Who doesn’t like strange landscapes?  Some are just plain weird, others seem like outposts from another planet - and some can be somewhat depressing or unnerving while, at the same time, having the ability to awe, impress and shock.  I was in a weird landscape one memorable day on the island of Gozo, just north of Malta.  Indeed, it was one of the strangest landscapes I have ever cycled through. It didn’t take long to figure out that the flat tray areas hacked out of the soft coastal stone were salt-pans. Apparently, some of them are ancient.  And I was delighted to discover some are still in use - indeed, I bought three bags of freshly made sea salt from a woman who was selling the stuff at a very reasonable price just under the cliffs.  It’s good salt - I’m home now and using it in my cooking. And every time I take a pinch of it, I remember that strange, rocky landscape.  Because that’s the thing about weird places - they can come back to haunt you.

How many people will know about lamb's tail pie, a popular old Eastertime recipe commonly found across rural England ? Very few, I’d imagine. But it used to be a very common delicacy eaten in the West Country at this time of year, more than half a century ago. Now, I bet not a single portion of this curious dish will be served this holiday weekend.  That will partly be due to the fact that lambs no longer have their tails chopped off with a knife – instead, they whither and drop off painlessly at an early age thanks to those little rubber tourniquet bands that are applied shortly after birth. But it is also probable that no one would be eating lamb's tail pie anyway, because it is apparently a real fiddle to prepare.  Half a century ago, my journalist father, Peter Hesp, was investigating the region’s love of lambs-tail pie at a time when the dish was already becoming just a memory in the kitchens of the hills. “It was Mr Louis Gimblett who first told me about this delicacy when I called to see him at Blake’s Farm, Bicknoller, nestled under the Quantock Hills,” wrote my father in a newspaper at the time. “Both he and his brother Harold, the celebrated county cricketer, had eaten their share of lambs-tail in their younger days. ‘And it was absolutely delicious,’ said Mr Gimblett. ‘It tasted like veal and was best eaten cold.’ “From his mother, seated in the old farm kitchen, I learned something of the art of cooking the treat. In the old days, she told me, the tails would not be cut off until the lamb was about six weeks or a couple of months old, and the bigger the tail the better. First they were dropped into a tub of scalding hot water for the right length of time. Leave them too long and the skin peeled off; take them out too soon and the wool stuck on. “Old Mrs Gimblett did not approve of the method sometimes used,” wrote Hesp senior, “of leaving the tails in a dark cupboard or burying them in the ground until such time as the wool could be pulled away easily. “The next job was to scrape the tails. For this, the womenfolk would all sit around a tub full of cold water in which plenty of salt had been dissolved and scrape away while they gossiped. Finally, the tails were cut into short pieces and baked in a pie together with beaten-up egg and milk. Mrs Gimblett told me it was a long, tedious job – and little wonder that modern housewives would have nothing to do with it.” Around a decade ago I asked about lambs’ tail pie in the WMN and was flooded with responses from older readers. “As a child I regularly ate lambs’ tail pie at Easter,” wrote David Sercombe, of Sampford Courteney. “We also regularly ate ‘bath-chaps’ – pig cheeks rolled in breadcrumbs and eaten with salad.” “Instead of a pie,” recalled Virginia Mills from Bridgwater, “they (the tails) were dipped in egg and breadcrumbs and shallow-fried and served with bacon and tomatoes.” She was a nanny on a farm in the 1960’s and admits she never tried a tail because watching the farmer… “pick up the six inch tails in his fingers and slip them in and out of his mouth, spitting out the bone, was not a pretty sight.” Lots of people, like Sarah Preston of Kingsbridge, wrote to tell me that encyclopaedic Mrs Beeton mentioned the subject of lambs’ tails. She like to serve them “Russian-style”. Ruth Neil, of Constantine, wrote to explain that Russian-style meant: “Cooked until tender, then dipped in batter and fried.” Catherine Boyd Brent, of Chulmleigh, penned an account of the W.I.’s interest in the wagging appendages:  “Lay the tails in a pie dish with pepper and salt,” decreed the W.I. “Make parsley sauce and pour over. Cover with short pie crust and bake in moderate oven.” “I cannot give you a recipe,” wrote Colin Reed, of Braunton. “You rightly say, it was better eaten cold than hot. As a boy I used to help my mother pull off the wool after the tails had been scolded. Not an easy job!  The pie consisted of lambs’ tails, potato, onion, a little milk I think, topped with pastry. The problem eating it - but it was worthwhile, the pie was so good - was extracting the tiny bones and the occasional strand of wool from your mouth.” Apparently the next country delicacy that would traditionally have been looked forward to in the region’s calendar would have been rook pie, but I doubt many folk will be making that either.

It’s an odd sort of question, but it is one people sometimes ponder when considering their holidays. It’s the notion of trying to find somewhere pleasant and refreshingly new, while somehow still retaining all the basics you know and love, such as people speaking English and all the normal stuff like the kind of shops, pubs and restaurants you’re accustomed to. So is it possible to get all the excitement of a foreign holiday without going abroad? And the answer lies smack in the middle of the Irish Sea. It’s called the Isle of Man, and - a bit like the Channel Isles - it really does have a foreign feel to it even if you are still in a place that is more-or-less part of the UK. The “more-or-less” bit comes from the fact that these places are self-governing - for the most part they have their own set of laws and constitutional guidelines.   The point is that these semi-independent island states really do feel different, while at the same time being as recognisable as a county shire.  If you fly into the Isle of Man, for example, you might find yourself on the main road which passes over a place called Fairy Bridge and if you’re on public transport you’ll probably see half the passengers whispering some kind of incantation. That is because Manx men and women are very superstitious - the island is amazingly rich in myth and legend - and the “little people” have a big role to play in the historic culture of the place. I was told that no local worth his or her salt would dream of crossing that bridge without mouthing the words: “Hello Pixies”… The widespread belief in folklore isn’t entirely surprising because the island is a wild and woolly place in a Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings kind of way. As such, it is incredibly beautiful.  If you haven’t been there and you wanted a shorthand description put in distinctly West Country terms, it would be vaguely accurate to describe it as a northern kind of Cornwall, but with bigger hills. There are beaches and high moors - there are busy seaside resorts and hidden villages tucked away in wooded vales - there’s a great deal of agriculture blended with plenty of things for tourists to do. So, a form of sea-bound Cornwall, but with a noticeably northern feel to it. Before the British Guild of Travel Writers invited me to attend their world-roaming annual general meeting on the island this winter, I’d never given the place much thought. If I did, I guess my shorthand thoughts went something like this… “That’s where crazy blokes belt around racing two-wheeled rockets known as motorbikes and where greedy folk put their dosh to avoid taxes.  And it’s where questionable folk hang out after they’ve sold our Government dodgy PPE. Surely, it’s nothing but a corner of England, Scotland or Ireland that somehow found itself removed from the mainland coast?” If that is what I lazily and silently felt about the Isle of Man, then I’d like to apologise. It is a truly gorgeous and fascinating part of the United Kingdom and everyone ought to come here and visit the place at least once. It really is an island of fabulous beaches, impressive mountains and lovely countryside. And it is a place that has more ancient culture and folklore in its little island finger than most large countries do in all their broad acres.  I particularly loved the fact that it boasts miles and miles of truly scenic heritage railways - and that it enjoys a local food scene which is second to none.  But for me - and I reckon for many other Brits who might go there for the first time - there is the surprise of discovery. The thrill of finding that a place that you’ve heard about all your life can be far, far more interesting, scenic, and welcoming than you’d ever previously dreamed it could be. Take those scenic heritage railways, for instance. Remarkably, the island boasts, not one, but three… the Isle of Man’s Steam Railway, the Manx Electric Railway and the Snaefell Mountain Railway.  Indeed, it turns out the island has a long-standing tradition of railway transport - and the Manx Electric Railway has a place in history all of its own. It is one of the oldest electric railways in the world. Established in 1893, it has been operating continuously for over a century, making it not only a crucial part of the island’s transport heritage but also a significant attraction for tourists and railway enthusiasts. Weaving approximately 17 miles over hill and dale, the Manx Electric Railway runs along the eastern coast of the island from the capital, Douglas, to the communities of Laxey and Ramsey. This route showcases some of the most spectacular coastal and countryside views the island has to offer, making the view out of the window an attraction in itself. We were fortunate to be offered a special one-off winter service from Laxey to Ramsey. Did I say Laxey? Well, no one could pass this place without visiting the biggest waterwheel in the world. The Laxey Wheel is the island’s most famous structure and its renown is well deserved. The vast edifice is a towering testament to the ingenuity of Victorian engineering. It also looks, as an artist friend of mine pointed out, like some kind of AI illustration of a waterwheel gone slightly wrong. That might be because its leat runs down the valley to the wheel’s base rather than down over the upper structure, as in most Westcountry waterwheel systems. The water is then introduced, under pressure, to a vast stone cylinder which looms to one-side - i.e. the structure, which has a circular staircase running up its outer wall. Visitors can climb this staircase - and I did, which is why I can say it is definitely NOT for anyone who suffers from vertigo.  The Laxey Wheel, with a diameter of 72 feet and a breadth of six feet, was certainly a marvel of its time. It could pump over 250 gallons of water a minute from the nearby mine-workings more than 600 feet below ground, a fact which allowed it to play a crucial role in enabling the miners to reach deeper in their search for valuable minerals. Down in the south of the island, Castletown narrow gauge railway is another must-see. As many will know, narrow gauge railways are often used for mountainous or intricate landscapes where the construction of a standard gauge line would be more complicated and costly. This toy-town line’s story dates back to the late 1800s, a period when the Isle of Man was developing its transportation infrastructure to boost tourism and provide essential services to remote areas. The line terminates at lovely Port Erin with its wonderful beaches, located way out on the south-west corner of the isle. Along with my fellow travel writers, I was staying in the IoM capital, Douglas, which is a charming coastal town somewhat reminiscent of those wonderful “kiss-me-quick - we do like to be beside the seaside” days of yore. The place has all the modern shops, restaurants and other facilities you’d expect in any busy British town - and it has a quite magnificent seafront, which in summer, boasts the famous horse-drawn tramway. It also boasts the main island museum, which I’d heartily recommend even if you don’t particularly like museums. We spent a truly fascinating afternoon there learning about all those myths and legends and about the tough, rough and, it has to be said, picturesque lifestyles enjoyed or endured by islanders down the centuries.  My other recommendation in Douglas would be a very good pub called the Quid’s Inn. There’s a turnstile at the main door and you really do have to put in a pound coin in order to gain entry. Which sounds a bit much, until you reach the bar and realise the excellent ales are far, far cheaper than a pint would cost here in the mainland UK. But of course, the main thing to do when visiting any island is to get out and about to see as much of that distant sea-bound landscape as you possibly can. On the Isle of Man this is relatively easy to do, thanks to the transport department’s Go Explore cards. These are available for one, three, five or seven days for adults and children (alternatively, there’s a family card for a reduced rate for two adults and up to three children). A single adult Go Explore card costs £19 for one day or £56 for the seven-day - and it is well worth the money because there is an excellent public transport system covering most of the island    There’s also a Go Explore Heritage card which allows both unlimited travel on all Isle of Man Transport scheduled bus and rail services AND admission to all Manx National Heritage sites (such as Douglas Museum and the Laxey Wheel) - available for five days only, this costs a bargain £63 per adult. As I’ve said, this is magnificent island. The self-governing British Crown dependency boasts fabulous rugged coastlines, vast rural landscapes, wild moorlands, a surprising number of medieval castles, and much else. It is an absolute jewel - and certainly a wonderful surprise for anyone who thought it was just the home of mainlanders wanting to avoid tax, and leather-clad men who like nothing more than riding motorcycles at suicidal speeds.  Speaking of which, we haven’t even mentioned the world-famous Isle of Man TT races here. They are, as everyone knows, one of the most exciting and perhaps perilous road races to be held anywhere on the planet - but unless you’re into very high speeds and motorcycles it is advisable to avoid the island during early June when tens of thousands of visitors come from all around the globe. Apart from the vast crowds, many of the roads are closed and you will not find any kind of accommodation vacancy for love or money.    I am told the island goes into full party-mode when the TT is on and I bet it’s a lot of fun. But if you want to see a very special place, boasting wonderful scenery, friendly locals, wonderful attractions and great food and drink - and you want it to feel like you’re abroad without actually leaving the UK - then the Isle of Man should come close to the top of your list.  FACT FILE  To find out more about exploring the Isle of Man visit https://www.visitisleofman.com/

There are three graves tucked away in a corner of a lonely Dartmoor graveyard which represent one of this region’s greatest ever stories. The tombs contain the remains of three kings who had the power of life and death over countless thousands. Collectively the men who lie there are known as the White Rajahs. Many West Country folk interested in the region’s history will have heard of them and perhaps know a little about the remarkable Brooke family - but there is no way anyone could understand just how big their story is without going half way around the planet to visit distant Sarawak. It is now one of two Malay states on the vast island of Borneo, but Sarawak used to be kingdom of the Brookes - and to this day their name survives long, loud and highly conspicuous in that distant, hot, humid, rain-forested land. Go to Sarawak’s capital, Kuching, as I did recently and you will see evidence of the Brooke dynasty everywhere. There are streets and roads named after the family, trendy bistros bear their name, dockyards, boats, bridges, roundabouts, institutes... Indeed just about everything imaginable that has some kind of public face or input will have at least one example named Brooke. And if the Brooke title doesn’t do it then there are places named after the Christian names of the three White Rajahs - James, Charles and Vyner - who all now lie in peace in the graveyard of St Leonard’s Church at cool and quiet Sheepstor. But it’s not just in the physical presence of place names that the Brooke dynasty remains highly conspicuous in Sarawak. It’s right there at the heart of the way in which people think and talk about their country. You hear constant reference to the “Brooke Era” or to the “Post Brooke Era”. For Sarawakians the dynasty remains a much more important part of everyday life than, say, our own historical link with the Tudors - or even, nowadays, to our referencing of concepts like “post-war Britain”. The men who rest at Sheepstor were everything to Sarawak. They ran it, they built it, they extended it - they just about invented it. In the past dozen years writing for this newspaper I have referred to the White Rajahs on numerous occasions, simply because I’ve always been in awe of the pure exoticism of their story - but never did I imagine they held such massive sway over an entire nation.  When I was invited to Sarawak by the Malaysian government recently to take a look at the eco-tourism they’re developing in the magnificent rainforests there, I promised myself I’d grab the chance to follow in the footsteps of the White Rajahs and put aside some time to see if any trace of them remained. There was no delving necessary. As I say, I was confronted by Brooke-this-that-and-everything-else the moment I entered the small and charming city of Kuching. I say small, but the place is beginning to sprawl in the most anarchic and materialistic of ways – the sort of thing none of the Brooke’s would have ever allowed. They were a disciplined and controlling trio - nothing much happened in the 105 years they ruled the roost there that they didn’t create, inspire, ban or veto. After talking to various people in Sarawak I think you could say that the Brooke Dynasty could otherwise be described as a benign dictatorship. They controlled everything - sometimes with a rod of iron, sometimes with violence - but they did it for the general good. And I came away with the impression that, although no such dynasty would be welcome now, the Brookes are generally regarded as having been a good thing rather than out-and-out bad - and that their form of colonial imperialism, though riddled with faults, eccentricities and failures, helped establish Sarawak to be the rather civilised place it is today. So who were these people who’ve now turned to dust in deepest, dampest, Dartmoor - and how on Earth did they get to be monarchs of such a distant land? The story has been written many times before - in fact there are even references to it in famous tales like The King and I. Joseph Conrad’s novel Lord Jim is said to have been based on James Brooke, the first White Rajah - and, believe me, by the end the whole dynastic shooting match had become very eccentric and colourful indeed. Here’s a brief outline of what must be one of the best ever tales to be related to the West Country… Just under 200 years ago James Brooke was trying his luck as a trader in the Far East, and not doing particularly well at it. But in 1833 he inherited £30,000 - a vast sum back then - and he spent some of the money on a 142-ton schooner called The Royalist. Five years later he was in Borneo where he found the town of Kuching facing a tribal uprising - he promptly offered to help the Sultan of Brunei and, with his crew, was able to help bring about a peaceful settlement. The Sultan was impressed and - to cut a long story short - eventually offered Brooke the title Rajah of Sarawak, but not before the Englishman had threatened him with military force to come good with his promise. Once Brooke was on the throne, he wasn’t about to give it up - on the contrary, he set about extending his influence and his domain. He formed a proper Western-style administration and civil-service, drew up laws and fought piracy which was endemic in those parts. In 1847 Brooke returned temporarily to England where he was granted all manner of great honours - and also given an estate at Burrator on Dartmoor as a thank you from a grateful British nation for his work in enlarging our influence in the Far East  Back in Sarawak, Brooke took charge of what amounted to 3,000 square miles of swamp, jungle and river, much of it populated by various tribes who were basically still living in the Bronze Age. They marked important events in their lives by taking the heads of other people in the community. If a Dayak husband failed to present a human skull to his wife after the birth of a child then it was feared that the newborn would meet with illness or even death. Likewise, no young Dayak warrior ever went courting without first donning an animal mask and skins and ambushing a fellow, often a woman or child from his own community. He then made his intended a present of his victim’s skull. Such acts were quickly outlawed by Brooke - as the new nation’s self-appointed judge, he presided over court sessions in the front room of his own house, a hastily assembled plank-and-thatch affair in Kuching. With his pet orang-utan, Betsy, scampering around in the background, the legal proceedings attracted much interest in Sarawak, although not for the reasons Brooke had intended. For many, the main draw was the opportunity to place bets on the fate of those on trial including, in one bizarre case, a man-eating crocodile. This creature stood accused of killing a court translator who had toppled drunkenly into the river one night and, after much weighing of the arguments for and against its punishment, Brooke solemnly recorded the verdict in his journal: “I decided that he should be instantly killed without honours and he was dispatched accordingly; his head severed from his trunk and the body left exposed as a warning to all the other crocodiles that may inhabit these waters.” Brooke never married - indeed, Google him today and you will find mention of his rather worrying liking for very young men - but before his death in 1868 he nominated as heir his sister’s son Charles Johnson, a former sailor, who changed his surname to Brooke upon becoming Rajah. A beneficent and much-loved ruler who was 39 when he came to power, Charles extended the boundaries of the land under his control into the interior until Sarawak was the size of England. He also abolished slavery and built roads, waterworks and even — in the style of a true Victorian — a railway. He also encouraged his British officers to take native women as lovers in the hope that they would become ‘sleeping dictionaries’ who could teach them the local language. But at home he was somewhat less easy-going. Charles was “a queer fish” according to his British wife, Margaret - an understated description of a man who had lost his eye in a hunting accident and replaced it with a glass one, taken out of a stuffed albatross. Charles did all manner of odd things – for example he forbade his sons to eat jam because he deemed it effeminate. His marriage became strained after he killed his wife’s pet doves and served them in a pie for her supper one night. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Margaret spent much of his 50-year period of rule back home in England - seldom seen without a green parrot perched on her wrist, she lived in a house near Ascot called Greyfriars and became obsessed with finding wives for their three sons. She did so by inviting eligible young women to join them in forming a musical ensemble known as the Greyfriars Orchestra. Among those attending the first rehearsal in 1902 was the Honourable Sylvia Brett — daughter of the 2nd Viscount Esher — later to become known by newspapers of the day as Sylvia, Queen of the Headhunters. Although she had no musical skills, Sylvia’s contribution to the Greyfriars Orchestra was as a percussionist. She obviously performed with beguiling effect, because one day the Brookes’ eldest son, Vyner, then 28, made his move, asking if he might tune her drum. A subsequent courtship resulted in their marriage in February 1911, after which they set sail for Sarawak. By then, the Rajah’s Palace was an imposing affair, perched on a hill overlooking the river in Kuching and comprising three airy bungalows with wide verandahs. The couple would sleep through the afternoon, then have tea and play tennis or golf in the cool of the evening. It might have been an idyllic existence living there as son and daughter-in-law of the Rajah, had Sylvia produced a son to ensure the succession. She became pregnant almost immediately, but the child she gave birth to in November 1911 was a girl — much to Rajah Charles’s disappointment. The following year, however, he received news from England that filled him with joy. His second son Bertram had married Gladys Palmer, an heiress to the Huntley & Palmers biscuit fortune, and she had a boy called Anthony who would serve as an heir if Sylvia failed to produce a son for Vyner.  Sylvia went on to have two more daughters, but no sons - and the antics of Princesses Gold, Pearl and Baba, as they were nicknamed by locals, would for decades fascinate the press in both Europe and America. By the 1930s Sarawak had become something of a music-hall joke and as he grew older, Vyner (who’d succeeded his father Charles) appeared to lose interest in the day-to-day business of government and considered abdicating.  Since his brother Bertram had suffered a nervous breakdown and was incapable of rule, his natural successor was his nephew, Anthony. In 1939, during one of Vyner’s annual pilgrimages to England for the flat-racing season, the 23-year-old heir apparent was left in charge of the country for six months, but was never made Rajah. He made a good impression on the British Colonial Office, despite his aunt Ranee Sylvia accusing him of inflated self-importance. She reported, among other things, that he had attached a gold cardboard crown to his car and ordered ox-carts and rickshaws to draw aside as he passed.  He denied these charges, but he was never allowed to inherit the rule of Sarawak because in 1946 Vyner agreed to cede it to the British Crown in return for a substantial financial settlement for him and his family. So it became Britain’s last colonial acquisition - and by then it was a broken nation having endured some of the worst horrors of the Japanese empire building in the Second World War. After failing in a long legal battle to have the sale of Sarawak reversed, Anthony began a second career as a self-styled ‘ambassador-at-large for the people of the world’, travelling the globe and campaigning for peace.  By then all three White Rajahs were lying in their final resting place at Sheepstor. Go there now and it is quite impossible to understand or imagine what power the three men had on the exotic and distant nation which is now part of Malaysia. Likewise, if you describe their modest Dartmoor burial plot to people in Sarawak they will gaze at you in disbelief. My rainforest guide Henry was appalled: “Surely,” he said, “the Brookes have tombs in one of your great cathedrals?” He couldn’t believe the photographs I showed him of Sheepstor. It is the very antithesis of the hot jungle where the Brookes held so much sway for 105 long, sweaty and eccentric years.

A few years ago we enjoyed one of the loveliest holidays we’ve ever had, travelling in absolute luxury and at an incredibly slow speed for a week through the lovely countryside of Burgundy with European Waterways … Happiness is a path, not a destination… The ancient quote dreamed up by some philosopher thousands of years ago still rings as true today as it did when the likes of Homer were taking to the seas. Which is just as well if you are holidaying on a canal barge, because getting there isn’t the point of the exercise at all.  Passing gently and slowly through beautiful countryside is what the mission is all about - and you may as well add luxury and a little decadence to the experience to make the journey something you will remember for years.  Travel: to go through or over a place during a trip or journey - to move from one place to another… So says one online dictionary, but the whole art of travelling is more elastic and thought provoking than that. And the speed at which you travel can change the experience immensely - so that if you are roaring through Central France on a motorway you might get the feeling that the countryside, formed of great endless plains, is a bit boring and bleak. But many of you will know that it is not monotonous at all - slow down or stop and you will discover scenic river valleys and forests dotted with villages so historic that they make our own medieval honeypots look like modern housing estates. I have known this fact about Central France for years - what I did not know until recently was that the very best way to see and immerse oneself deep in some of the most fabulous countryside in Europe was to journey through it by boat.  The good ship L’Art de Vivre started life as a Scottish lumber carrier, but she has been carefully transformed - according to the British holiday company European Waterways - into a floating celebration of the Burgundian “good life”.  I can vouch for that - I have rarely, if ever, been on a more luxurious journey - which is why this wondrous experience isn’t exactly the cheap.  The L’Art de Vivre’s four recently refitted cabins have modern en suite bathrooms and there’s a delightful saloon where you dine and generally loll about - and better still is the sizeable sun-deck where you can relax with a glass of wine as you glide through the pretty Burgundian countryside. There’s even a new spa pool near the bows in which I recently spent an extremely pleasant hour sipping Chablis - near Chablis - while being pummelled gently with hot bubbles. I am not, as many readers of this website will know, in the habit of going about the place looking like some posh millionaire - but I do believe that on this one occasion some folk walking on the towpath may have assumed I was one hell of a rich geezer.  There is no getting away from it, the L’Art de Vivre style of barging is all about opulence - indeed, it is just about as far from the boat’s original life of lugging lumber as you could imagine. In the old days people didn’t want to touch things with bargepoles - with European Waterways you’d do anything to get hold of one of their bargepoles. Indeed they refer to the boat as a “hotel barge”. There were just six passengers aboard for the week when we journeyed north up the Burgundy Canal (she takes a maximum of eight) and we were looked after and generally pampered by a crew of four. There was a young French pilot who had his work cut out guiding the big barge through seemingly impossible locks, sometimes with just half an inch to spare; there was an even younger hostess who served us high quality wines, among other things, with great charm and knowledge; there was the captain or tour guide who drove us around in a luxury minibus so that we could spend a few hours everyday exploring rather than just lolling about (an Englishman with immense historical knowledge of the region), and last but certainly not least there was a master chef who turned out multi-course lunches and dinners, the likes of which you’d only normally find at top-end restaurants.  We were doing European Waterway’s “classic cruise in Burgundy” which, in our case, meant doing it south-to-north. This began with us being conveyed from the meeting point in Paris down to a village called Chevroches about 60 miles south of Auxerre. We were lucky - the weather was fine and as soon as we’d left the motorway we began to realise we were in a very lovely area indeed.  It became ever more beautiful, so that by the time we reached the L’Art de Vivre tucked away in a silent, sylvan, river valley, we felt a world away from the French capital, even though the journey had only taken three hours. If the road trip had all been a bit of rush, then time was now to enter a kind of joyous, un-rushed, go-slow mode.  We were welcomed with good champagne and excellent canapés made by the chef - and this enjoyable repast was to set the tone for the week. Great food, great wine. And, as it happened in our fortunate case, great company. My wife and I instantly got along well with the wealthy young American couple who amazed us by saying that they were on their honeymoon - and with the more elderly English couple who’d been on many European Waterways cruises before.  By the time we’d unpacked and settled into our cabins it was time for pre-dinner drinks - and then came the mighty meal itself, beautifully cooked by a great chef who hailed from the Channel Isles, which meant he was a master of French cuisine but also knew how to adapt it to broader international tastes. During an entire week on the boat we were not presented with a single dish that I disliked. On the contrary - I liked them all. And although they weren’t really anything to do with the chef, the series of local cheeses we were treated to throughout were enough to harden the veins of the most ardent dairy-food-fanatic. I haven’t eaten a single mouthful of cheese since - you could not refuse any of the wondrous morsels on offer, which meant I almost ended the week mooing. Anyway, the next morning we began our go-slow journey in earnest - which meant a cruise through beautiful countryside past Chevroches in the Yonne Valley, to eventually arrive at Lucy-sur-Yonne.  Aboard the L’Art de Vivre you are master of your own slow-moving destiny, in that you can do what you wish. You might prefer to sit in a comfortable recliner watching the countryside go by, or you might feel like walking or cycling all those calories off by tootling up or down the towpath (good bikes are provided).  You are also offered a trip each day in the minibus - and, in the interests of seeing more of this beautiful area, all six of us took the opportunity throughout the holiday. On this first day we saw the only rain to fall all week - so it was a timely chance to visit the amazing Chateau of Bazoches, whose many illustrious visitors included Richard the Lionheart. The stately homer was later remodelled by Maréchal Vauban who was a find a French answer to Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The next day we tootled our splendid way north again from Lucy-sur-Yonne to Le Saussois - and now we were able to take the minibus up to one of the most remarkable and historic villages in all of France. Vezelay, perched on its hill-top with views for miles around, has more history in its little finger than many huge cities can boast. Much of it is centred on the Romanesque Basilica of St Mary Magdalene, which houses the female saint’s remains. Scratch the ancient stone surface in Vezelay, and you are instantly into a Dan Brown type world of religious secrets and conspiracy theories.   Could Mary Magdalene have had a child by Jesus? And if she did, did the male line go on to become the ancient Kings of France? Some people like to believe all this - and if you like such stuff then Vezelay is the capital of such mystery. Richard the Lionheart set forth from this place to go on Crusade, not once - but three times… All very interesting, and exhausting - so time for another big dinner aboard the L’Art de Vivre. The next day is Wednesday, which means it’s market-day in the beautiful 14th century medieval village of Noyers. So off we go to buy in provisions for the chef - then return to lunch aboard and wile away an easy afternoon watching the countryside get a little bit more dramatic as it approaches the cliff-lined region of Saussois. That evening, after mooring at Mailly-la-Ville, we were driven to dine at one of the best auberges in the region. The journey was worth it, the rib of beef was sublime. And perhaps I needed a trencherman’s portion of good red meat to be ready for the morning after - which meant being driven over to Chablis for a wine-tasting at the family-run winery of Jean-Marc Brocard.  Chablis happens to be one of my favourite wines - partly because shellfish happen to be one of my favourite foodstuffs. As everyone knows, the two go hand-in-wondrous-hand. And what you learn in this world-famous village is that the local soils are full of fossilised shellfish - indeed the geological term for the rock there is Kimmeridgian - which refers to the Dorset village of that name, famous for its high grade white chalk. I don’t know about you, but I find it mind-boggling that a type wine today can go so well with one type of foodstuff - i.e. shellfish - because the vines that make it are grown on billions of crushed and fossilised shellfish which perished 150 million years ago. I love synergy. And I love countryside. And the next day we tootled through plenty of lovely scenery as we made for our final destination of Auxerre, admiring vineyard clad slopes and limestone escarpments as we went. A turn around the town, a vast and sumptuous captain’s dinner, and that was it… The next morning it was all over and we returned to being mere mortals. By which I mean - we were no longer served upon hand and foot while doing nothing much at all but moving slowly - suddenly we were back in the real world of help-yourself and dashing to catch trains. Even slow-motion dreams eventually have to end somewhere.   Fact File European Waterways is the largest luxury hotel barging company in Europe, offering 6-night cruises on a large fleet of fully-crewed barges along the canals, rivers and lakes of France, Italy, Scotland, England, Ireland, Holland, Belgium, Germany and Luxembourg. Charters are also available.  To find out more about European Waterways: https://www.europeanwaterways.com

We’ve had two visits to the South Hams recently and soon we’ll be putting up several posts about two wonderful places in which to stay. But for now I thought we’d pt up a few images and videos of one wonderful beach you can reach if you drive far enough and are then prepared to walk down a steep slope. And, of course, back up again. The cove in question hasn’t got an actual name as far as I can make out from looking at the details maps - but if you look at the OS map for the South Hams you will find it between a place called Abraham’s Hole and Deckler’s island - which I shouldn’t think will mean much even to locals. Garra Rock will be a much more well known local landmark.

One of the loveliest places this website has ever visited was Norman Island, located in the picturesque British Virgin Islands (BVI) in the Caribbean - a hidden gem that offers a blend of unspoiled natural beauty and tranquility.  We visited a few years back and, alas, we were only there for one single long sunny day. But that was enough to make us want to return any time we can.  Norman Island is one of the over 50 islands and cays that make up the British Virgin Islands. The island is known for its landscapes which feature lush greenery, pristine beaches, and crystal-clear waters. The climate, like the rest of the BVI, is tropical, with warm temperatures year-round and a relatively dry season from January to July. History  The history of Norman Island is intertwined with that of the British Virgin Islands. Originally inhabited by the Arawak and later the Carib people, the islands were sighted by Christopher Columbus in 1493. Over the centuries, they became a melting pot of African, European, and indigenous cultures, which is reflected in the island’s traditions, music, and cuisine. Today the island is a haven for those seeking both relaxation and adventure. The main attractions include: Beaches: The island boasts some of the most beautiful beaches in the Caribbean, with soft white sand and turquoise waters, perfect for sunbathing, swimming, and snorkelling. Water Sports: Visitors can indulge in various water sports, such as sailing, fishing, kayaking, and paddle-boarding. Hiking Trails: For nature enthusiasts, there are hiking trails that offer scenic views of the island and its surroundings. Local Cuisine: The island’s cuisine, a blend of Caribbean flavours, can be enjoyed at various local restaurants and beachside cafes. Accessibility Norman Island is accessible by boat or ferry from Tortola, the largest and most populous of the British Virgin Islands. The nearby Beef Island Airport on Tortola is the main gateway for international travellers to the BVI. Sustainable Tourism The British Virgin Islands, including Norman Island, are committed to sustainable tourism. Efforts are made to preserve the natural environment and promote eco-friendly practices, ensuring that the beauty of the island is maintained for future generations. The island most definitely provides a tranquil escape from the hustle and bustle of modern life. Its unspoiled natural beauty, rich history, and array of activities make it an ideal destination for travellers seeking both relaxation and adventure in the Caribbean.

A decade ago we visited the Bitter End. Which sounds odd, but it is actually a yacht club, tucked away in the North Sound of Virgin Gorda in the British Virgin Islands. It was a breathtakingly beautiful spot back then - but that was before the dreadful hurricane of 2017 struck. All the photos illustrating this article were taken back then. I am told it was almost entirely destroyed but Hurricane Irma - but I am also informed by a friend who calls there regularly that the place has reopened and is fast regaining its former glory.  Before the Hurricane Before the hurricanes struck, the Bitter End Yacht Club was a paradise for sailing enthusiasts and beach lovers. Established in 1969, it had grown from a modest establishment into a renowned destination, famous for its nautical charm and lovely scenery. The resort had more 70 ocean-view rooms and suites - comfortable accommodation that blended seamlessly with the natural environment. It featured a world-class sailing school, a fleet of over 100 boats, and hosted prestigious regattas. Guests could engage in various water sports, from windsurfing to snorkelling in the crystal-clear waters. On land, the resort offered hiking trails, beachside dining, and a sense of serene isolation, only accessible by water. The Impact of Hurricane Irma In September 2017, Hurricane Irma, one of the most powerful Atlantic hurricanes on record, caused catastrophic damage to the Virgin Islands. The Bitter End Yacht Club was not spared - the hurricane ravaged the resort, leaving little standing in its wake. This disaster forced the resort to close its doors and rethink its future. We emphasise that all these images were taken in 2014, before the hurricane. The Rebirth After the Hurricane The rebuilding of the Bitter End Yacht Club has been a story of resilience and commitment to sustainability. The reconstruction focused not only on restoring what was lost but also on improving and innovating. The new Bitter End is designed to be more sustainable and resilient, with eco-friendly practices and structures better equipped to withstand future storms. Today, the resort has been partially reopened, with plans for a full reopening in stages. The new Bitter End retains its charm but with a modern twist. It offers updated accommodations, revamped dining experiences, and a renewed focus on environmental stewardship. The sailing school and marina have been restored, continuing the legacy of sailing excellence. The resort's rebirth also includes a stronger community focus. The Bitter End Foundation was established to support local recovery efforts and to invest in the community and environmental initiatives. This reflects a deeper commitment to not just rebuilding the resort but also supporting the broader Virgin Gorda community. We loved the place and would love to go back.

The idea of a luxury cruise in a boat passing through mountains might sound like a contradiction in terms. Cruises happen in places where there’s plenty of water - normally boats in mountains translate to white-knuckle rides in canoes or rafts. But a luxury cruise through some of Britain’s most beautiful mountains is exactly what I enjoyed aboard a large and well-appointed ship one summer week. The Spirit of Scotland belongs to European Waterways , the holiday company that specialises in luxury barge holidays which really do what the promise says on the tin. In other words, their voyages take place in what could be described as floating five star hotels - hotels that move slowly and elegantly through beautiful landscapes.  And landscapes don’t get much more beautiful than the Great Glen - the massive 70-mile long rift-valley which cleaves Scotland in two, stretching from the east coast at Inverness to the west coast near Fort William.  It is, of course, the Caledonian Canal that allows the Spirit of Scotland - with its luxurious cabins (for 12 passengers), comfortable lounges and fine dining - to cruise through mountains.  This remarkable waterway was constructed in the early nineteenth century by Scottish engineer Thomas Telford, and runs through more than 60 miles of the glen.  Thanks to the geological fault that formed this valley, it was an obvious route for a canal. Only one third of its length had to be man-made - the rest was created by nature in the form of Loch Dochfour,  Loch Ness ,  Loch Oich , and  Loch Lochy .  This meant that only 29 locks had to be constructed along the canal to take sizeable boats from coast to coast. Anyway, back to my holiday a few weeks ago aboard the Spirit of Scotland. She was purpose-built in 2001 and her style evokes that of the traditional steamers that plied the lochs of Scotland in times gone by. But she has spent most of her short life cruising the inland waterways in Europe in recent years.  However, this summer the Spirit of Scotland was brought to Scotland. Not surprising really, as the Caledonian Canal offers something of a gift-horse to a company that makes a living by operating these kind of holidays. For a start, the route is spectacularly beautiful. So even if the weather misbehaves, which it can do in Scotland, you can sit aboard and simply enjoy the tremendous views that pass slowly by.  This part of the world is also hugely rich in history - so the cruise director and one of the crew will convey you to all manner of fabulously interesting places aboard the two European Waterways minibuses which follow the boat wherever she goes.  That, in essence, is the basic recipe of a European Waterways holiday. You spend part of each day travelling aboard the hotel barge - and you also get to enjoy some kind of organised excursion. Then boat will moor somewhere quiet and pleasant each night and so that you and your fellow passengers can relax and enjoy a multi-course dinner made by the highly talented on-board chef.  He will also make you breakfast the next morning and cook a delicious lunch, which you enjoy either before or after you’ve been out on an excursion.  The trip from Inverness to Fort William offers a six-night holiday (as does the reverse trip back to Inverness) and it was, I have to say, the most enjoyable and relaxing thing I have done in a long time. Okay, so we were lucky with the weather - we had long periods of sunshine almost everyday, although we did experience the odd heavy rainstorm which was actually enjoyable to witness aboard the warm and comfy boat.  The food was outstandingly good and we had great fun each mealtime in the company of the other guests. The cruise director and crew were amazingly efficient and everything - and I mean everything - went without a single hiccup.  Each day we went off on an excursion and visited places like the Glen Ord whisky distillery for a private tasting, Cawdor Castle (home of Shakespeare’s Scottish Play), wild and scenic Glencoe, and romantic Eilean Donan and Urquhart castles. If I had one tiny criticism of my holiday it would be that these last two places were very overcrowded. But what did that matter to me? Instead of joining the bus-loads of tourists returning to overbooked hotels, I was propelled back to what felt like my own private yacht aboard a chauffeur-driven minibus. And once I entered its luxurious lounges I was offered a choice of top quality drinks and refreshments before going down to my well appointed cabin for a quick snooze in readiness for a large and jolly dinner.  European Waterways even arranged for visiting entertainment in the form of one of the best accordion and guitar duets I have ever seen and a remarkable bagpipe player, who marched up and down a lonely part of the glen where we’d moored, to put us into an entirely authentic Highland mood.  I would go as far as to say that a week aboard the Spirit of Scotland in the Great Glen is one of the most relaxing but stupendously scenic holidays that one could ever enjoy without leaving the UK.  And my wife and I added to this satisfying sensation of holidaying at home by catching the train all the way from Taunton to Inverness (Cross Country trains to Edinburgh www.crosscountrytrains.co.uk ). It somehow added a delightfully old-fashioned feel to a remarkable holiday - more Miss Marple than a cheap flight to Malaga - more John Buchan’s 39-Steps than Ryan Air.  And that is it in a nutshell - a holiday of old-fashioned elegance, but with a panoramic hint of scenic adventure thrown in.  FACT FILE The 6 night cruise aboard hotel barge Spirit of Scotland includes all meals, wines, an open bar, excursions and local transfers. Full barge charters are also available for families and groups. European Waterways: Tel 01753 598555               Website:  europeanwaterways.com

It’s back! One of the most flavoursome wild harvests around is popping its green leaves up all over the South West of England as we speak and home cooks who love to forage will soon be making soups, sauces, risottos and a form of pesto out of those gorgeous, super-tasty ramsons. That’s just to give it one of wild garlic’s many names. A few years ago I was at a cookery class given by the brilliant chef Mark Hix in his West Dorset home, and I couldn’t help but turn a little green as he picked up a fistful of wild garlic to make a very English form of pesto. The greenness had nothing to do with the pungent aromas wafting off the herb, it was simply envy on my part. Mark said pickers had gleaned his supply from the soft warm underbelly of southern Cornwall - at the time my local ramsons on Exmoor weren’t peeping even a tiny spear above the ground. Exmoor is normally two or three weeks behind the sheltered valleys of Cornwall in terms of nature’s cycle - but maybe not this year when the wild garlic seems to have come early. And when the temperatures do warm up the deep vales of the Brendon Hills are capable of producing vast carpets of the green and aromatic leaves. I’ve used two of the plant’s common names so far - it’s also known as buckrams, broad-leaved garlic, wood garlic, bear leek or bear's garlic. I’ve also hinted at its usefulness in the kitchen, but it does come with a health warning: every year in this country there are cases where people have been poisoned after picking and eating the similar looking leaves belonging to Lilly of the Valley. Well… similar when young. As they mature over a few days you should easily be able to see the difference. The wild garlic leaves are slightly convex and smooth edged with a single main vein, whereas the Lilly of the Valley has irregular edges and numerous deep veins. In my garden the two grow side by side, so it’s easy to see how they differ. However, I would advise anyone who has even the slightest scintilla of doubt not to go out harvesting ramsons unless escorted by an expert. The garlicky pong should be enough to give you a green light - but get it wrong and you could become very green indeed before turning a shade of blue. WILD GARLIC PESTO The very best way of utilising this free and delicious vegetable is to make an English form of pesto. Which prompts me to ask how it was that a herb-rich nation like ours could have failed to come up with a kind of sauce made from the act of grinding aromatic leaves in some kind of emulsifying agent? We have mint sauce, yes, but we don’t really have other intensely flavoured delights made from our delicious edible plants.  Pesto is now apparently the third most commonly used sauce in the world after ketchup and mayonnaise - not that the industrially made stuff even begins to compare with homemade. And you can make a British version of a pesto by using wild garlic, cold pressed rapeseed oil, a very mature cheese such as cheddar and some hazel nuts.  It does come with a health warning: every year in this country there are cases where people have been poisoned after picking and eating the similar looking leaves - so only harvest wild garlic if you know what you’re doing.  A spoonful of wild garlic pesto thrown into fresh cooked pasta creates an instant and delicious lunch - you can also use it as a side sauce for meats or fish or as a marinade. Stir a little into a spring vegetable risotto and you will have a vegetarian dish worthy of an award winning restaurant. But if you can’t be bothered to make pesto, here’s a basic risotto recipe for this most wondrous of wild herbs… WILD GARLIC RISOTTO Serves: 4 Ingredients: 300g Arborio rice 1litre vegetable or chicken stock 120ml dry white wine (optional) 2 tbsp olive oil 1 medium onion, finely chopped 2 garlic cloves, minced 100g wild garlic leaves, roughly chopped 100g freshly grated parmesan or very old cheddar cheese 2 tbsp unsalted butter Salt and pepper, to taste Lemon zest, for garnish (optional) Instructions: In a medium-sized saucepan, warm the vegetable or chicken stock over low heat. Keep it at a gentle simmer throughout the cooking process. In a heavy-bottomed pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the chopped onion and cook for 4-5 minutes, or until softened and translucent. Add the minced garlic and cook for another 1-2 minutes, stirring frequently. Stir in the Arborio rice, coating each grain with oil. Cook for 2-3 minutes, or until the rice grains become slightly translucent around the edges. If using, pour in the dry white wine and cook for a couple of minutes, stirring constantly until the liquid is absorbed. Begin adding the warmed stock to the rice, one ladleful at a time, stirring constantly and allowing the liquid to be absorbed before adding more. This process should take about 20-25 minutes, or until the rice is cooked al dente and has a creamy consistency. Stir in the roughly chopped wild garlic leaves and cook for an additional 2-3 minutes, or until the leaves are wilted and tender. Remove the risotto from the heat and stir in the grated cheese and unsalted butter. Mix well to combine, then season with salt and pepper to taste. Let the risotto rest for a couple of minutes to allow the flavours to meld. Serve hot, garnished with lemon zest if desired.

The Laxey Wheel is one of the must-see tourist destinations on the Isle of Man - indeed it was the first port of call for our recent British Guild of Travel Writer trip to the island where the organisation staged its 2023 AGM. Known as the world’s largest waterwheel, this vast structure stands as a towering testament to the ingenuity of Victorian engineering. It also looks, as an artist friend of mine pointed out, like some kind of AI illustration of a waterwheel gone slightly wrong. That is because its leat runs down the valley to the wheel’s base where the water is then introduced under pressure to the vast stone cylinder which looms to one-side - I.e. the structure which has the circular staircase running up its outer wall - a staircase which is very definitely NOT for anyone who suffers from vertigo.  Known locally as "Lady Isabella," after the wife of Lieutenant Governor Hope who inaugurated the wheel in 1854, it is the largest surviving waterwheel of its kind in the world. This majestic structure was designed by the talented engineer Robert Casement, and its primary purpose was to pump water from the Glen Mooar part of the 'Great Laxey Mines' copper mines. The Laxey Wheel, with a diameter of 72 feet and a breadth of six feet, was a marvel of its time. It was ingeniously powered by water from the Laxey River, which was channeled to the site through a network of pipes and troughs. The wheel could pump over 250 gallons of water a minute from the mine more than 600 feet below ground, playing a crucial role in enabling the miners to reach new depths in search of valuable minerals. When it was erected it became a symbol of the Isle of Man's rich mining heritage - and it still flies the flag for the genius and ingenuity of the island’s industrial past now. Today, the Laxey Wheel is under the care of the Isle of Man National Heritage Trust, an organisation committed to preserving the island's historical and cultural landmarks. The Trust has taken significant steps to maintain and restore this iconic structure, ensuring that it continues to captivate visitors with its grandeur and historical significance. The Trust's efforts have been instrumental in not just preserving the wheel but also in educating the public about the island's industrial heritage. Visitors to the Laxey Wheel can explore the site, which includes a climb to the top of the wheel for a breathtaking view of the surrounding landscape - a climb which, as I say, is not for those who are afraid of heights.  The site also features informative displays that provide insights into the wheel's history and operation, as well as the broader story of mining on the Isle of Man. The Laxey Wheel is more than just an engineering feat; it is a cherished part of the Isle of Man's heritage.

West Country woods echoed with the sound of folk collecting branches for their ashen faggots this week; young men have been stitching and cobbling together costumes for the seasonal Mummers’ Play; the people of St Ives have polished their clogs in readiness for the annual Christmas Dance; master-bullocks performed their midnight duty, kneeling and bellowing three times to hail the Babe of Bethlehem; and tradesmen all over the region were adding a little extra this or that to the orders of their favourite customers. Dream on. The modern story of a rural Christmas goes more like this: there’ll have been a last minute panic to order oil for the central heating (no ashen faggot), kids will been gazing into their phone screens (no Mummer’s Play), the Christmas dancers will indeed have danced but in some long-haul holiday night-club, the master-bullock probably had nightmares about veganism taking over the planet and destroying the need for cattle, and as for generous trades-folk handing out free goods, not much chance of the giant online retailers doing that. Ah well, we can at least dream of Christmas-past. The people of the West Country took the great occasion very seriously indeed in years gone by, and one can’t help thinking it was a more poignant, merry and altogether more human festival than the commercial nonsense we endure today. Take that ashen faggot for instance. This was the West Country’s version of the traditional Yule-log – and what could be merrier than toasting away the evil spirits of midwinter to the sound of an ashen-faggot’s crackle? I have written about this custom before, but I now learn that the practice of faggot burning was widespread across the peninsula and that people performed all sorts of variations on the drunken theme. Basically you throw a bundle of ash sticks on the fire and stand ready with your glass. As the bindings of the faggot burn (they can be made of anything supple from withies to honeysuckle) so they crackle and pop. And, each time they do, you must take a swig and make a toast that will banish the dark midwinter spirits from your home. The thing is that the bindings can crackle and pop quite a lot, so it’s best to have your turkey all stuffed and ready to go, because you might not feel like preparing the beast in the morning. More drinking and merriment used to go on during the Mummers’ Play which was a widespread Westcountry tradition at Christmas. Here’s what Exmoor poacher Lordy Holcombe had to say about the custom more than 100 years ago: “The chief character was old Father Christmas. He used to be got up as a venerable old fellow, with a long white beard and big cloak. He had a bad cough, and had to support his tottering footsteps with a staff. He and his party were always welcome visitors at farmhouses, and whilst the inmates sat round a comfortable fire, we actors were introduced one by one and went through our parts.” Now let’s head west and take a turn around the town of St Ives with the Christmas Dancers. It was known as ‘guise-dancing’ and it went on during the 12-days of Christmas. Apparently youngsters in the town would dress up in all manner of fancy costumes and go about the town with faces covered with masks or whatever. It seems they would call upon friends – or enemies – and speak in high falsetto voices so as not to be recognised. On Christmas Day the children of St Ives would go down to Porthminster Beach where they’d play games and dance. Alas, the ancient tradition of ‘guise-dancing’ disappeared from the Cornish port sometime between the two world wars. As for a master bullock kneeling in homage to the Babe of Bethlehem, Exmoor authoress Alice King recorded at the end of the 19th century that it was well known that this would occur in farm mangers across the Westcountry on the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve. The biggest bullock in the herd would low three times before kneeling with all the other animals in the barn. What about the old Christmas custom of tradesmen putting something a little extra when boxing-up orders for their favourite customers? West Somerset historian, the late Hilary Binding, wrote: “Most tradesmen managed to put a little something extra among the week’s order for the goods supplied for Christmas – usually with an eye to the customer’s spending and his future goodwill. Grocers might give dried fruit, candied peel or spice while ironmongers would provide a cup or a plate. The giving of flour by the bakers seems to be a tradition that goes back over a very long period and it was, of course, like the fruit and spices, intended for the making of the Christmas pudding.” Another historian working in the region, F. J. Snell, wrote back in 1903: “In connection with Christmas it may be mentioned that in the West Country it is reckoned a crime to kill a robin. This notion is believed to have sprung from a beautiful old legend that, as the Saviour hung on the cross, the little bird toiled to extract the nails from His bleeding hands, and that some drops of sacred blood falling on its breast, left the red stain which we now find.” And so the customs of a West Country Christmas past go on and on. There are many other traditions I haven’t the space to record here – but just writing about the subject has put me, and I hope you, in a jolly, old-fashioned, Christmas spirit. And, with a sentimental tear, I shall leave you with this merry little verse that the region’s children used to sing a century ago or more: “Christmas Day in the morning,/ Joesph whistling, Mary singing,/ All the bells of heaven are ringing,/ Christmas Day in the morning. n.b. The reference to Lordy Holcombe and the Mummer’s Play comes from The Autobiography of a Poacher, reprinted and published by Halsgrove. And the notes from F.J. Snell come from A Book of Exmoor, also reprinted and published by Halsgrove. TIPPLE A favourite West Country Christmas tipple was a strange concoction called Lamb’s Wool. This was a great stew of warm ale into which roasted apples and spices had been thrown. On Christmas morning each member of the household was treated to one of the apples, which they ate before drinking back the flavoured ale. Cracker jokes from times past. Just over a century ago one local newspaper, the West Somerset Free Press was pleased to carry the following cracker-style jokes… Q: Who is the oldest lunatic on record? A: Time out of mind. Q What pudding resembles WG Grace? A: A good batter. Q Why are ladies like arrows? A: Because they cannot go off without a beau and are always in a quiver until they get one.