popping up in the South West thanks, perhaps, to the warm wet weather we get nowadays. At the time of writing, though, 2024 hasn’t been up to much.  In our normally fungi-filled neck of the woods, I have only managed to collect a handful of chanterelles and a small basket of field mushrooms. A don’t know about mushrooms being magic - moody mushrooms would be more accurate. As far as I can make out, not even science can explain why some years are good and some bad. If you enjoy this article you night also like to see Truffles in the English Countryside “But autumn has only just begun!” I hear you protest. For years I’ve found myself wondering why people insist that autumn is the only time for edible fungi. In our Exmoor valley, I have regularly picked hauls of field mushrooms as early as June - and the most fruitful time for the delicious chanterelle seems to be August and early September. Perhaps because we tend to get very wet weather here on Exmoor, a lot of edible fungi will have disappeared or turned into a horrible mush by the time autumn proper comes along.  However, a basket full of tasty field mushrooms did come my way just this week. And didn’t they taste good! You forget just how amazing wild mushrooms can be when you’re used to buying the commercial version in the supermarket. Not that I knock the shop-bought. I like the soft rounded flavour of both the white buttons and the chestnut mushrooms. But they do not compare to the flavour-bombs which you can find out in the fields.  When it comes to the common field mushroom (agaricus campestris), I am fortunate to live where I do. That’s because several of the local farms have gone organic in recent years and, out in the low-intensity grazing fields, you find far more in the way of a natural mushroom crop than we used to get when chemicals were used. There are places where we wouldn’t have seen a single wild mushroom compared to recent summers when there have been hundreds. Which, to a layman, seems to suggest there’s something good going on when the land is treated carefully and organically. When I was a boy, just before school term began after the summer holidays you’d often see Westcountry folk returning from fields around the village laden with trug-fulls of field mushrooms. Then the crop almost vanished altogether - and now, one hopes (and thanks to less intensive agricultural practices) they’re back again. I’ve always thought it odd, though, that we Brits traditionally avoided all edible fungi save for the common field mushroom. Of course, we are right to be apprehensive about the strange life-forms that pop up overnight. Some of the most deadly mushrooms in the world grow in abundance here. It’s not unusual in our valley to come across an entire grove of Death Caps, just a tiny morsel of which would be enough to kill you. Nevertheless, I’d love to know why it was that right across mainland Europe people would fight tooth and nail to get their hands on a chanterelle or a cep, while here generations of countryfolk would avoid such delights like the plague. Which is curious because both those mushrooms are easy to identify, while you can make an easy mistake with the common field mushroom.  There is a commonly found version called the Yellow Stainer (agaricus xanthodermus) and it will make you sick. According the great mushroom writer Roger Phillips, "The symptoms are sweating, flushing and severe stomach cramps - but only some people are affected." Beware of field mushrooms that have a yellow tint to them. Break one open and if the torn flesh turns yellow, forget it. Talking of death, the giant puffball (calvatia gigantea) is another delicious fungi that does tend to look like a whitened human skull when you occasionally find one popping up in a grassy field. When I started hunting fungi for culinary purposes 40 years ago they were fairly common, but in recent times these weird spheres that look like alien birth-pods left by a passing UFO, seemed to have vanished from the Earth’s surface.  Which has been a shame because, as I say, they do provide a tasty meal.  The squeaky white flesh doesn’t stay edible for long, it quickly turns to a bag of brown dust that is the promise of billions of puffballs to come. I read somewhere that a giant puffball contains between seven and 12 billion microscopic spores and it has been estimated that the planet would be many feet deep in nothing but puffball if every single spore came to fruition. I mentioned the cep, or penny bun (boletus edulis), an elusive but fabulous fungi that only seems to come to fruition in England for a few days every year, if at all. This solid, slightly sweet and nutty mushroom literally seems to erupt from the earth in a few magical hours. A day or so later, it will have turned to a maggot-ridden mush. With recents rains coming after what’s been quite a lengthy dry period, you might well find edible examples over the next few days.  Look for places where beech or oak trees protect a sunny, grassy spot. If you find a mushroom with a top that looks like a baker's bun, and a white stalk that fattens as it reaches the ground, then you may well have found the best lump of fungi you'll ever throw into a pan.  But… Check and double-check in books like Roger Philips' "Classic Mushrooms and other Fungi of Britain and Europe" before eating. The good thing about the cep, though is that all members of the boletus family have easy to recognise fruit bearing pores which form a foam rubber-type underbelly. When the cep is young and fresh its pores are an off-white - the one boletus you should not eat have red “foam rubber”. Yet others do weird things like turn blue once you've torn or cut the white flesh. Some of these you can cook for ages in boiling water to annul any toxins, but it’s easier to simply give them a miss altogether. Don’t take my word for it though - go foraging with an expert or at the very least check with a very good book.  Super fresh young ceps can be cut into thin shards to adorn and give a unique flavour to a salad of tossed cos lettuce and rocket leaves, dressed in the best vinaigrette and sprinkled with fresh parmesan. Slightly older ceps can be used in a wild mushroom risotto or in a sauce simply made with a little white wine, French mustard, cream and lots of fresh ground black pepper. Excellent with wild rabbit. Ageing ceps can be rescued if you cut off any sad looking bits along with the foam-type gills which turn a deeper yellow as the mushroom grows older. This tends to be a little acrid and not particularly pleasant to eat. Once you've saved the fleshy bits of stalk and brown-topped cap, slice them and dry on a rack near a fire or over a radiator. These can be stored in airtight jars and used in soups and stews throughout the winter. The apricot-smelling and delicious chanterelle is pretty safe and you shouldn’t come to any harm unless by accident you harvest the false chanterelle, which you really do not want to eat. I remember writing a news story about a Devon author who was receiving kidney dialysis treatment after eating those particular poisonous fungi. There is a difference between the two, and you really need to know what you’re doing before you’d dare put one into your mouth.  When the story about the writer broke, newspaper headlines once again had experts warning foragers not to eat anything they are absolutely 100 per cent certain of. Quite right too.  It can be difficult to distinguish between edible and non-edible fungi, so if you are a beginner it is important to seek expert advice. Along with getting expert guidance, one of the best ways to avoid poisoning yourself is to stick to a small group of fungi you can safely and easily identify. Why not join one of the organised foraging groups that sprout across this region every autumn?  COOKING PUFFBALL  Cooking a puffball is simple. Slice it as you would a loaf of bread and dip the slices in beaten egg, flour (which you season with salt, a lot of black pepper and maybe a dusting of cayenne) and breadcrumbs. Fry for a couple of minutes either side and enjoy one of the earthiest, most savoury foraged morsels you will ever eat.  Or you can be adventurous and invent a recipe. I made a multi-layered sandwich out of slices of puffball, dicing other bits of its flesh which I then fried with chopped dry cured bacon. This mix was then placed between layers of the sandwich, then the whole lot was covered in a cheese sauce before being baked. Half an hour later we had one of the most unique supper dishes I have ever eaten.

There’s nothing quite like stumbling upon a location you’ve never visited before and discovering it to be surprisingly scenic and enjoyable. It is particularly rewarding for West Country folk when we come across some delightful corner of the coast outside our region, because we tend to be pretty much spoilt when it comes to having lovely bays and beaches in our own backyard. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t expecting too much when, for family reasons, we found ourselves heading towards Bournemouth last weekend. Yes, I know the city has a famous beach - a long, sandy and rather wonderful one that can become pretty much overwhelmed on a sunny day in peak season. But crowded beaches don’t do it for me, even if they are extensive and formed of the finest sand.  However, a childhood friend of our son, a young man who has done very well for himself in financial terms, invited us to stay at his rather posh home situated at the far eastern end of Bournemouth beach - and it was this location which allowed us to discover the delights of a place called Hengistbury Head and the wonderful beach-hut community beyond which it so effectively shelters from the ravages of the English Channel.  That oh-we-do-like-to-be-beside-the-seaside location is called the Mudeford sand-spit and, speaking as a Bristol Channel boy, I reckon someone ought to be had up by the Trades Descriptions Act for that moniker. My local beaches master in mud - we have zillions of tonnes of the stuff. Mudeford, on the other hand, boasts naught but golden sand.  Mudeford is actually a coastal community split in two - it’s dual sand-spits are interrupted by the watery mouth of Christchurch Harbour - a large natural lagoon where you will indeed see the odd bit of mud among the many reedbeds and sandbanks which populate the 870 acre SSSI (Site of Special Scientific Interest). Needless to say, the combined estuaries of the rivers Stour and Avon make it a popular place for birdwatchers. And, as I say, the whole watery shooting match is protected from the prevailing gales in the English Channel by Hengistbury Head - which is something of a geological marvel in itself. Its layers of ironstone, clay, and sand are plain to see and they offer a glimpse of literally millions of years of history.  The area is one big nature reserve. Walk along the headland’s well-maintained paths and you’ll come across a diverse range of habitats, from heathland and grassland in the coastal acres to marshes and deep oak woodlands on the more sheltered inland side. The views from Warren Hill at the top of the headland are truly expansive, providing panoramas across Christchurch Harbour to the Isle of Wight as well as west down the length of Bournemouth’s beach all the way to Poole Head and Sandbanks. To quote the nature reserve’s website: “On this small headland you will find places that are windy, sheltered, wet, dry, muddy, sandy, stony, sunny, shady, flat, steep and salty. These diverse habitats create homes for over 500 plant species, 300 types of birds, a superb variety of insects, reptiles and small mammals.” The nature reserve offers more than just scenic walks. At the £1m visitor centre, with its grass roof and walls insulated with straw, you can learn about the area’s archaeological heritage, including its extensive use as a site during the Bronze Age. The first people to leave evidence of their existence came here in a warmer period towards the end of the last Ice Age, around 12,000 years ago. They were following the retreating ice sheet in search of new hunting grounds. Looking south from Warren Hill, those Bronze Age folk would have viewed a wide river valley issuing out onto a vast low plain. Sea levels were much lower - back then, apart from a few rivers it was dry land all the way to France. The place now known as the Isle of Wight would have been an hour’s walk away.  If you have a two-year-old toddler and a baby with you (and we did) the thing to do is stroll down the paved lane which runs a mile or so along the sheltered, inland, part of the headland to the Mudeford sand spit. This will take you through delightful woodlands and through the trees you will catch glimpses of the watery expanses of Christchurch harbour beyond. The sand-spit itself comes as a bit of a surprise crowned, as it is, with two lines of colourfully painted beach huts.  There are 346 huts altogether and I wonder how much these used to sell for when they were first built back in the 1930s? A few quid, I imagine - and I bet they were a working class luxury - the gentry wouldn’t have touched one with a barge-pole, let alone a bowsprit. Today, a quick search on the internet reveals how they fetch the best part of £-half-a-million! I’m looking at one for sale now, at just 16 feet by 13 feet in size, the asking price is £480,000.  Added to that you will have to pay over £4000 annually for the combined license fee and council tax. Yes, you can sleep in it - but only between 1 March and 31 October. In the hot sunshine last Sunday, the sand-spit was packed. And it really did make for a jolly scene. You could describe it as being the visual epitome of the classic British seaside holiday. Large family groups and other happy folk were swimming, sailing, paddle-boarding, wind-surfing, snorkelling, eating and drinking and all the other things people get up to in or on the waves nowadays. It might have been a fluke but just about every occupant of every beach hut seemed to have a glass of something white and bubbly on the go. Along the spit towards the foot-ferry quay (in season, the boat goes to the main village of Mudeford on the other side of the harbour mouth) there’s an excellent cafe where you can purchase all manner of snacks and meals.   And I liked the place very much indeed. I warmed to the whole we-do-love-to-be-beside-the-seaside buzz. But I couldn’t afford one of those beach huts if I was to start saving now and continued until the next time the English Channel dries out.

The West Country plum season is in full swing, although many trees (mine included) aren’t up to much this year.  Plums grow well in certain  parts of the region but, alas, many local varieties have disappeared. Which is a real shame because we hear more and more complaints about the blandness of the fruits on offer in supermarkets – products which often have travelled halfway around the planet to get here.  How things have changed since the people of Truro used to turn out en-masse in plum season to walk miles down the banks of the Fal estuary to the hamlet of Old Kea and beyond into the parish of Feock, where secret places like Cowland Creek would be scented with the heavy sweet smell of fruit. Having done deals with local smallholders, they’d have laboured back with pales full of raw fruit ingredient.  Barry Champion, who for many years was head gardener at the National Trust’s Trelissick Estate in Cornwall, once told me: “I’ve lived around the Fal estuary all my life and when I was a youngster my parents would walk from Truro to Kea and Coombe and buy plums in season. “It was a real treat for all us children,” said Barry. “We’ve got a unique landscape here – a unique set of conditions. The old smallholders knew that. They’d rent a cottage with three or four acres and they all had Kea plums - and local apples - and that was a source of income. “Originally they’d have gone up by boat to Truro to sell their wares – but more latterly people went to the farm-gate. At one point they even set up a small canning factory – it was years ago, but as these plums tend to only crop every other year, they had to abandon it.” I like making a plumy chutney. De-stone, then salt a couple of pounds of plums. After a few hours in a colander, they’ll have cast off a great deal of their wateriness and have much firmer in texture. Wash off the salt and dry the plums in a fan oven for 20 minutes. Then add them to a cup of boiling vinegar in which you’ve placed half a dozen dried chillies, some black peppercorns and half a dozen cloves. Add two sliced onions and three crushed cloves of garlic and allow the mix to reduce for 20 minutes. The trick is to then introduce a cup of your own homemade plum jam (simply plums, Demerara sugar and a splash of dark rum) and cook the whole lot for a few minutes more before dispensing into prepared jars. This plum chutney will be an ideal companion to winter meat dishes, especially oriental ones like duck that has been roasted with Chinese spices.

Sometimes you have to make your own luck in life. I wasn’t to know it at the time, but 25 years ago I made what seemed to be a fairly inconsequential decision while hiking high on the moors, and it changed my entire career.  I was at a crossroads - flogging a bit of a dead horse running a media-based business - and on my wife’s birthday I was so broke I couldn’t afford to do anything special, so offered to take her on a nice scenic Exmoor walk. Walking in beautiful places is one of the few really pleasurable things that’s completely free of charge, and luckily my wife enjoys them as much as me.  While we were crossing the hills to Countisbury, above Lynmouth, she said: “Why don’t you write about walks? More and more people love country walking - and, as you’ve been a feature writer for a national newspaper, you could surely find someone who’d publish a weekly article. They could call it Hesp’s Hikes.” That is exactly what happened. I wrote up that particular walk - from Rockford, in the East Lyn valley, up to Countisbury and back down across the moors - and along, with half-a-dozen others, I took them to the Western Morning News suggesting they might like to publish the whole lot, along with the photographs I’d taken. My idea was that the paper could have the first selection for free and, if the articles proved popular, they could start paying me for an ongoing series.  It was a gamble, but someone somewhere obviously approved because I ended up writing a regular walks feature for 20 years. In fact, I was Britain’s longest running walks writer - if you can be such a thing. The success wasn’t anything to do with me, but a simple winning formula… Take readers to wonderful, interesting, or beautiful places (ideally a combination of all three), describe some kind of walking route and include anecdotes, a few facts and figures (you don’t want to bore anyone) and one or two tall-tales. And don’t forget to snap a few nice piccies while you’re traipsing around.  Soon the paper started asking for other articles alongside the walks pieces, and before I knew it I was taken onto the staff. 25 years later, here I am still putting pen to paper.  “Not a bad way to earn a living,” I hear you say. And I’d agree, although it’s not always quite as easy as it looks, partly because there’s always the matter of a strict deadline. I walked, and wrote about, getting on towards 1000 different hikes. I would have done more but there were a couple of periods when illness got in the way, along with some really bad weather when I was forced to rewrite a few old walks. Even so, I have worked out (with admittedly hopeless mathematics) that I walked between 4000 and 6000 miles and climbed and descended the equivalent of half-a-dozen Mount Everests.  And just once in 20 years I got lost. We were in the middle of Dartmoor when a sudden fog descended. This was in pre-mobile-phone days so we had no satellite positioning aid and, I’m sorry to admit, no compass. You don’t really need one for 999 out of a 1000 West Country walks, if you have a good sense of direction. Anyway, I knew we were slightly west of the main watershed, so reasoned that any stream we could pick up would flow more-or-less in the direction towards the place where we’d parked. By listening hard and then stumbling towards the sound of moving water, we found and followed a brook that eventually joined the River Tavy, which in turn took us back to within 50 metres of our car.  But something far more serious nearly put an end to my walks-writing career not so long after it had started. It came in the form of a terrible thing which had serious ramifications for a great many careers and businesses. Nearly mine, but not quite. When the foot and mouth outbreak hit in 2001, the editor called and said: “That’s put the kibosh on that! The countryside is closed so we dare not even reprint some of your previous walks. We don’t want to frustrate readers by suggesting things they can’t do - so, for the time being, your goose is cooked.” I don’t often think fast on my feet (not successfully anyway) but on this occasion I managed a career-saving: “On the contrary… Now the countryside is closed, people need places to walk more than ever. Let’s do town and city walks.” And so I continued putting one foot in front of the other. During 20-years, I was attacked by dogs, choked by the stench of a dead whale rotting on a remote Devon beach and almost overcome by an incredibly thick cloud of flying ants atop Cornwall’s Brown Willy. I dodged pheasant shot and ducked flying golf balls. I once made my elderly parents wade through an icy Dartmoor stream having discovered a footbridge had collapsed. On another occasion, I had to ask beach lifeguards to call the inshore lifeboat as there was no way a friend who’d had a major heart operation could make it back along a lengthy stretch of Cornish beach. And once two of us flirted with pneumonia after rescuing a drowning ewe from a raging Exmoor river. People often used to ask if they could join me on the hikes and so I have walked with international business consultants, out-of-work printers, blacksmiths, computer analysts, airline pursers, writers, farmers, surfing-instructors, acorn pickers, famous actors, housewives, professors, WI members, drug addicts, alcoholics, CEOs, PR people, TV executives, national park bosses, rangers of various kinds, teachers and poets.    I must have had more than a dozen enquiries from publishers asking if I’d consider making the walks into a book - and I keep saying one day I will, but for some reason haven’t yet.  I have lost count of the times people have asked me to name my favourite walk, or the equal number of times I’ve had to say something about it being mission impossible. Walks are like music or food. One day you’ll be in the mood for a particular dish or tune - the next you might want something more spicy or perhaps more calming. If I had to go for a shortlist of, say, five great West Country hikes I’d divide the west of the region up and go for the splendour of the Woody Bay to Hunter’s Inn and Heddon’s Mouth hike on the Exmoor coast; the glories of the Otterton, Budleigh, Ladram Bay, High Peak circular on the east Devon coast; the Dr Blackall’s Drive hike in a fabulous part of Dartmoor; the Fowey, Hall Walk, Lantic Bay circular on the south Cornish coast; and the grand circumnavigation of St Mary’s in the Isles of Scilly.  But if someone came up with a list of better walks I’d probably agree with most of them. My ideas are hardly written in soft Exmoor sandstone, let alone in hard Dartmoor granite.  The important thing is to be enthusiastic - and as an old hack I’d say that goes for  absolutely anything you end up writing about.

People talk about an “embarrassment or riches” - a state of affairs which is not, for most of us, a phenomenon that occurs very often. But the phrase did come to mind one day recently after I’d arrived home laden with an abundance of edible goodies, some of them foraged from the wild, and other delicious items grown by vegetable gardeners of my acquaintance.  There are times when you can only beam at nature’s bounty and admire the treasures which can come out of the soil. Of course, it helps if you’re green-fingered and know how to coax food out of those soils, or you know where to find it out in the wild.  So there I was admiring my very own mini Harvest Festival, but there was one treat taking pride of place amid the pile of tomatoes, courgettes, peppers, ripe berries and other sundry fresh edible morsels. A rare morsel which had caused my jaw to drop in surprise when I was first shown it. A sublime treat that I never thought I’d ever see this side of the English Channel.  A big black truffle! This had not been donated to the Hesp coffers by some wealthy friend who’d just returned from France or Italy - this had been dug from the roots of a mature tree growing somewhere in the Westcountry. I use the word ‘mature’ advisedly because in recent years there’s been a developing market for saplings whose roots have been treated with truffle spores. I do not know if the system works or not, but this was definitely not one of those trees. The person who found it assured me the truffle came from a natural, un-messed-about-with, woodland located not so many miles from where I live in West Somerset. Most of us know enough about truffle-hunting NOT to dare asking for exact locations. She had collected half-a-dozen fat black beauties, the largest of which was the size of my clenched fist - and knowing of my interest in all things foodie she had emailed me a photo of the haul, captioned: “I’ve just picked these - you can have a couple if you’d like.”  My interest in edible fungi began 40 years ago and I’ve been happily collecting the likes of delicious ceps and chanterelles from our local wooded valleys ever since. But I’d never dreamed of seeing a local truffle. For two reasons… One: because no one I know, or have ever known, happens to have a specially trained truffle-hunting dog or pig. And, two: because I’d always been led to believe these highly prized underground morsels only flourish in limestone or chalk soils - and they do not occur in our part of Somerset.   I was vaguely aware that some kind of truffle-hunting tradition had once existed in this country, but I’d understood that it was confined to the great limestone belt which swings east from the Devon-Dorset border.  So… A mystery. I decided to do some research. And there on a French website was a note saying that truffles do indeed grow in certain types of sandstone soils which happen to dominate swathes of Devon and also my part of Somerset.  So these delicious morsels are out there! Like hidden treasure. Buried unseen. Forever safe from prying hands thanks to years of leaf-mould and undisturbed woodland soil…    Which begs the question as to how my friend discovered her treasure trove. When I called by to see the haul and collect the gift I’d been offered, I found myself casting a suspicious eye over one of the family’s dogs. A large poodle-ish canine, more-or-less of the type used by professional truffle hunters in parts of France and Italy. My suggestion was met with laughter. No, the dog had certainly not been involved in the find - although, now I’d mentioned it, perhaps it would be a good idea to train the family pet in what could become a lucrative endeavour… So all I know, dear readers, is what I was told in a single sentence: “I was helping to dig a woodland garden where the soil was as black as the truffles themselves - and that’s where I found them, on the roots of a few trees.”  She thought these may have been hazelnut and birch, or beech. Three of the truffle’s favoured host trees. And the West Country is rich in them! So how many of these fabulous morsels are lying hidden out there in the countryside? And how can we foodies and fungi enthusiasts ever hope to find a single one? The answer is probably millions of truffles, forever safe from our marauding intentions. How many of us ever get to dig a woodland garden in just the right place? How many of us are ever going to purchase, or train, a truffle-dog? My friend might be able to return to her secret spot and harvest a few more in years to come - or maybe not - I’m no expert on how the truffle-hunting and harvesting cycle works. But I am fairly certain this discovery, and its resultant newspaper article, is unlikely to inspire a burgeoning new Westcountry truffle industry. Unless someone invents a device which is sensitive to truffle scent, how are we going to find them? Which is a pity, because the well-truffled scrambled eggs I enjoyed after taking my gift home were the best I’ve ever had - and the well-truffled chicken was an absolute sensation. ENGLISH TRUFFLE HUNTING English truffle-hunting has a history stretching back centuries. We’ll never know who first found these ugly-looking but delicious underground fungi and learned to use them in food preparation, but it seems probably that foragers must have developed some kind of skill when it came to finding these elusive morsels. By the 18th and 19th centuries, truffle-hunting had become a well organised rural pursuit. The use of animals to help in the search became increasingly common. While pigs were often employed in continental Europe, English truffle-hunters only used particular breeds of dog. The benefit being that canines could be persuaded not to eat the truffles once they found them, while pigs would scoff the lot given half a chance. It was always a niche activity, partly because the English market for truffles was always small compared to their massive popularity in mainland Europe. Apart from our love for common field mushrooms, we never did seem to copy our Continental neighbours in developing a universal liking for exotic fungi. Nevertheless, English truffles did find their way into the kitchens of the big country estates and occasionally into the London markets. Which is why we had professional truffle-hunters. The Wiltshire parish of Winterslow, near Salisbury, was a notable hotspot - sometimes described as “the headquarters of English truffling”. At one time the village had as many as a dozen men employed in the industry. Indeed, England’s last dedicated professional truffle-hunter was a Winterslow man. Albert Collins carried on his family tradition until he eventually retired in the early 1930s.  And the irony is that poor old Albert apparently died penniless. Which today is an amazing fact, seeing that he could regularly bring home daily hauls weighing up to 12 kilos. On the internet this week, “summer” truffles (Tuber Aestivium) were selling at prices starting from £335 per kilo! You can easily become confused when looking up the different types of darker truffle, but if we imagine Albert was harvesting the milder tasting forms (like the ones my friend found) then, at today’s prices, his single day’s work would have earned him around £2000. If they were the more expensive and sought-after species he could have been paid just over £4000 - that’s more than £25 grand a week! COOKING WITH WEST COUNTRY TRUFFLES Think truffle, and a lot of home-cooks will imagine something that has an extremely strong and, unless used sparingly, overpowering flavour. I remember buying a black truffle in Italy and using a small amount (a few ultra-thin shavings) in a simple pasta dish. It was almost too much - so strong, the kids wouldn’t eat it. But the fresh wild West Country truffle I tasted this week (I believe it was a black autumn truffle, Tuber uncinatum) was at the other end of the spectrum… It was extremely mild, nutty and, of course, fungi-flavoured, and it had almost a sweet finish.  You need quite a bit to change the flavour of a large bowl of food, unless it is dominated by something bland such as plain pasta, or perhaps basic scrambled eggs.  I made a luxury version of the latter this week using a neighbour’s free-range eggs, a knob of good butter, a tiny tot of cream, a few chives and a wedge of black West Country truffle. The examples found by my friend had an extremely firm texture, so that if you cut off thin slices with a sharp knife, they were easy to shatter into crumbs. I added two teaspoonfuls of the resultant truffle-crumb to the slowly melting butter in the pan, before introducing a couple of beaten eggs and just a spoonful of double cream.  Then it was a matter of extreme slow-cooking over a tiny flame, plus a little seasoning with sea-salt and white pepper.     Loaded onto a buttered slice of my own toasted homemade sourdough, I had a breakfast dish worthy of the kind of hotel frequented by billionaires.  I also loaded slivers of truffle, along with wedges of butter, just under the skin of a free-range chicken, which I then slow-cooked in the barbecue. The result ticked just about every box on the perfect summer luncheon wish-list. The meat was light, juicy, creamy and deeply savoury. It doesn’t get much better than that.

The Bagni Di Pisa Palace and Thermal Spa is a very impressive indeed. The place is reminiscent of the sort of place Agatha Christie might have visited - if Poirot ever went anywhere to “take the waters” this would be the place. Actually, someone who did write something famous in this very hotel was Mary Shelley - who finished penning her story Frankenstein here after being partly inspired to write it back at home in Somerset’s Quantock Hills. I attended a wine class in the sumptuous bar area named after her and husband, poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. The Shelley bar is set in its original 18th century furnishings. If you enjoy this article you might also like Grotta Giusti The Bagni di Pisa is an elegant five-star spa resort in San Giuliano Terme, just a few kilometres from Pisa, Livorno and Lucca, where we spent a wonderful Sunday morning exploring. And I’d say the hotel has more class in its little finger than many a hostelry I know where rooms cost three times the price. Gustav of Sweden and George IV of England both stayed here as well as the Shelleys and all their famous friends. And if its good enough for the inventor of Frankenstein, it’s good enough for me. Although I did feel a little Frankenstein-like during a spa treatment which saw me covered head-to-toe in sea salt for some reason I could never quite determine. I was soon back on my feet again enjoying a true sumptuous dinner. The hotel is located between rolling hills and historical towns. This establishment is not merely a place to stay; it is an invitation to explore a storied past while indulging in thoughtful, contemporary comforts. A Historical Perspective The roots of Bagni di Pisa stretch back to the 18th century when it served as a summer residence for the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Francesco Stefano of Lorraine. The Duke, who later became the Holy Roman Emperor, transformed the site into a thermal retreat, drawing on the region’s natural hot springs. The thermal waters, rich in minerals and reputed for their therapeutic properties, have been the cornerstone of the property’s appeal for centuries. Walking through the hotel’s corridors, one can’t help but feel the weight of history. The original frescoes, grand chandeliers, and classical architecture tell stories of a bygone era, where nobility sought solace and rejuvenation. Today, these historical elements are carefully preserved, allowing guests to experience a slice of the past while enjoying the conveniences of modern hospitality. Wellness at the Core At the heart of Bagni di Pisa’s offering is its commitment to wellness. The thermal baths, which have drawn visitors for centuries, remain a central feature. The waters, naturally heated and rich in minerals, are said to aid in a variety of health conditions, from respiratory issues to skin ailments. For those less inclined toward medical benefits, the baths simply offer a deeply relaxing experience, a chance to unwind in a setting that has been soothing visitors for generations. In addition to the thermal baths, the hotel offers a comprehensive spa experience. The spa menu is extensive, with treatments that blend traditional techniques with modern wellness trends. Whether it’s a massage using Tuscan essential oils or a mud therapy session derived from the local thermal waters, each treatment is designed with a deep respect for the region’s natural resources. Culinary Offerings A stay at Bagni di Pisa is as much about nourishment as it is about relaxation. The hotel’s culinary philosophy is rooted in the rich traditions of Tuscan cuisine, yet it is presented with a contemporary flair. The restaurant offers a menu that changes with the seasons, focusing on locally sourced ingredients. Dishes are crafted to be both healthful and satisfying, reflecting the region’s deep connection to the land. For those who wish to delve deeper into the local food culture, the hotel offers cooking classes that take guests beyond the dining experience, offering a hands-on exploration of Tuscan flavors. Here, the emphasis is on simplicity and quality, teaching techniques that can be easily replicated at home, yet hold the essence of Italian culinary traditions. The Surrounding Landscape While Bagni di Pisa is a destination in itself, its location offers ample opportunity for exploration. The nearby town of San Giuliano Terme provides a quiet, picturesque setting, ideal for leisurely strolls or cycling. A short drive away, the city of Pisa beckons with its world-renowned leaning tower and other historical landmarks. The broader Tuscan landscape, with its vineyards, olive groves, and medieval towns, is a treasure trove for those inclined to explore. Yet, for many guests, the allure of Bagni di Pisa lies in the simple pleasure of remaining on the property. The serene environment, the blend of history and nature, and the focus on wellness create a setting where time seems to slow, allowing for a deeper engagement with the present moment. Conclusion Bagni di Pisa stands as a testament to the enduring appeal of history and nature, intertwined with a modern understanding of wellness. It is a place where past and present coexist, offering a unique experience that is both enriching and restorative. Whether drawn by the therapeutic waters, the rich history, or the tranquil environment, visitors to Bagni di Pisa find more than just a hotel; they find a space that invites reflection, relaxation, and a deeper connection to the Tuscan landscape.

The 450-year-old Rock Inn - as mentioned in the neighbouring article - stands just a few feet from the young River Tone. Travel a few miles upstream, higher and deeper into the hills, and you will come to Clatworthy Reservoir, which is not only one of the oldest drinking water lakes in the region, but one of the prettiest. Two facts which perhaps go hand-in-hand. The building of a giant reservoir causes a major disruption to the ecology and environment, and it takes many years for the scars to heal. Nowadays, Clatworthy has a far more natural look than it did when I was a lad, visiting with my journalist father. The reservoir, with its capacity of 5,364,000 cubic metres of drinking water, today supplies some 200,000 homes, but when I was a toddler back in 1960 it was just beginning to fill up as the headwaters of the Tone came up against the newly built dam.  Last week I drove up there after lunch at The Rock and, on a hot August day, was surprised to find myself the only person at the Wessex Water visitor car park and picnic site. So I took a very peaceful stroll across the dam and through the oak woods that line the northern fringes of the lake.  Nothing moved, save for a single fisherman out on the water in his rowing boat. The thought struck me that this must be the most unvisited and tranquil stretches of water to be found anywhere in the region bang in the middle of the holiday season.  It was all very different back in the days before the valley was flooded. My father wrote about how the lonely and highly fertile valleys tucked deep into the eastern limb of the Brendon Hills were doomed. I found this rather moving account jotted in one of his notebooks.  “May blossom hanging in the hedges reminded me of an evening along time ago when I called at a farmhouse tucked away in a deep valley and was welcomed at the door by a little girl and a boy carrying an oil lamp. “‘Is this Cindercombe Farm?’ I had asked. ‘Oh yes!’ they had replied, as if that were a fact the whole world ought to know and rejoice in.” A few years later he took the children’s mother back to the valley as it was being flooded - it was the first time she’d been back since she’d left her old home.  “We walked down the well remembered lane - surrounded by high banks, green and pretty with pennyworts and new moss - towards the house,” wrote my father. “Suddenly we rounded the last bend and, instead of the familiar buildings, a sheet of water lay at our feet. We could see the submerged portion of the road continuing on into the depths. “‘It’s unbelievable! All this water!’ gasped the children’s mother. She pointed to a little bank, half submerged. ‘The children had a bit of garden here… and over there in a little field, I drove a horse and cart in the days before anybody had all these machines’…” I can never go to Clatworthy without remembering my father’s stories of the valley pre-reservoir, which I first heard as a small boy standing on its shores. And last week was no different. As I walked in the afternoon sunshine, it was rather lovely to be haunted by thoughts of the old-fashioned lives that had once existed beneath those cool waters, rippling in the western light.   CLATWORTHY RESERVOIR ANNIVERSARY ARTICLE (FROM A PIECE I WROTE FOR THE WESTERN MORNING NEWS AND WESTERN DAILY PRESS IN 2019) The waters were rising. Slowly, but not imperceptibly, creeping up the valley sides in an irreversible and devastating tide. The homesteads were abandoned, the families and their pets and farm animals, had gone.  It happened 60 years ago in the heart of what must have been one of the most peaceful, hitherto undisturbed, valleys in the West Country. This year marks the flooding of the Cindercombe and other small Brendon Hill ravines which had been selected for the building of what was then one of the region’s largest reservoirs.  Clatworthy Reservoir, with its capacity of 5,364,000 cubic metres of drinking water - now run by Wessex Water - today supplies some 200,000 homes, but back in 1959 it was just beginning to fill up as the head waters of the River Tone came up against the newly built dam.  It wouldn’t be opened and operational until 1960, but the lonely and highly fertile valleys tucked deep into the eastern limb of the Brendon Hills were doomed. Work was steadily advancing on the dam, much of which had been built the year before - as we shall hear.  Today, peace has long since returned to this little visited corner of the region. There are some excellent walks around the 52-hectare reservoir which it is a favourite haunt of fishermen.  Beneath its deep dark waters are several farms and cottages as well as a mill compete with an overshot well and millstones.  Look on the internet and you will find surprisingly little information about Clatworthy Reservoir - the anniversary of its flooding only caught my eye because of a little handwritten booklet sent to me by regular reader Colin Pady of East Devon. I would, by the way, not recommend sending me precious documents which have a personal importance - I fear that either my dogs will chew them or I will lose them. Anyway, this one remains safe and sound waiting for retired farmer Colin and his wife Val to collect - but this is what he wrote in an enclosing letter… “I enclose the booklet of my first-lass hike which I mad with my practice buddy in October 1958 as a 15-year-old scout from Taunton School.” Colin then outlines the route the boys took in two days of hiking, which took them over the huge eastern shoulder of the Brendons (not far from my home, which is why Colin was kind enough to send the document. “The content of the hike may be of interest because it records the building of Clatworthy dam and the fact that we were probably the last hikers to walk down that valley before it was flooded,” he writes. And so reading through his excellent little handwritten booklet I came to the following passage… “There was water running down either side of the track but we could walk on the raised centre of the road. We noticed that the wooded slope to our left was partly felled. The track followed a tributary over which there was no bridge, so we had to jump over it. “As we continued we saw some cables stretched across the valley in front of us. Then a derrick on the right side of the valley and finally, as we rounded a corner, we saw the dam. We had approached it from behind coming over land that was doomed to be flooded. “The track was blocked by the dam and so we had to find another way out. After staying half-an-hour wandering around the structure, we finally decided to get over the lowest part of the dam which was just scaffolding. We had to cross a plank over the river and then jumped over the scaffolding. The men at work there with the pumps waved to us and we carried on crossing over the river once more by means of a bridge made of sleepers. “We rejoined the road and, passing the offices of the firm building the dam, we proceeded down the well metalled road until we came to a cottage and a farm to the right. Then we came to two notices - one telling the name of the firm and the other telling us that trespassers would be prosecuted and that no and authorised person was allowed onto the site of the dam!” So Colin is probably correct to assume that he and his school pal were the last hikers to walk down the valley. Today the health-and-safety police would have sent them marching, or worse… Anyway, Colin’s account caused me to remember that my own father, Peter Hesp, had visited the site many times in his role as a local journalist for the Somerset County Gazette newspaper. So I dug out his notes, and among many articles he wrote about Clatworthy and its new reservoir I found this rather moving account jotted in a notebook.  It concerns a visit he made to one of the families who had been told they’d have to abandon their farm. The Cowlings had managed to move into a nearby farmstead by April 1960, which is when my dad persuaded Mrs Cowling to take a walk down to the watery shores which had swallowed her home.  This is what Peter wrote… “If I were looking for an example of the typical hill farmer’s wife, I would pick on Mrs Ralph Cowling. She is straight-backed and breezy, in the prime of middle-life, with a courtesy and cheery good humour which comes of having raised seven children and worked hard, indoors and out, every day of her life on the good upland acres where she was born. She is of that excellent kind who would rather have a sing-song around a piano than sit watching ready-made entertainment on the television - and, when I intercepted her busy way this week, she was just off to help “cut up” for a niece’s wedding on a neighbouring farm. “Mrs Cowling will think ill of me for writing all this about her, but it is nevertheless true, and I stated it in order to explain why it is that few people ever guess the sorrow that is in her life. It is a gentle sadness, never obtruding to be seen by other people, never clouding her busy day. In the evenings, when she and her husband and, perhaps, a few of the children, chat awhile beside the fire at Tripp Farm, near Raleigh’s Cross, their sorrow is remembered. “Now, I don't want to exaggerate this in any way because when the plans were drawn up for the big Clatworthy reservoir, the Cowlings knew they would have to go. They accepted the fact, as reasonable people would. The experts came bumping down the steep lane to Cindercombe Farm, where the couple had been since they were married 23 years ago, and assessed their land is being some of the finest in the locality. They were liberally compensated and, it so happens, that they were able to buy neighbouring Tripp Farm, where Ralph was born and where his father, old Mr Tom Cowling, still kept the land in good heart. “But Cindercombe, for the couple and their five sons and two daughters, was home as no other place will ever be. “Just a year ago the Cowlings moved out, the bulldozers pushed down the ancient walls, and the waters of the reservoir began to rise up the Cindercombe Valley, where once the Romans smelted iron from the hill. “This week Mrs Cowling went back with me, for the first time since the waters covered her home. “‘I was eight years old when my parents came to live at Cindercombe. It's heartbreaking to think of it down there under the water just opposite that little quarry,’ she told me. For once her habitual cheerfulness was laid aside as we stood among primroses and violets looking down on the broad blue stretch of water. “There was a steep field where, years ago, she had driven a team of three horses dragging a chain-harrow, and there was the pastureland, now rich and green, which had once been nothing but bracken and waste deep in furze. And there, beneath the waters, lay nearly 100 more of their rich and lovely acres and the homestead. “We walked down the well remembered, sheltered lane to the house, the reservoir hidden by high banks, green and pretty with pennyworts and new moss. Suddenly we rounded the last bend and, instead of the familiar buildings, a sheet of water lay at our feet. We could see the submerged portion of the road continuing on into the depths. “‘It's unbelievable! All this water!’” said Mrs Cowling. She pointed to a little bank, half submerged. ‘The children had a bit of garden here… and over there in a little field I drove a horse and cart in the days before anybody had all these machines…’ “She was laughing again now. “‘My husband was working on the back of it and wondered why I wasn't driving straight across…’ We were both laughing and looking over the water. “‘I had fallen fast asleep as I drove!’ "At the head of the reservoir we could see Westcott Farm, its windows empty and buildings deserted. We looked in at Roes Farm where the workmen are still building the strong boundary fence to keep stock and any other trespasser from wandering on the marginal land, once so familiar but now forbidden ground. “‘I suppose we’re trespassing here,’ said Mrs Cowling, and we walked back up the steep lane, gossiping cheerfully about a thing that is sad, look at it how you will. Stan and Freddie, two of the Cowling boys home from school, appeared briefly on bicycles. “‘Didn't know you'd come this far! Going off and help with the poultry now, there's good boys!’ said their mother. Then, to me: ‘They can't keep away. They all come back. But this is the first time I've been back since the water rose. Still, I never seem to have the time for this sort of thing; it's been quite an afternoon out for me and I thoroughly enjoyed it.’ “Calling goodbye, Mrs Cowling climbed into her car and went tearing off with the confidence of a driver who knows every bump in the road. “The May blossom hanging in the hedges reminded me - I don't know why - of an evening along time ago when I called at a farmhouse tucked away in a deep valley and was welcomed at the door by a little girl and a boy carrying an oil lamp. “‘Is this Cindercombe Farm?’ I had asked. “‘Oh yes!’ they had replied, as if that were a fact the whole world ought to know and rejoice in.” My father was a bit of a genius when it came to the mellifluous nature of melancholy - and I can never go back to Clatworthy now without remembering this tale of Mrs Cowling, which I first heard as a small boy standing on the shores of the reservoir, excited by such a big sheet of water that could hide so many invisible tales.

It’s not quite a case of “if you go down to the woods today you’ll be in for a big surprise”, but this story has that kind of vibe about it.  Let’s put it this way… There are a great many well-known parts of the much-visited West Country and, conversely, there are even more hidden, out-of-the-way, corners which very few tourists ever get to see.  Given that this is the case, you might imagine that someone wishing to expand a new concept in the world of food and hospitality would aim for one of the better-known visitor hotspots. Why chose a sparsely populated rural location for the seedbed of your idea when you could plum for a large town or a tourist-honeypot filled with potential customers? I was pondering this one day last week as I drove down some of the emptiest, leafiest, quietest lanes in England. I had been invited to a tasting lunch which was being staged by two Sri Lankan gentlemen who have just bought a relatively remote country inn. I was told one of the guys was a highly experienced international chef working at the highest level and that that his business partner was a successful man in the world of finance. So why, I wondered, had they chosen to purchase The Rock Inn at a place called Waterrow? Let me say… I am very glad they have made the choice. Because the multi-course tasting luncheon was one of the best I’ve enjoyed in my home county of Somerset. Waterrow is situated in the peaceful and lovely no-man’s land that exists on the western edge of the Vale of the Tone. The River Tone itself is born high in the Brendon Hills - the easterly limb of Exmoor National Park - and, after it has been captured by the great dam at Clatworthy Reservoir, it descends through a series of deep ravines to meet the wide flatness of the vale somewhere north-west of Wellington. Throughout the early hill-bound part of its journey, the river passes a series of small villages or hamlets with lovely names like Huish Champflower, Chipstable, Stawley and Appley. Waterrow is one of these communities, located on the B3227 Wiveliscombe to Bampton road.  The entire area has a hidden, out-of-the-way feel to it. This is Secret Somerset at its best. What’s not going to be a secret for long is the food being served at The Rock Inn. It’s part of a new concept called the 3 Flavours Kitchen, which is being developed by internationally-acclaimed chef Chanaka Fernando and business partner, Chamila Chathura. The 3 Flavours idea already has a pair of thriving neighbourhood eateries in Barnet and Banbury - Waterrow outlet is the first to launch in the South West, with many more planned to roll-out in the near future.  Chef Chanaka’s vision is to provide an exceptional dining experience that combines culinary excellence with a commitment to fresh, seasonal ingredients and local suppliers. He told me: “I come from a catering background in Sri Lanka, and moved to the UK in 2000, working for chefs like Gordon Ramsey, Marcus Wareing and Mark Hix. So I come from a world of big names, but wanted to build a reputation for myself. We came here and we felt it was a beautiful place that we could build up. And the local people have been so supportive.  “We are working on the menus - the concept is about coming from three regions, from Asia (Sri Lankan) Europe (Italy etc) and Britain. We have already been discovering the local producers here in Somerset and want all our dishes to be inspired by local ingredients. Only this morning I was meeting with a woman who has a commercial herb garden locally - we are seeing some wonderful stuff.” Chamila Chathura explained: “We wanted to find a place where we could bring the ‘3 flavour’ concept to the countryside - where people can enjoy what we are doing in a peaceful surroundings. We fell in love with the area and the building, which dates back 450 years. We’re doing a lot of hard work to bring it back to life - and that work is still happening. We have nine bedrooms here for visitors and they’re all being renovated.  “We were wondering how the locals would greet us, but we have been delighted by the welcome,” he added. “They have been pushing us to open as soon as possible without perhaps getting everything right first. Which is fine because we can work at getting it right.  “That is why we have opened without having fully finished the work,” he says, having bought the inn less than two months ago. “We want to run it as a pub - if people just want a beer then fine - but we also want to offer a variety of food.  The wide ranging menu means you can get more or less anything to suit your fancy, from classic Westcountry steaks and rather exotic and impressive burgers to excellent vegan dishes and amazing Sri Lankan curries. The lamb curry I tasted was the best I have eaten in a long time, but there were other summery delights such as the prawn and avocado salad with a chilli and mango dressing that really hit the spot, as did a refreshing chicken garden salad. Prices are reasonable - a hearty salad (ideal for lunch) cost £11.50, while that superb lamb curry came in at £17.50. We had a superb sirloin steak for £25. John Turner, chief executive of Visit Somerset, was at the tasting… “This was a sleepy vale until two weeks ago and I can see a huge transition - people will be attracted to this area and to The Rock. Places like this celebrate food and also celebrate local produce, alongside world-class culinary skills. Bring those things together and you create a really important driver for an area like this. “This part of Somerset has some of the worst social-mobility problems in the UK and what is happening here could really have a seismic change locally. We need centres of excellence like this.” We spoke to local student, Eli Hinder, who has been taken on by The Rock as a trainee commis-chef during his college holidays. “It’s a really good opportunity - I am learning lots and really enjoying it,” said Eli. “I was sitting on the fence as to whether I would have a career in science or in catering, and this is definitely pushing me towards the catering. It’s brilliant to learn about lots of cuisines from really experienced chefs.” So… a win-win situation. And one in a lesser known corner of the countryside. What’s not to like? 3 Flavours at The Rock Inn is now open for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  To book, call their internet booking line charged at local rate: 05603669529.  (Food photos by Carlos Farinha)

The sun has been out and there have been evenings this week when the temperature has remained warm until late, but that’s not the only excuse one needs to enjoy dinner outdoors. Food cooked over an open fire can taste wonderful - indeed, even ordinary things cooked over charcoal will be promoted to another league of deliciousness if you know what you’re doing. And it doesn’t always have to be a case of meat sizzling on a grill - you can introduce pots, pans and woks to the flames as log as they are sturdy enough to take the heat.  It seems reasonable to assume that we humans are hard-wired to like the flavours of food cooked over wood or charcoal, because we were doing it for almost a million years before anyone invented an electric or gas oven. Archaeologists have found evidence of what they believe to be one of the first examples of hominids cooking with fire, and the site in Isreal dates back almost 800,000 years. A long time for the species to have evolved a universal liking for that curious mixture of sweet and highly savoury which cooking over a live flame can impart.  If you enjoy this article you night also like BBQ Take something plain and simple - corn on the cob, say, or chicken thighs - and cook one sample under an electric grill and another over charcoal… The difference in flavour will be profound.  But as we say, we’re not just talking about items sizzling on the bars of a grill. That might be the usual interpretation of barbecuing, but you can employ many other basic techniques, including the use of pans. This week I’ve been experimenting with hot-smoked mussels. Cooked in a shallow pan inside a barbecue with a lid they are, quite simply, a sensation! And talk about simple… Just scrub the shellfish clean, chuck ‘em in an oven-proof pan and place on a very hot grill, add a few wood-chips (visit the Devon-based https://hotsmoked.co.uk for the ideal selection) to the fire beneath and cook until the mussels open (chuck away any that don’t).  Toast some good sourdough over the flames and you can use the buttered slices to mop up the juices. Alternatively, you can lift the shellfish out then add a glass of white wine and a large knob of butter to the pan and reduce the liquid over the heat so you end up with a highly flavoured and luxuriant sauce.   The nation’s top barbecue expert, Marcus Bawdon, who runs his UK BBQ School ( https://ukbbqschool.com/ ) in Devon, is a big fan of using pans over a live flame.  “I absolutely I love cooking in pans over coals,” he told me this week. “One of my favourite examples would definitely be scallops, which can be excellent with a hard sear in a pan. Cooked in butter, garlic, lemon juice and flat-leaf parsley, they should still be quivering when they’re ready to eat.”  One tip he is quick to add - as explained in his latest book, BBQ for All - is the use of duck fat. “Duck fat doesn’t burn at high temperatures, meaning you get a great crispness to the sear,” said Marcus. Of course, having the right kind of pan to place in the barbecue helps too. For years I’ve used cast iron griddles, but they are often difficult to clean. My latest indulgence is a carbon steel wok made specifically for the Kamado Joe - the wonderful appliance in which I do all our outdoor cooking, even the Christmas turkey.   Indeed, the Kamado Joe company has recently launched its first Karbon Steel™ range - a line of premium cooking surfaces made of carbon steel. As many a chef will tell you, this highly resilient metal offers superb heat distribution, greater durability and effortless cleaning up. As well as the wok, the Karbon Steel range includes a paella pan, a griddle and a half-moon shaped pan, all of which can be used on any cooker, barbecue or hob. Anyone who has ever been to South East Asia or, indeed, to an authentic restaurant specialising in cuisine from that part of the world, will have seen chefs using woks over scary eyebrow-singeing flames. That’s the kind of heat you need to really stir-fry properly. Most domestic gas hobs are incapable of producing that super-heat - and electric hobs don’t even come close. But place an empty dry wok into a round, egg-shaped, barbecue like a Kamado Joe - in which the charcoal has been burning for a while so it’s producing plenty of heat - and the pan will soon reach proper stir-fry temperatures.  Just make sure you have all the ingredients for your meal prepared, ready and waiting, because something like a beef, noodle, onion, garlic and red pepper stir-fry is only going to take a minute or two to cook.  My tip for an enjoyable summer evening supper is to go small on individual dishes and have two or three separate courses lined up ready to put in the wok. There is a great temptation (and I did this for years) to bung everything in and blast away in the vague belief that, because it’s so hot, the wok will cope. It won’t, if it’s overloaded and you’ll either end up with some items being undercooked or something that resembles a stew.   Better, instead, to devise a couple of totally separate dishes that are small in quantity, but fast and simple. Then you can serve, wipe the wok clean, and start heating it up again over the flame in readiness for the next course. Strips of grass-fed beefsteak with onion, red and green pepper and garlic would be a case in point, as would prawn, cashew and spring onions or scallops with asparagus. One tip is to cook meat or fish first, then it take out and keep warm while you go on to rapidly cook any vegetables separately. Combine just before serving, which is when you add any liquid ingredients like soy sauce or flavouring oils such as sesame. Don’t overdo it - choose just one or two vegetables, not half a dozen. Keeping things simple and fairly minimal is the order of the day, as long as you’ve got that super-heat blasting away underneath your pan. Try cooking with the high temperatures directly over hot coals and you will discover that even the plainest of stir-fries will be like the barbecued corn-on-the-cob or chicken mentioned above. In other words, the intense heat will have taken it into a different league.  CHOOSE YOUR CHARCOAL  A train-driver once told me that there was coal, and there was coal. He said his magnificent steam locomotive performed quite differently depending on the quality of the coal his railway bosses managed to purchase. The same goes for the charcoal in your barbecue.  In fact, if you are lucky enough to own a high-performance appliance like a Kamado Joe (there are other makes - kamado is basically Japanese for ‘clay-lined oven'), the choice is crucial. The ubiquitous cheap easy-to-light stuff should be avoided.  For a start, it’s a false economy. My kamado will continue cooking for three or four times longer with the high quality locally-made charcoal that I use.  Woodland manager Chris Silverwood’s Fat Raven Charcoal business is really just a sideline for the work he does in the forest here in West Somerset. The charcoal really is Rolls Royce stuff, and it should be - Chris has been carbonising lumps of English hardwood for over 30 years.  “Basically you’ll find that most British charcoal is a lot higher grade than the imported stuff, partly because it comes from hardwood grown in properly managed woodlands,” Chris told me as I was purchasing half a dozen bags recently.  “I use a variety of timber, depending on what I’ve been coppicing or thinning out. So there’s oak, ash, silver birch, and beech. At the moment I’m using a lot of sweet chestnut. I’m splitting out fencing stakes with a lot of it, but the stuff I can’t use gets turned into charcoal. Otherwise it would just be wasted. And it does make good charcoal - it burns really hot.  “But, as I say, most of the English wood is good. The burning times vary depending on the species - some burn fast, while oak charcoal is slower, being a bit more dense. I think it’s best to have a mixture of different woods.” Chris’s Fat Raven Charcoal includes different sized pieces, which is useful because you can use the smaller bits to help you get up to speed faster, while the big lumps will allow to cook low and slow for many hours.  Chris uses a metal kiln for his day-today charcoal-making, but for demonstration purposes he will also occasionally build an old-fashioned earthen mound, as used historically in places like the Quantocks or on Exmoor in times of yore. “That’s a very smoky sort of business,” smiles Chris. “You’ve got to keep an eye on the traditional earth burns all through the night, as well as day, because the wood can easily catch light and burn away. The phrase ‘charcoal burning’ is a misconception. Actually what we’re doing is using just some of the wood to create enough heat to cook the impurities out of the rest of the wood. You are creating a pure carbon source of fuel. “With the modern metal kilns, we no longer have to sit up all night. In the old days they were terrified of sudden flare up. They could easily lose the lot. I don’t know if it’s a myth, or what, but they reckon the old charcoal-burners used to sit on a one-legged stool all night so if they fell asleep, they’d fall off and wake themselves up!” Chris runs a small business in the West Somerset area - to find out more visit his Facebook page Fat Raven Charcoal or email fatravencharcoal@gmail.com

If there is one thing I love doing on my travels, it is visiting local markets - and they don’t come much better than the one that serves the Madeiran capital of Funchal. Why? Because the quality of just about everything in the market is first class. I have seen some of the best fruits and vegetables in the world being sold there - probably because the island has amazingly rich volcanic soils and plenty of sunshine to help things mature to perfection. Same goes for the fresh seafood. It goes without saying that the island is surrounded by rich and fairly unpolluted waters. Exploring the Central Market in Funchal The Central Market in Funchal, also known as Mercado dos Lavradores, is a vital component of Madeira's capital, reflecting the island's rich cultural tapestry and agricultural abundance. Established in 1940, this market is not only a place of commerce but also a significant social gathering spot for locals and visitors alike. Architectural Significance Designed by architect Edmundo Tavares, the market's structure is a noteworthy example of the Estado Novo style, a Portuguese architectural movement of the early 20th century. The building features a blend of modernist lines and traditional elements, including azulejos (painted tiles) that depict regional themes. These tiles, created by João Rodrigues, add an artistic layer to the market, illustrating scenes from Madeira's agricultural life. Layout and Offerings The market is organized into various sections, each dedicated to different types of goods. The ground floor houses stalls brimming with fresh fruits, vegetables, herbs, and flowers, predominantly sourced from local farms. Visitors can find exotic produce such as passion fruit, custard apples, and the distinctive Madeira bananas. The first floor is dedicated to fishmongers, where an array of fresh fish and seafood, caught in the surrounding Atlantic waters, are available. Here, one can encounter species like the black scabbardfish, a local delicacy, alongside more familiar varieties like tuna and sardines. The market also includes sections for meat, poultry, and dairy products, ensuring a comprehensive shopping experience. Additionally, vendors selling crafts, souvenirs, and traditional Madeiran goods such as wickerwork and embroidery can be found throughout the market, catering to the needs of tourists and collectors. Economic Impact Economically, the market plays a crucial role in supporting local agriculture and fisheries. By providing a direct outlet for farmers and fishermen, it helps sustain the island's primary industries. This direct trade ensures that producers receive a fair price for their goods while offering consumers fresh, high-quality products. Visitor Experience For visitors, the Central Market offers a sensory experience that is both educational and engaging. It provides an opportunity to learn about Madeiran cuisine and agricultural practices firsthand. Many tourists partake in guided tours that explain the significance of various products and their role in local culture. Sustainability and Future Prospects In recent years, there has been a growing emphasis on sustainability within the market. Efforts to reduce plastic use, promote organic farming, and support environmentally friendly practices are becoming more prominent. These initiatives aim to preserve the island's natural resources while adapting to modern ecological standards. Looking ahead, the Central Market in Funchal is poised to maintain its role as a cornerstone of the community. Balancing tradition with innovation, it continues to evolve, reflecting the dynamic spirit of Madeira while preserving its cultural essence. I recommend visiting the market on a Friday or a Saturday when so many locals are doing their shopping and farmers come down from the mountains to sell their wares. The market is a multifaceted institution that goes beyond its commercial function. It is a place where history, culture, and economy intersect, offering both locals and visitors a unique glimpse into the heart of Madeiran life. As it adapts to contemporary challenges, it remains a testament to the resilience and vibrancy of the island's community.