It’s that time of year when this website revisits the children’s fairytale , The Deer Park - which is available at Recently I’ve been messing about with some of the images which could be further used inside the book… The Deer Park is a modern fairytale written in the tradition of the Brothers Grimm and other European storytellers. By utilizing classic tropes found in old traditional fairytales, The Deer Park follows the story of a brother and sister whose father has gone off to fight in a war. It is midwinter in their ancient village (which is based on the famous and picturesque Dunster in South West England), and the tale begins when local children are having an adventure in the old medieval Deer Park. Suddenly, warplanes skim low over the hills on their way to the Land of Coal and Steam across the sea-channel. The deafening roar of engines causes the children run in all directions. Avill, the brother, is soon lost in the dark forest. A winter storm is brewing, and the boy, finding himself in a sheltered dell, hugs the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree, which is knocking against another tree high above. After a while, the sound of wind in the trees seems to translate into words the boy can understand, and so he begins to know the tree-spirits of the forest. His sister finds him, and as the snow falls in the dusk, the pair embark on an adventure which will include Christmas at the big castle which dominates the village, a big freeze, deep snow, a sleeping giant, a strange but friendly witch, an ancient dancing hobby horse, and a few more of those threatening aeroplanes. There is the hardship and darkness often found in the classic fairytales of yore, caused by the cold winter and the threat cast by those aeroplanes. There is also courage, fortitude, hope, and redemption as the children embark upon a plan to bring their father home from war safe and sound. There’s a great deal of Yuletide atmosphere in the story - as is witnessed when the children have to help serve Christmas dinner up at the huge castle. There’s also plenty of classic fairytale content - such as the old witch who lives in a cottage with her three large cats…. I’m not sure how this particular witch managed to grow a beard - that’s not in The Deer Park story - but blame the robots who’ve been helping me with the images. Sometimes their enthusiasm gets carried away. At other times they get hugely traditional, like when I asked them to create a picture based on the above synopsis…

It’s funny how some events stick in our memory and others disappear into the fog of the past. Certain occasions in life are life-changing, upending the status quo and forever affecting the path to the future, and that are hot branded, as it were, into our memory banks, and yet other events, equally consequential, dissipate and disappear like the sparkle and smoke from an erstwhile brilliant roman candle. Just such an occurrence is the mystery of how I ended up in Treborough, in West Somerset’s Brendon Hills late in 1973. I had left my job at Island Records at the end of 1972, and moved to a small hamlet outside Minehead, to work with a couple of friends renovating an old cottage belonging to another friend’s mother. By the summer of that year, I had fallen in love with Hilary, sister of one of my builder buddies, and in true dharma bum fashion, she and I lived in a tent in some woods close to Dunster. She worked as a waitress at a restaurant in Minehead, and I continued building. As autumn approached, living under canvas became damper, colder, and not quite so romantic. And there was the small matter of hygiene. It was one thing for me to wash in a nearby stream before setting off for work on a building site, it was another for Hilary to succeed in banishing the scent of woodsmoke from herself and her clothes before a day of waitressing.  So we needed a real roof over our heads. And this is where memory fails me. Just who it was that mentioned that there was a vacant cottage in Treborough, I have no idea. But there was a vacant cottage there, in the farmyard of Higher Court Farm, and we moved in at the end of the summer.  Hot water, a gas stove in the kitchen, an antique but working refrigerator, a Rayburn stove in the living room that not only heated the house, but also the water, a bathroom and two bedrooms upstairs. Our bedroom looked out over part of the farmyard, with pens and ancient stone stalls abutting a vast partly thatched and very ancient stone and cob barn, down the valley, past a copse of beech trees, and gave a partial view of the distant meadows, through which we soon discovered, one could walk to Luxborough, the next village, a distance of a mile or two. By road, the distance was more like seven or eight miles. It was an idyllic spot. As a child, my family had always vacationed in the West Country, and so living on the farm was, for me, like being on a perpetual holiday. Lying in bed at night one would hear the sounds of ewes calling for lambs, cows gently bellowing come-hithers to calves, the distant hooting of owls echoing in the valley, sounds that strangely became spectral as they exercised our minds, dogs from the neighbouring farm informing the hills that they had scented a far-off fox, and the wind soughing through the beeches, a constant sifting of the leaves, now a soft murmur and then a gossipy clamour, followed by a short mumbling silence, developing again into a murmur. To maximise the experience, we raised the head of the bed by setting the legs up on a couple of bricks, which gave us a better sense of the panorama outside. With both windows at the foot of the bed fully open, we’d snuggle under blankets as the westerly wind brought us all these mysterious tidings from afar, wrapped in fragrant whiffs of manure and hay, silage and Somerset’s lush and aromatic fecundity, and the lowings and bleatings became fainter, and the valley became swathed in darkness, slumbering under the West Country moon. Hilary left the restaurant and spent her days working in the garden, and I volunteered to repair some of the crumbling stone walls around the farmyard. It was only a matter of days before the two of us became increasingly entwined in farm life. I was constantly called from the wall I was rebuilding to help round up cattle that had strayed through broken fences several fields away, and I soon realised that fence repair had to trump wall repair, and so within a few weeks of living in the cottage, I was on the farm payroll, learning about cattle, the intricacies of driving David Brown tractors, devouring The Farmers Weekly, and living rent free. How much I got paid I really can’t recall, but I think it was seven or eight pounds a week. A princely sum to be paid for the simple act of living in paradise. Daily life began with The Routine, which followed a quick breakfast of cereal and a cup of tea, which started by gathering the eggs, which was an interesting adventure as the chickens were not only free range, they were free roosting. The flock was a bewildering aggregation of every breed of chicken one could imagine, and then some. Rhode Island Reds, Leghorns, Orpingtons, Sussex, Plymouth Rock, Wyandotte’s, plus a mad variety of bantams of all colours imaginable, and all of course, cross-breeding in all directions. They had the run of the yards and outbuildings and thus made their nests where they wanted. One soon learned where most of the nests were, but every few days one would find a fresh nest, with maybe a dozen eggs in it, of unproven vintage. That entailed putting them in a bowl of water, and those that floated were old. The ones that sunk you took your chances with. Then to the main part of the routine, the feeding of the herd. In the winter, the steers and heifers were wintered in a large barn, close to the farmhouse, where they were fed barley and concentrate in addition to the silage they had 24-hour access to.  The silage was in a second large barn adjacent to the building in which they spent their winter days, and was behind a strand of electrified wire that had to be moved forward a few inches every day as the animals ate their way through this mountain of nutritious and fermented grass. The wire, powered by a 12-volt battery, had to be constantly checked for current - if it was shorted out by anything, the cows very quickly realised that they had unfettered access to the silage, and chaos and mayhem ensued. And much silage was spoiled. The main breeding herd was up on the common, Treborough Common, where there was another barn and silage clamp, and the same process was followed there. We had around 120 cows, mainly Hereford and Hereford crosses, but a good smattering of Angus, some Friesians, and a couple of Ayrshires. It was a mile or two from the farmhouse to the common, uphill all the way, and we’d get there on tractors, tractors with no cabs, and seats with no cushions other than perhaps a bit of foam and a fertiliser bag to keep it dry. Once up there one could see twenty or thirty miles in every direction - in the winter, clouds would anchor themselves on the hill for days on end, and on those days it was invariably a wet and cold trip to the common and back. The routine was usually over by 9.30 or 10, and we’d all converge back at the farmhouse for a communal breakfast, a big huge and hearty breakfast, which necessarily had to be huge and hearty because it was on most occasions the last opportunity to eat before supper, after the day’s work was done. And it was at breakfast that the day’s work would be discussed and planned, and farm life being farm life, that depended upon the weather. And upon Garfield. Garfield was the postman. I have no idea what his full name was, whether he was Mr Garfield Someone, or Mr Someone Garfield. To all of us, he was simply Garfield. He walked from Luxborough where the Post Office was, through the meadows, past the cottage at the bottom end of the lane, up past Lower Court Farm, and finished his morning delivery at Higher Court Farm. His mother had had the round before he, and quite possibly her mother or father before that. Who knows?  Anyway, the thing was that whatever tasks Higher Court or Lower Court might address each day depended upon the weather.  And it was Garfield upon whom we all depended.  If the morning routine went as planned, we would be back at the farmhouse just in time to meet Garfield, who would predict the day’s weather with what seemed to be uncanny accuracy. If perchance we missed him because of problems with the electric fence or a sick cow, we would hopefully run into Harry Bishop astride his tractor in the lane outside our yard, just finishing his morning routine,  who had seen him a few minutes before, and who had debriefed the oracle.  Depending upon Garfield’s prognostications, we would mow grass, spread fertiliser or harrow ploughed land in the sunshine, or spend a rainy day inside the machine shed repairing equipment in the dry. The rhythm of our days was determined by this twinkly-eyed man of sixty-odd years, clothed in the same apparel day in and day out. A vest, flannel shirt, a waistcoat and jacket, blue serge trousers - and in the winter a long overcoat atop it all - and his postman’s cap. He always had time to chat, always had a boiled sweet in a waistcoat pocket to offer, and a kind word for my children, who quickly learned about the boiled sweets. After his departure, as he walked alone through the meadows, back to Luxborough, we’d breakfast and plan the day, and now and then ponder upon just how this old countryman acquired his wisdom. Was it how the cows in the meadows stood, backs to the wind? Or lay in the luxuriant greensward, chewing and truly ruminating? The calls the crows made at dawn? Blissful and sublime sunsets or disturbing and portentous sunrises? What signs and harbingers signified what? It was all a mystery, a conundrum, a riddle that bordered upon the arcane. Just what age-old rustic and esoteric secrets did this unassuming postman possess? Eventually, one morning, bothered and confounded by these unending speculations, I simply had to broach the subject: ‘Garfield, I’m just amazed that you are so accurate with the weather. How do you do it?’ A little surprised by the question, he rubbed his eyes, adjusted his cap and unwrapped a mint. Popping it into his mouth, he regarded me with a puzzled look.  ‘Well’, he said, in that soft Somerset burr, ’tis quite simple, really. I gets up at four and puts the kettle on, and then turns on the BBC, and listens to the weather. Not much to it, really.’

Chris Blackwell started Island Records in Jamaica in 1959, recording local talent. His first three releases all made the Jamaican charts. By 1962 he had set up operations in England, selling ska to Britain’s growing West Indian population, and come 1964 had a world-wide hit with Millie Small’s ‘My Boy Lollipop’. Not too long after that, he signed The Spencer Davis Group, fronted by a very young Stevie Winwood, who shortly thereafter begat Traffic and the rest, as they say, is history. Well, sort of.  Neil Storey, who started working at Island in June of 1974 in the sales force, and went on to run the company’s Press Office, has, over the years, gathered together an astonishingly complete archive of all things Island, and as the years passed by and his collection grew, he became increasingly dismayed at the amount of inaccurate information that was presented as fact. He quite rightly reasoned that in lieu of there being a well-researched history of the label, these inaccuracies would become de facto ‘facts’ and the label’s true history would become distorted and forgotten. And so began, in 2007, a work that has finally come to fruition this year with the publication of ‘The Island Book Of Records 1959-1968’ (Manchester University Press), the first of a series that will span several more volumes in total, ending in 1989, the year that Chris Blackwell sold the label to Phonogram.  Neil was posed this question by Music Week: “Why did you feel this book – or rather set of books – needed to be written?”  “The IBOR books needed to be written because, quite simply, a musical generation is dying right before our eyes. Not just the major-generals but the foot-soldiers, too. There is a direct consequence of this not being done – because if the recollections of those who were there, on the front line at the time, aren't collected then future generations will end up relying on... second-hand information at best.”  Anyone who has had even just a passing interest in popular music during the second half of the 20th century cannot fail to be aware of Island Records. From its beginnings in marketing Jamaican music in the UK, and then to Europe, and ultimately the entire world - think Bob Marley, Desmond Dekker, Toots and The Maytals, Jimmy Cliff and countless others, to waving the flag for progressive rock as exemplified by Traffic, Jethro Tull, King Crimson, Cat Stevens, Nirvana, Spooky Tooth, Fairport Convention, Mott The Hoople and so on, the label very quickly achieved iconic status, and by the end of the sixties was the preferred and very much desired home for any self-respecting band. This book tells the story of that first decade, and in intriguing depth. Not only does it catalog every Island release - yes, you read that correctly - every Island release, but also shows the cover art of every LP, in chronological order, the story of how that particular release came into being, who designed the cover art, who produced the session, who played what instrument, and the release date. Also included are memories of those who were involved with that release - sometimes the musicians, sometimes company staff who promoted, sold or physically produced the final product. The reader can lift the curtains of obscurity and take a peek at what happened, and when. And on one or two odd occasions, such as the release of 'John Foster Sings',  that reader might be heard to mutter, “Why?”  Not only are the original LP covers included, and the sleeve notes, but relevant advertisements for club dates in London - which are a joy to behold, featuring as they do a long-gone world of clubs, bands both homegrown and visiting from the USA -  - mostly long-gone too - and dozens of photos, many of them outtakes from ancient photoshoots which only go to magnify the depth of this astonishing book. Promo posters, music paper advertisements, master tape boxes, concert tickets, label shots … they are all there. There is a complete and definitive listing of all Island’s 45s, from the early Jamaican issues starting in 1959, and then the UK-based label starting in 1962, and then the legendary Sue label run by the equally legendary Guy Stevens, subsidiary labels such as Black Swan, Jump Up, Treasure Isle, Studio One, Brit and Aladdin. And more! The format is LP-sized, that is to say, twelve inches by twelve inches, and the book is a weighty two inches thick to boot. A hefty tome indeed, but its main heft is the attention to detail, a staggeringly complete collection of artefacts, reminiscences of those who were there at the time, in-depth interviews with such pivotal figures as Graeme Goodall, the Australian engineer who along with Leslie Kong, was one of Blackwell’s early partners, who explains just why those early Jamaican 45s ran no more than two minutes and fifty seconds, a detailed biography of Chris Blackwell’s family … nothing of import has been left out.  Full disclosure: One, Neil Storey is a dear friend of mine, and two, I worked at Island for many years starting in 1965, and because of my having worked there during the period that this book is concerned with, I can say with complete confidence that this is the true story, this is the real deal. Not only has nothing been left out, but he has dug up a huge amount of information that many of us who worked there never knew existed. Well done, Mr. Storey. The ‘Island Book Of Records’ is a tour de force, a magnificent and sublime work. Bring on Volume Two!

Thought I’d put up another snippet from my new novel The Lemon Tree Forest while I’m waiting for the cover to be finished - just a little taster of the parts written and based in Greece. We used to live there, a long time ago - and some of it is based on my own memories of that beautiful and distant place… …Often Hercules the shepherd will be nearby in the afternoon and you do not want to give him ideas.  And sometimes the old man whose name I never know comes down with his donkeys or mules for the water that gushes from under the carved rock.  It is just a minute's stroll up the hill from the house, and they say the water is good for aches and pains.  It is certainly wonderful to drink, but I cannot vouch for its healing quality.  Happily, I have nothing but a hangover to heal.  The older village folk believe in it though, and they send the old man with his mules and donkeys to fill his panniers.  Just above the spring there is an ancient, worn, carving that they say was done a long time before Christ was born - and if you sit and stare at it for long enough, you can see it depicts a man on a horse.  Who he was, and what the old folk know of him, I have never been able to find out.  But every once in a while a group of them come and kneel at the spring and kiss their fingers so they can touch the carving and mutter some mantra that I cannot understand.  They are unlikely to be here today.  Not in this heat.  But it is better not to go about unclothed.  I knew two English girls who sunbathed naked once on the remote half-moon beach, despite us telling them it would upset the villagers.  On the second day a crowd gathered on the clifftop and started pelting them with stones.  They had to swim away to escape, and were not welcome back to the village after that.  I make it my business never to upset the villagers, so put on a robe in case someone has come to our secret place.  There is a tree in the grove that produces a strange, bitter, hybrid fruit that is ideal for crushing.  The juice tastes like a kind of cross between lemon, orange and tangerine, and it is so sharp it can take the lining off your teeth.  You wouldn't want to eat the fruit, not only because it’s so sour, but because it is full of pips.  Crushed and mixed with a little sugar and water, though, the fruit provides a refreshing drink.  If you take an aspirin and drink a pint of the stuff, even an ouzo and beer hangover will pass, especially if you follow it with a dish of pasta, wild herbs and eggs. A long, slow, lazy lunch.  A little writing.  And before I know it, the afternoon has passed and the heat is beginning to moderate as the first breeze of the day stirs among the groves.  So regular is the afternoon wind, you could set your watch by it.  Another swim, and it is time to climb to where we keep the car.  There is a shortcut through the bush and it crosses some big black rocks where the jumping snakes live.  They bask in the heat that is more intense on the rocks, and when you disturb them they leap along escape routes like coiled springs.  “They will never bite you, but they are poisonous,” Thanassis the fisherman once told me. “They are jumping for their escape routes and as long as you let them go. No problem.” I asked him what happened if you were to get between one and its escape route. “Don’t,” said my fisherman friend. I could drive up and down the wider track that has been cut into the mountain, and sometimes do, but it is rough and my car would never return to England if I made a habit of it.  Sometimes, when we clamber down over the big black rocks in the cool of night, the surface has collected so much heat during the day that you can feel it radiating up into your face.  It is the only place I know where the rocks are still hot in the early hours of the morning.  And always, by the big black slabs, there are the rustlings of night creatures that have come there for warmth. At the car you have to open all the windows and doors and wait five minutes before you can get in, and even then the steering wheel can be too hot to touch.  But this is rural Greece - a place where waiting five minutes is regarded as an act of haste.  The V4 starts with a clatter and soon, after the hot walk up and the wait, I can enjoy the breeze blowing through the open windows.  It is wonderful and cool and it is tempting to drive fast to create more breeze.  It’s a good road on which to drive.   The bends are good - you can take them at speed when you know them and the tyres squeal a lot when I drive down to Kalloni.  All the way the car is filled with the aromas of mountain thyme and rosemary, supplemented by the sharp scent of lemon when you reach the outskirts of the village. There is one main street with a couple of tavernas, three shops, an agricultural equipment dealer and a kafeneon.  In the mornings just after dawn we drink tea laced with brandy at the latter, and late in the afternoon we go to Jorgo's Taverna.  Jorgo is a strangely aloof young man, with a nice smile and an inexhaustible enthusiasm for card games.  He seems indifferent to everything and anything that occurs in the village.  He serves drinks, plays cards, eats the food his aged mother provides.  And that is all he does.

Today is Halloween - or so I’m told. I don’t go down the Halloween route like so many people do nowadays - probably because of my age - it was never a thing when I was growing up in the West Country. But, as a newspaper feature writer I was often asked to write about the most spooky day in the calendar - and here is a piece I did for the Western Morning News many years ago… Punky Night will be upon us soon and the Spriggans of West Penwith, the Black Dogs of various hapless West Country parishes, the wicked vicars of Luxulyan and elsewhere, the mad bad squires of Devon, the Whisht Hounds of Exmoor and Dartmoor, phantom doves of West Somerset and other sundry pariahs, phantoms and ghosts will be stirring in their graves or wherever else they hang out for most of the year.  Punky Night is Somerset-speak for Halloween - a punky being naught but a hollowed out mangel-wurzel carved into a face and lit from within. When I was growing up in the shadows of the Quantock Hills, we didn't go in for Halloween much. I can't recall any of the village kids embarking on the trick-or-treat rigmarole they do today. Perhaps it was because we were a more puritanical lot back then - non-conformist Christianity still held much of the rural West Country in its iron and wrathful grip.  Nowadays just about every child in the region seems to venture forth on the night of October 31st, and the whole thing is regarded as a kind of massive, compulsory, party.  Goodness knows what famous West Country supernatural beings like the Spriggans or wraiths like Whisht Hounds, wicked vicars, mad bad squires and infamously spooky doves would think. Why bother chasing hapless folk to their death on the high moors and other remote places if the so-called victims regard the whole thing as a jolly nocturnal jape? We Somerset kids half a century ago would have been far too afeared of the phantom-filled dark to go marching about banging on people’s doors. We’d tentatively hollow-out the odd mangel-wurzel in time honoured fashion to form a spooky face flickering in the glow of an interior candle - which we’d then mount in our rain-lashed gardens before locking the door behind us. Only the posher families, by the way, had pumpkins back in those days.  But, for the most part, Halloween was a low-key occasion. It wasn't always like that here in the West Country, of course. After all, we invented the event...  More than 2,000 years ago the Celtic folk who haunted these parts celebrated their New Year around the end of October, beginning of November.  Quite sensible when you think about it, as the occasion marked - still marks - the end of summer and the beginning of winter. They called the festival Samhain, and for them it was a time associated with human death.  The Celts believed that on the night before their New Year, the border between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. They thought that ghosts returned to earth on the night of October 31st and went around the place causing trouble and damaging crops. They also believed that the spirits made it easier for the Druid priests to make predictions about the future. It's thought the West Country locals would light huge sacred bonfires, where people gathered to burn animal sacrifices to the Celtic deities. During these celebrations, weird and wonderful costumes would be worn - you know the sort of thing - animal heads, skins, antlers... And, so dressed, the priests would go about telling fortunes.  You might think all this would have died its own death once the Romans had conquered the western parts of Britain. In fact, they combined it with two festivals of their own. The first was Feralia, a day in late October when the Romans traditionally commemorated the passing of the dead. The second was a festival to honour Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees. Her symbol was the apple, and the incorporation of this celebration into Samhain might explain the tradition of "bobbing" for apples that is practised today on Halloween.  The apple was always the most important of all fruits connected with the spooky ceremony. It was thought to be a sort of a link between men and gods, and West Country folk apparently went as far as to believe in a sort of 'apple-land' - called Avalon - where they thought the gods lived.  The Allan apples of Cornwall were supposed to bring good luck. All you had to do was eat one. I, alas, have never heard of this variety but would be most interested to hear from anyone who has. In Devon and Somerset people believed that apples could reveal the identity of their future love. Method: comb your hair at midnight while eating an apple in front of a mirror - look up and there will be your future lover's visage peering down at you in the reflection. This was more likely to meet with success after having imbibed freely of that well known West Country by-product of the apple - cider... When Christianity came along it, of course, scorned the pagan rituals. But the popes of old were not daft - they knew they had to keep the natives friendly with some sort of knees-up to replace earlier high times. In the seventh century, Pope Boniface IV designated November 1st All Saints' Day. The celebration was also called All-hallows or (from Middle English Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day) and the night before it, the night of Samhain, began to be called All-hallows Eve - eventually, Halloween.  Later, sometime around 1000 A.D., the church made November 2nd All Souls' Day, when believers could honour the dead - just like old times. Together, the three celebrations, the eve of All Saints', All Saints', and All Souls', were called Hallowmass. As late as the last century the belief lingered on in several West Country parishes that the local church was a place best avoided during the darkest of all dark nights. There seemed to have been two separate ideas behind the fear - one legend had it that the Devil himself would take to the pulpit and reel off a list of evil-doers in the parish - mortals he regarded as being his own property. The other belief centred on the idea that you could risk seeing your own future if you entered the church then turned to gaze out through the porch.   The American tradition of "trick-or-treating" probably dates back to the early All Souls' Day parades in England. During the festivities, the poor would beg for food and would be given pastries called "soul cakes" in return for a promise to pray for the donor's dead relatives. The practice was taken up enthusiastically by children who would go around the villages asking for food and money. Exactly why our trans-Atlantic cousins took to Halloween in such a big way is something of a mystery, but it obviously had something to do with the fact that so many early immigrants came from the western fringes of Europe, like the West Country. We had our Punky Night mangel-wurzels - the Irish had exactly the same carved root crop routine, but called it Jack O' Lantern. Today Halloween is far bigger in the United States than it is in the land of its birth. It is estimated that Americans spend $2.5 billion annually on the event making it the country's second largest commercial holiday. They're welcome to it. Give me a hollow mangel-wurzel and a candle - and I'll raise a glass of cider to the dead or anyone else for that matter. The Americans can keep their gothic baubles and their Disney-esque ideas - we have the real thing over here - like the Whisht Hounds and the Spriggans to keep us company on the darkest nights if we really want to be scared.

Last night I went down to Watchet to see the high tide - and took my trusty camera-phone with me. The harbour looks amazing when a very high tide comes up the Bristol Channel. It got me thinking about an article I wrote for the Western Morning News 23 years ago - an article which I reproduce here, despite it being very old news. There is something surprising and unexpected about Watchet. It's hard to say what exactly, but it has about it the tang of salt and the twang of sea-shanty, and even though it's closer to inland Britain than any other West Country port, it has deep ocean in its veins. It is a town more full of enigmas and idiosyncrasies than any other I know. For instance, it has been sitting on its crumbling Somerset cliffs since before records began, and yet it has the feel of a community that has been scooped up lock-stock-and-barrel from the north of England and deposited on the West Country coast. Nearer to Merseyside than Minehead you might say. And often, when you go there, the tide has disappeared halfway to Wales so that a first-time visitor could be forgiven for thinking that the sea has forsaken the place altogether. Six hours later, the second highest tidefall in the world has pulled back that same sea so that it is beating at the very doors of the ancient town. The list of oddities goes on: for instance, many places have a town crier but Watchet goes one further - it has an official swine-herd as well... It boasts the largest museum collection of flat-bottomed boats anywhere in the world, has one of the smallest commercial radio stations in the country and worships in a church named after a saint who was thanked by locals for his preachings by having his head cut off. The town is supposed to be run by an ancient organ of local authority known as a Court Leet, but members only meet once a year and only then if a secret recipe rum punch is served to them. It's famous as being the last home and maybe resting place of Yankee Jack who was the deep water mariner who gave us such shanties and songs as 'A Rovin', 'Rio Grande', 'Shenondoa' and 'The sailor Likes His Bottle O' and many, many more. But though he was born and he died here, no-one knows where John Short (as he was more properly known) is buried. I could go on and tell you that this is the only place in Europe where men catch prawns with disused bicycle wheels, where men once hunted for eels with dogs, where Daniel Defoe was sufficiently moved by Watchet fossils to write about them; the very place indeed, which inspired the poet Coleridge to pen 'The Ancient Mariner'. Suffice to say that Watchet is an enigma. It is a place well worth visiting soon before the look and feel of the place changes forever, as it will if half the town has its way and sees the building of a marina which is scheduled to be started this year. That half the town doesn't want the marina is simply par for the course in a place like Watchet. After all, there can be few communities which would even think of spurning a £5.1 million injection of cash designed to kick-start the local economy. At the moment the town is awaiting the results of an official enquiry which was held at the end of last year to study the potential closing of the commercial harbour. A closure would require an Act of Parliament, one which will not be contemplated until the results of the enquiry are published at the end of this month. "We hope it will go through," journalist Tony James told me from his office high above The Esplanade. He is Chairman of the Watchet Boat Owners Association, so you might expect him to be backing the building of a multi-million pound marina where now there is only mud... "It's not really that," groans Mr James. "I just can't understand what people have got against this development which really is an incredible opportunity for the town. There hasn't been a cargo boat in here since 1993 - things have changed in the shipping industry and, what with insurance and everything, ship-owners are not happy for their vessels to dry out every tide - which at Watchet they have to do. "The mud in the harbour has now built up to a dangerous level. In the middle it's over 12 feet deep and increasing at a foot a year. This development could be the answer to a lot of problems and it would undoubtedly be popular with the rapidly growing Bristol Channel boating fraternity - bringing all sorts of new business to the town." It all sounds convincing enough, but many local people are against the development which includes provision for 18 new homes to be built on the East Quay which was once the port's centre of commercial operations. "More than half the town is against it if you look at the results of a privately commissioned referendum," says fine art dealer Nick Cotton who is a third generation businessman in Watchet with a shop in the main street. "For a start we don't believe the artist's impressions of how this thing will look. I could almost live with what's been portrayed with boats bobbing about - but we believe the water level won't be much higher than the existing silt level, so the whole look of the thing will be far different from what's being claimed. "But people are most unhappy with the housing development," according to Mr Cotton, "They'd far rather see an all-weather tourist attraction being built on the East Quay, which is something the town needs much more than a place for a few boats belonging to people who don't even live here." At the moment Watchet is a town divided and some people grumble privately that things are getting a bit personal. It's a hot potato which is set to run and run. No doubt the big decisions will be reported in the WMN and I'd be better employed here explaining some of those Watchet oddities. For a start - the industrial, northern look of the place. Well, this was the once the scene of what could be described as an 'iron-rush' when thousands of Welsh miners turned up to help with the iron-ore mines in the nearby Brendon Hills. It was a short-lived affair in the second half of the 1800's, but a special railway was built linking Watchet with the mines and there are still plenty of Williams, Griffiths and Davies left to bear witness to these demographics to this day. Also to this day the town is somewhat dominated to the south by the huge paper mill which has provided West Somerset with its biggest single source of employment and its only industrial factory for more than a century. As for the swine-herd, he really is an officer appointed by the Court Leet which meets once a year with few powers left since the good old days when its members ruled the manorial roost, save for the keeping of the secret recipe of a strong rum punch. The Watchet Boat Museum is genuinely thought to have the largest collection of antique, flat-bottomed boats anywhere in the world, and you can see them in the re-purposed railway shed opposite the station. As for that beheaded saint, he was able to stick his head back on with the help of curative waters still to be found at St Decuman's Well. In the summer local people still catch prawns by hurling net-filled bicycle wheels over the pier on ropes, but they no longer use terriers for the antediluvian sport of glatting in which congers were hunted in their crannies along the beach. Coleridge and Defoe really did write about this enigmatic port and now, in the most humble of ways, so have I - in the hopes that you will visit the place and witness its idiosyncrasies for yourself.

As regular visitors will have noticed, this website recently relocated on a temporary basis to Sri Lanka for a wonderful taster trip with Hayes & Jarvis - very wonderful and enjoyable it was too - but there’s always the slightly boring aspect of having to negotiate a large international airport. in our case this often means parking - because, like a lot of people, we don’t live near to the main UK airport hubs. It is 160 miles to Heathrow from our West Country base, so I booked a slot with Purple Parking, a well known company which part of the Holiday Extras group. There system is cheap and easy to use - so i’d recommend them if you are ever having to park near one of the airports they service. And by the time you’ve made that long drive on busy British roads, you really want to relax before taking your long haul flight - which is why we contacted Holiday Extras who sorted lounge facilities at Terminal 3 for us. i was talking to their representative this week and agreed to carry a note of the benefits… This is what he replied…. Getting through the airport can come with its stresses, especially when you’re finding snacks, meals and other pre-flight necessities with the family in tow. An airport lounge offers an oasis of calm away from the bustle of departures, with comfortable seating as well as food, drink and WiFi laid on – it helps you unwind and relax before your flight, getting you in the holiday mood before you fly. Booking an airport lounge is easy – all you’ll need is a lead passenger name, group size, and flight details (flight number, departure date and time, etc). When you’ve entered those, you can select an entry time and choose from the selection of lounges at the airport you’re travelling from. It’s as simple as that. Most airports book slots in 3-hour time slots, so to make the most of the lounge before your flight – Holiday Extras recommends booking in 3 hours before your scheduled departure time. That way you can make the most of your allocated time in the lounge, using the facilities and taking advantage of the benefits they offer before you need to head to your gate to board the flight. The easiest way to book a lounge is to download the Holiday Extras app. Once you’ve entered the details there, all the lounges that have availability will be presented – making it easy for you to compare and decide on which one you’d like to use. Airport lounges can be as cheap as £26 per person – but it really depends on what kind of space you’re looking for, as different lounges offer different things.  For example, Aspire is Europe’s largest brand of airport lounge, and includes everything you could need to have the perfect start to your trip; comfortable seats, food and drink, and a relaxed space. Its lounge at Inverness Airport is available for just under £26 per person, so it’s a great option if you’re looking for a budget-friendly option.   If you’re looking for something a bit more luxurious – Clubrooms by No1 Lounges would be worth considering. Its lounge at Gatwick is priced from £42 per person, and for the added cost holidaymakers can make the most of a tranquil setting with plush furniture, a seasonal menu designed exclusively for lounge guests, and first-class service from its staff. Holiday Extras offers 116 lounges across airports in 44 countries around the world. This includes all UK airports, popular family friendly locations like France, Italy, Spain and Greece, and even further afield in destinations like Mexico, Malaysia and the Maldives. Every year, Holiday Extras researches how much UK holidaymakers spend in departures at the airport whilst they wait for a plane – with its most recent data showing that it’s an average of £23 each. This is higher than the £21 they were spending before the pandemic, with many people simply heading to the shops and spending to pass the time. With lounges starting from as little as £26 per person, the research shows that in many cases it’s actually cheaper to book a lounge – and not only do you get most things that holidaymakers buy in departures (food, drink, wifi, magazines, etc) included within the entry price, but a comfortable, quiet and relaxing space away from the bustle of departures.

You know that moment when something surprising makes you sit up and mutter “Blimey!” in mildly truncated awe? Well, I have experienced two examples of the unexpected kind this week. They came in the unlikely forms of an antique half-filled gravy-boat and a whopping great big oil tanker. Distinctive and contrasting, I know - although I suppose both could enjoy being associated with the word ‘boat’ even if one has no right to make the claim.  So let’s get the antique gravy serving vessel out of the way first. It was brought to my attention by a valet-parking attendant at Stansted Airport. When I reached this highly hectic hub on my way abroad one night last week there was a hitch and I had to park in a nearby car park and be  conveyed to the airport in a minibus. It was a short journey and for lack of anything else to do in those dark and lonely hours I asked the driver if he enjoyed his job - a query which inspired him to begin telling me all sorts of strange and interesting stories.  When I returned to Stansted the same bloke picked me up with one of his colleagues. “You’re the journalist chap, aren’t you?” remembered the driver when I climbed into the minibus.   “This is the guy I was telling you about,” he explained to his mate. “He’s the only bloke who has ever shown an interest in our job - and I gave him a real old laugh telling him a few stories.” His mate agreed that it was a job which required them to deal with some very strange people: “We see it all here,” he laughed. “How about this? We get people drop off their cars and they never come back to get them! What’s that all about? Are they dead somewhere at the other end of the flight? We get other people who obviously live in their cars. Kettles, kitchen sinks… The lot! I picked up a car the other day that was so full of stuff I thought the man had hidden a body in the back. I really did! Didn’t smell too good in there and I couldn’t wait to get out.” I asked him: what was the strangest thing he’d ever seen in a car?  He thought for a moment, then replied: “That would be the gravy-boat. A real-old fashioned gravy-boat, like one you’d see on the Antiques Road Show! There it was on the front passenger seat of this car, half filled with gravy. Luke-warm gravy! That was six months ago and everyday since I’ve found myself wondering: why? Why a gravy-boat with gravy slopping about on the front seat? It bothers me every time I think of it.” And now it is bothering me. I have spent hours trying to figure out why someone going to a busy airport would have a half-filled antique gravy-boat on their front passenger seat. A nice shiny gravy-boat ready to go off to an antiques auction, maybe. But not one half-filled. Who would carry such a thing in an expensive car? It could easily topple, then greasy gravy would go all over the place.  So far, no smidgin of a possible explanation has come my way.  So what about that much bigger boat, the oil tanker? I was confronted by this vessel when I happened to turn on the TV later this week. It was in a programme about divers whose job it was to go under the oil-tanker so that they could examine her hull. The narrator said something about it being important to double-check the safety of such vessels because this nation totally relies on them for most of its oil-based fuel. It was a monster of a ship - the sort of giant tub you could fit ten football pitches into on 14 different levels. And it was what the narrator said next that floored me… He reckoned the UK needs three of these gargantuan tankers a day! I do not know how many millions of gallons such a ship can hold, but the fact we burn through the contents of three of these vast floating reservoirs each and every day astounds me. That means more than 1000 tankers a year! You could probably fill the entire English Channel with their contents in under a decade!  That is no drop-in-the-ocean. It is colossal. Geologically colossal. And it only represents our fuel-guzzling habit in the UK! What about the rest of Europe? How many giant tankers, indeed, are delivering the juice of long-dead fossils each year if you are counting the requirements of the entire world? No wonder the climate is playing up. They say Hurricane Idalia kicked off because of increasingly warm sea temperatures in the Gulf of Mexico, and I’m sure the climatologists are right about that - but another way of looking at it would be to imagine the poor old climate is just coughing itself death. And here’s me having the gall to say such a thing! The guy who drove his diesel car 180-miles to an airport where he jumped on an aeroplane which burns more kerosene in an hour than my central heating does in years.  At least I didn’t take a half-filled antique gravy-boat with me. That really would be mad.

I have just returned from a trip to the Danish region of Kystlandet - an area surrounding the town of Horsens in eastern Jutland. What the region offers is a rather wonderful and intriguing blend of coastal beauty, verdant landscapes, and rich history. I shall be adding more articles about the various destinations within Kystlandet which I explored as part of a British Guild of Travel Writers visit to the area. But here I’d like to tell you about the amazing gastronomic offerings of this largely undiscovered Danish gem. We enjoyed some truly fabulous food - including a meal which was quite simply one of the best I’ve enjoyed on over 40 years of travel writing. That was a ten course tasting menu which we were treated to at a tiny restaurant called Ji-Mi’s.  The chef, Jimmy Jensen, is one of the most talented cooks I have met in a very long time. The food was truly delicious - and I mean sensational. The menu was well thought out with the excellent wine matching the many dishes perfectly. Jimmy uses the amazing local produce whenever he can and he prefers organic ingredients. I will be putting up the menu here soon, just to make your mouths water…. (Check out https://www.ji-mis.dk/ ) Jimmmy is also in charge of the food at the wonderful Café Ella, located in Horsens Art Museum overlooking the Caroline Amalie Lund park. The speciality here is a “beef sandwich” better known as the best beef-burger I’ve had in years. Another brilliant meal was enjoyed at Dolly’s, also in the heart of the old industrial harbour town of Horsens. This restaurants specialises in excellent homemade Danish dishes – including the famous classic: fried pork rashers with parsley-sauce. Dollys has been family-owned for three generations and is a very well known establishment in the region. the starter of mussels I had was truly magnificent - the broth was exceptionally good. https://www.dollys.dk/  Fresh Seafood Delights Given its coastal proximity, Kystlandet is a haven for seafood aficionados. The pristine waters offer an abundant variety of fish, such as plaice, herring, and cod. Whether grilled, smoked, or pickled, the seafood here is a testament to the region's deep bond with the ocean. Don't miss the chance to visit local fish markets or harbour-side restaurants to savour the day's catch. Being surrounded by water, Jutland boasts an array of seafood delicacies. From the fresh herring of the North Sea to the Baltic Sea's cod and plaice, the region offers a myriad of dishes that pay homage to its maritime roots. We had a wonderful seafood lunch at Røgeriet Tunø (Tunø Smokehouse) on the island of that name - a truly impressive smokehouse with outdoor dining and a menu of delicious fish dishes located right next to the isle’s main harbour. Back in the town of Horsens you can always opt for one of Jimmy’s amazing open seafood sandwiches at Café Ella… Local Cheese and Dairy Danish dairy is renowned worldwide, and Kystlandet contributes significantly to this reputation. Local farms produce a plethora of cheeses with rich, nuanced flavours. Freshly churned butter, aromatic soft cheeses, and aged varieties are all worth a try. The creamy textures and robust flavors are sure to captivate any cheese lover's palate. Tarteletter: Creamy Chicken in Puff Pastry Shells These delightful puff pastry shells filled with a creamy mixture of chicken, peas, and carrots are a classic dish enjoyed across Denmark. However, in Jutland, they are particularly cherished, often making appearances at special occasions and family gatherings. We enjoyed our tarteletter at a traditional Danish inn called Sandvad Kro, an historic restaurant that dates back to the 16th century.. Berry-Packed Desserts The fertile soils of Kystlandet yield an array of berries, making summer a particularly sweet season. From traditional berry tarts to Rødgrød med Fløde (red berry pudding with cream), the desserts here showcase the region's lush produce. These sweet concoctions are not just delightful but also provide a taste of Kystlandet's summery essence. 4. Hearty Rye Bread While rye bread, or "rugbrød," is popular throughout Denmark, Kystlandet's bakeries have their unique spin on this staple. Often served as the base for smørrebrød (open-faced sandwiches), the dense, nutty flavor of local rye bread pairs brilliantly with toppings ranging from pickled herring to fresh vegetables. 5. Artisanal Beverages Kystlandet's beverage scene is equally compelling. With microbreweries crafting unique ales and lagers, as well as local distilleries producing snaps (Danish aquavit), the drinks here are a celebration of tradition and innovation. The Farm-to-Table Philosophy of Jutland What sets Jutland apart is its emphasis on local and fresh produce. With vast agricultural lands and rich seas, the region has a natural advantage, and this is reflected in its dishes. The flavours are genuine, and there's a certain authenticity that comes from using ingredients that have been harvested at their peak. One example of the farm to plate philosophy that we were able to enjoy was on the island of Alrø where we were served with incredibly tasty bison meat raised on a nearby farm. We had a bison-burger alongside mouth-watering tapas tt Alrø Købmandsgaard. Conclusion Kystlandet is more than just scenic views and untouched landscapes. It's a culinary journey waiting to be embarked upon. With every bite and sip, one can uncover tales of the land, the sea, and the passionate people who call Kystlandet home. If you're seeking an authentic Danish gastronomic experience off the beaten path, this eastern enclave is your next destination. Follow the latest news from VisitDenmark on Social Media:  Twitter: @GoVisitDenmark Instagram: @GoVisitDenmark Facebook: www.facebook.com/denmark

It was a decade ago that I heard of a new form of barbecue which was just being introduced to the UK at the time and, being an avid outdoor cookery enthusiast, I was one of the first to purchase a kamado-style cooker. It was fairly expensive, but I was delighted with the results and have cooked many hundreds of meals on it since, including numerous Christmas dinners. A modern kamado is basically a new-take on a form of ancient Japanese clay-lined oven. You may have seen the egg-shaped wonders at garden centres or outdoor foodie events and in some posh food-pub gardens, or you might have bought one. If, like me, you believe that quality charcoal is the very best fuel with which to cook food, then the kamado really is the ultimate outdoor cooker. The temperature is easy to regulate - you can cook low and slow as well as extremely fast and hot - so there really is no excuse to burn anything, which is the downside of so many barbecues. There is also the bonus that kamados tend to be well-made and heavy, which might contribute towards their cost but means they offer more-or-less maintenance-free cooking for many years.  Loving my new Kamado Joe Classic As I say, our old model has served us well for a decade. But… There is always a ‘but’. Mine came in the friendly form of Brixham-based Ben Forte, who is global marketing manager for the premier kamado manufacturer, Kamado Joe. I was at an event where Ben was demonstrating the amazing capabilities of one of the latest products, the Kamado Joe Classic - and I could see the difference between my old model and a new kamado was something akin to a Sopwith Camel taking on a modern Eurofighter.  It was enough for me to take the plunge and invest in a Kamado Joe Classic II, which arrived a few weeks ago. I have used it almost every day since. My wife would tell you that I am head-over-heels in love with the big red appliance. I am out there experimenting with it until after dark almost every night. Of course, I barbecue on it, but I also bake things like quiches. And the thing I really love is spinning endless savoury morsels of all shapes and sizes, round and round and round on the ingenious rotisserie device known as the JoeTisserie.  A plump organic chicken rotisseried slowly over good quality charcoal is a thing of wonderment, I promise you. Especially if you have injected its breasts and thighs with some kind of mix of oil or butter and wine and garlic, which is a new trick I’ve just learned. I start drooling just typing the words. An al-fresco meal like this, paired with a pint of Sanford Orchards Red Devon cider or a glass of Salcombe Brewery’s session lager, Salcombe Breeze, is my idea of heaven.  The new Kamado Joe has, for me, become a sort of shrine. It is the altar upon which I prepare great local seasonal food. It is, quite simply, the best cooking device I have ever owned.   Just now, though, I did say there was always a “but”. And there is with my charcoal-fired wonder-machine. Although I cannot actually pick a single fault with it - I would not want to move it more than a few inches, despite the fact that it has wheels. It weighs a ton. It took five big blokes to get the Kamado Joe up the path to my cottage and then up again around the steps which lead to the outdoor kitchen in our back garden.  So that is the ‘but’. I love the Classic II, BUT it ain’t going nowhere. It is very much NOT the kind of barbecue you are going to want to take on a picnic. No quick beach visits or a trip to the high moors this summer with my Kamado Joe. Love my kamado, but it’s too heavy to lug around “No problem,” shrugged Ben Forte. “Why not try one of our new Masterbuilt Portable Charcoal Grills?” I’d better explain that a few years ago Masterbuilt and Kamado Joe joined forces to provide a wider range of outdoor cooking and grilling products. Masterbuilt is known for producing high quality smokers and grills that are very user-friendly and the portable grill is their latest model. “It is truly portable,” said Ben. “As summer heads heads our way, this suitcase-sized grill is ideal for anyone who wants to get out and about - you can easily load it into the back of a car, wheel it across the moors, carry it across beaches or set up next to lakes and rivers.  It comes with an easy to transport collapsible cart, for effortless grilling on the move and, with its tough shell, it is durable enough to withstand expeditions.” Fantastic if, like me, you abhor the idea of those awful disposable barbecues which really should be banned - or the sight of ugly scorched areas where people have lit cooking fires directly on the grass. The design of the Masterbuilt Portable Grill (RRP from £279 (£399 with cart) - uk.masterbuilt.com ) means you can barbecue safely without scarring the landscape or causing forest fires and you’ll be able to leave the countryside looking just how you found it. It even features a lockable lid, allowing picnickers to take the inevitable ash and debris home so they don’t need to worry about disposal on site. The Masterbuilt Portable Grill The grill has a cooking area large enough to feed a small family and is as simple as cooking on gas, with the added benefits of the authentic barbecue flavour you get from charcoal. You simply light a fire lighter under the charcoal, then turn a dial to control a fan for a consistent temperature. The charcoal hopper can supply heat for up to four hours, from 130c to 260c – hot enough to sear steak and eggs for the ultimate camping breakfast and ideal for grilling mackerel fresh caught from the sea. You can also turn it down to slow-cook something like a shoulder of lamb - the perfect reward at the end of a long hike.  Modern technology… I love it! Especially when it embraces something truly ancient like the act of cooking over a live flame.  My only regret is that I wish I’d had a Masterbuilt Portable Grill during all those years we spent camping with the kids down in Cornwall. The Hesp family holiday meals would have gone from semi-edible Boy Scout campfire disasters to gourmet standard offerings in as long as it would have taken to light a lump of charcoal. RECIPES Cedar Plank Salmon Michelin-starred Lisa Goodwin-Allen’s cedar plank salmon is from her new menu at St James’s luxury 5-star hotel The Stafford in London. All dishes from the American Bar’s BBQ menu are cooked on Kamado Joe’s premium ceramic grills. Ingredients  100ml extra virgin olive oil 50ml sunflower oil 30ml lemon juice 720g salmon (cut in to 4 x 180g portions) 25g dill Cedar wood plank Method Pre-soak the cedar wood plank 2. Take a bowl and whisk together the olive oil, sunflower oil and lemon juice. 3. To the bowl add your salmon portions and the dill. Allow to marinate 4. When ready to cook, remove the salmon from the marinade and place on the cedar wood plank on your Kamado Joe. If possible, try to shift the coals to one side to create a cooler spot, this will allow the wood to burn at a slower rate The time to cook the salmon will differ according to the temperature of the BBQ and the thickness of the cedar plank. Therefore, we recommend that you use a probe and once the salmon has reached 46c remove it from the heat and allow it to rest for 3 minutes before serving. Claypot chicken Serves 4 1kg chicken thighs, skin on, bone in 2 tbsp vegetable oil 4 cloves grated garlic 150g ginger, peeled and sliced 50ml water Marinade 1 head (approx 10 cloves) grated garlic 2 shallots, chopped 3 tbsp vegetable oil 4 tbsp caster sugar 120ml fish sauce 2 tbsp ground black pepper 1 tsp sea salt Method In a large bowl, massage marinade ingredients into the chicken thighs. Cover and leave in fridge for an hour. Put vegetable oil into a heavy-bottomed casserole pan on a high heat and add the crushed garlic and ginger. Toss until aromatic - it’ll only need a few minutes. Add the marinated chicken with all the juices and cook for a further couple of minutes. Add water. Cover with a lid and cook over a BBQ heat diffuser (creating a low heat) for about an hour.  Remove the chicken from the sauce and place skin side down on a rack over the fire. Allow the skin to crisp up beautifully, before adding back to the residual sauce as a glaze. Delicious with sticky rice, chopped coriander and spring onions. Blackpool Sands Cafe and Takeaway’s Firecracker Chicken Wings Down at the famous beach cafe in South Devon new head chef Grant Holloway is preparing lots of wonderful barbecue dishes for the summer season. Simplicity is key to Grant’s dishes, with the addition of herbs and spices adding a tonne of flavour, while sustainability and the environment are at the forefront of everything he prepares. 10 chicken wings whole Siracusa sauce Smoked paprika Honey Soy sauce Pepper salt Chilli powder Garlic powder Onion powder For the marinade, in a bowl add 100ml Siracusa sauce, pinch smoked paprika, squeeze of honey (more or less depending how hot you’d like the sauce) 2 tsp soy sauce, season with salt and pepper, pinch chilli powder and a pinch of garlic and onion powder. Add chicken wings and mix together, clingfilm and rest in the fridge for a minimum of 2hrs. Once ready to cook, place on the bbq and cook through thoroughly, turning regularly as the sauce can burn quite easily

The Mystery of the Flammable Rocks at Kilve Pill Beach There are two clues that show just how close a West Country Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty came to being destroyed by large-scale oil extraction. One is the forlorn brick building topped by an iron chimney which stands just behind the shore at Kilve Pill - the other is the curious fact that people who light barbecues on the beach often watch askance as the rocks catch fire. That is because so much oil is fused in to the shale. Light a fire on this part of the Bristol Channel coast and the rock really does crackle, explode and burn. A Historical Discovery: Oil-Rich Shale in the Bristol Channel Coast And it is a phenomenon that has been noticed before. Geological investigations carried out 90 years ago claimed the local rock was even richer in oil than the famous Green River Beds in Colorado, which at the time were believed to be the most oil-drenched shales in the world. The oilfield at Kilve was believed to be huge, containing no less than 10 billion tons of oil-bearing rock. National newspapers at the time carried headlines referring to a kind of Somerset Klondike… “Oil Romance of the West” proclaimed one. But… And in terms of one of the West Country’s finest landscapes it is a very big “but” indeed - it turned out there were problems when it came to turning Bristol Channel oil into gold…  The Challenges of Extracting Oil from West Country Shale: Expert Insights Fortunately for those who love the AONB and the British countryside, the problems have not gone away - at least, according to one leading expert in the field.  Here’s what Exeter-based Ramues Gallois geologist told me a few years ago when I asked about the oilfield at Kilve… “The first, economically insurmountable problem, would not have been the sulphur in the oil but the fact that the organic-rich seams are thin and occur within a succession of mudstones and limestones,” he said referring to the fact that early prospectors partly failed because of filtering impurities from the oil. “It would not be economic to heat all of these materials to the 450 to 500C necessary to extract oil - so one would have had to dig out large amounts of rock and then separate out the better looking organic-rich beds by hand.”  He said that when geologists talked of shales being “oil-rich” it could mean they contained just 2% to 10% of organic carbons: “So even after separation, much of the material would not be worth retorting.  “Having done the retorting - possibly at a cost that was 10 times the value of the product - what would you be left with? A shale oil rich in NSO (nitrogen, sulphur, oxygen compounds) that would have minimal resale value,” said Mr Gallois.  The Potential Somerset Oil Bonanza: A Look Back at the Excitement If only those prospectors had been aware of this on the Somerset coast back in 1920. Trial borings then led them to believe the oilfield was a massive 8000 acres - and experts worked out that this would supply a whopping five million gallons of retorted oil a year.  So excited was Dr W Forbes-Leslie, a leading oil expert, he declared the shale to be “of a class hitherto unknown in England”. Another expert, Mr Latrett Parking, said the find was “one of the most remarkable formations ever exposed to scientific examination.” He noted: “In an open grate it burns fiercely with a long flame. From this evidence it would appear to be rich in oil - I am not surprised therefore to find the chemist’s analysis giving yield of from 30 to 99.6 gallons per cubic ton.” The Railway Plan That Never Materialised: Bridging Kilve and Bridgwater Plans were drawn up for the building of a railway from Kilve to the port of Bridgwater. Oil experts were looking at an area seven miles long, extending one to two miles inland from the coast - that would have been quarried along high, open faces. The February 1924 issue of The Petroleum Times was beside itself with excitement. The editor put pen to paper describing the “enormous potentialities” of the Kilve shales: “That the commercial development of the shale deposits will lead to the establishment of an important industry in Somerset is a foregone conclusion,” he wrote.  It wasn’t. All that’s left of this excitement now is the old chimney at Kilve - and local folk will be hoping it stays that way.

Flat Holm Island: A Swashbuckling Adventure in the Bristol Channel Flat Holm Island, situated in the Bristol Channel between Somerset and Wales, offers visitors a unique blend of history and natural beauty. With powerful tides, whirlpools, and steep cliffs, this limestone island provides a thrilling journey for all who dare to explore it. Embarking on an Adventure to Flat Holm Island Our journey to Flat Holm began at Cardiff Bay, where the Lewis Alexander, a boat built to carry 45 passengers, awaited us. As we set sail, we faced short, steep waves that towered like 10-foot brick walls and massive currents generated by the second highest tidefall in the world. The captain of the Lewis Alexander warned us about the whirlpool that could spin our boat around, adding a sense of excitement to our adventure. A Rich History and Home to Seagulls Flat Holm, or Ynys Echni in Welsh, has a long history dating back to the Bronze Age. Over the centuries, the island has served as a refuge for Vikings, a home for religious hermits, and even the founding site of the Bristol Channel Mission, which later became the Mission to Seafarers. Today, Flat Holm is a Local Nature Reserve managed by the Cardiff Council as The Flat Holm Project, supported by the Flat Holm Society. The island is also home to a large population of seagulls, including lesser black-backed and herring gulls. Visitors during the nesting season should be prepared for these protective parents to screech, yell, and even dive at intruders who venture too close to their nests. A Swashbuckling Journey around Flat Holm Island As we circumnavigated Flat Holm, we discovered the remains of its human history, including the 90-foot lighthouse and the giant foghorn built in 1906. The island's isolation hospital, now in ruins, served as a testament to the island's role in treating sailors suffering from infectious diseases during the 19th century. The Flat Holm Project The team is working to increase opportunities for birds on the island, exploring traditional crops and sustainable methods of agriculture. The project has also focused on transitioning to greener energy sources, such as wind turbines. Ghost stories and legends of smugglers abound on Flat Holm, adding a sense of intrigue to the island's already fascinating history. Whether rowing over for a drink at the former hotel or seeking out the island's secret tunnels, there are plenty of swashbuckling tales to uncover on Flat Holm. Our return journey to Wales was smoother than our initial crossing, leaving us with fond memories of our adventure to Flat Holm Island. To learn more about Flat Holm or to plan your own visit, head to www.flatholmisland.com .