The Monty Python team used to do a sketch about what they called the Bleedin’ Obvious - and in a way you can follow that theme when it comes to selecting a walking route. This usually means hiking up some large eminence or other where the aim is simply to get to the top to enjoy the view . No single bit of terra firma in the entire West Country is more bleedin’ obvious than Brent Knoll – the great big mini-mountain that presides over the M5 motorway just north of Bridgwater. It looms like some vast sentinel guarding the very gateway to the region.  I have long argued that the West Country begins and ends on a line that you can draw from Brean Down on the Bristol Channel coast to Portland Bill in the English Channel – and Brent Knoll is one of the biggest, most noticeable eminences along that border.  It is one of those places you’ve driven past a thousand times and each time you say to yourself: “I must go up there one day. I really, really must.” My father had been saying that for more than half a century, which is why I took him and my mum up with me one day a few years ago. This also proves the point that just about anyone can scale this steep mini-mountain, even if its slopes are steep – my dad was in his 80s when we did this walk. Recently £11,000 was spent on laying a footpath up to the National Trust owned summit, so that makes thing easier - though we didn’t ascend that way.  Fact File Basic Walk – a circular route over and around Brent Knoll, starting at the village of East Knoll on Weston-Super-Mare road to north of hill. Distance and going: three miles, fairly gentle except for one steep climb and descent. Recommended map: Ordnance Survey Explorer 153  There are many public paths that surround the 449 foot knoll including several that pass over it, but we did a circular route from oddly named East Brent – I say odd because, given its location, I cannot fathom why it isn’t called North Brent instead.  Anyway, it is a village that straddles one of the main roads to Weston-Super-Mare – which doesn’t endear me to it, but the village church with its beautiful spire does. We parked near this elegant temple and set off directly for the Knoll which we could see looming to the south.  A footpath ascends through pleasant fields with the views getting bigger each step of the way – but they begin to really unfold after you reach trust-owned land towards the top. Suddenly the going gets a whole lot steeper – as steep as the proverbial house roof.  At the top… Well, it’s the nearest thing you can do in the West Country to flying in an aeroplane without having your feet leave the ground. There are immense vistas that include the Polden Hills to the south, Glastonbury Tor to the east, the Mendip Hills and Cheddar Gorge to the north east, the Bristol Channel and Wales to the west and the Quantock Hills to the south west.  The Knoll dates from the Jurassic times 300 million years ago when a warm, shallow sea surged around its lower slopes. To this day its local name is Frog Island – but whether this relates to that ancient sea or not, I cannot tell.  The giant outcrop of clays and limestone was a pretty obvious place for Early Man to make his home and subsequently people from the Bronze Age and Iron Age have lived up on the summit. The giant hill fort that crowns the place is still very much in evidence.  The Romans built a temple here, and various coins have been found. The Anglo-Saxons used of the Knoll as a look-out station to keep watch for Vikings - who duly turned up, as they did in so many West Country locations. There was even a battle in the year 875 when the Saxons managed to beat the Danes. The nearby village still boasts a Battleborough Lane.  By 1086 the Domesday Book was reporting that 250 people were living around the Knoll’s base, keeping just up from the marshy land of the Somerset Levels that were often in flood. In 1607 the whole of the Vale of Avalon flooded to the depth of 12 feet as far as Glastonbury - and just a century later the sea broke across the land again.  Today, standing up there on the Knoll, you still get the impression that it wouldn’t take much to flood the surrounding lowlands. And it’s down to those lowlands we now go by taking the new-laid path which we find at the south-west corner of the Knoll. It descends sharply at first to reach the fields, then takes one zig-and-zag to reach Manor Farm.  We crossed the lane here and took the footpath to our left which turned westward and took us around the upper edge of a strange steep escarpment which makes up a plateau on Brent Knoll’s seaward slopes.  After passing around the edge of four fields this path eventually arrives at an underground reservoir – which is where we turned to our right and began the easterly journey back to East Brent. Again, the path runs across fairly level fields – seven in all – until it reaches the lane.  We turned left, walked a few yards down the road, then found the footpath on the right to descend across just one meadow to the church with the elegant spire.  It’s only a three mile hike, very straightforward (from the summit you can see every step of the way), but hugely worthwhile as it boasts – without exaggeration - some of the finest panoramas in the region.

There are times when we can find ourselves yearning for a particular food or dish - perhaps we are deficient in some vitamin or mineral or maybe a single moment of inspiration or a series of events leads us to crave some item we feel we cannot do without.  Edible objects of desire can range from a humble pickled onion to fancy French patisserie - or from a simple slice of sourdough bread to some exotic curry - it doesn’t matter what the target is, the main thing is getting your hands on the dream item and sinking your teeth into it. Of course, pregnant women are best known for such cravings, but you don’t have to be either female or with-child to become momentarily obsessed with a specific foodstuff - as I discovered this week when I was overcome with a desire to eat a particular kind of red meat.  It may sound odd, but I can explain why I was suddenly confronted with a yearning for venison… For a start I had just returned from my first holiday in two years - one which saw me, the unrepentant carnivore, spending a fortnight at sea with a boat-load of vegetarians. Not so much as a single chicken drumstick found its way onto that meat-free vessel - no wonder I had cravings for meat! But why specifically the stuff provided by members of the deer family? Because, on my return to these cold damp shores, my pals at Devon-based Farm Wilder were telling me about their new range of venison which all comes from Forestry England sites across the South West.  To be honest it was the two recipes we’ve included in today’s food pages which really did the trick - there were moments in the early part of this week when cravings for their venison pie made me feel like some kind of drug addict in need of a fix. But there were other reasons why I was wanting to both eat venison and also write about it… My determination to fight against the ridiculous “all meat is bad” mantra being adopted by so many people nowadays came top of the list. There is a very strong case for arguing that eating the meat of wild deer is good for the planet. It is well known that wild deer populations in this country are getting out of control - numbers in most areas need controlling - so why waste or ignore a perfectly good, healthy and delicious source of food which has nothing to do with climate change or any other environmental concern?  In fact you are helping the environment by eating wild venison, as an excess number of deer can do untold damage. Just about everyone agrees that deer need controlling as booming populations wreak havoc in woodlands, damaging mature flora and preventing natural succession. The job used to fall to large carnivores but, in a world without wolves and sabre-toothed tigers, deer management is down to us humans. Given this fact of life it would be a criminal waste not to make use of the meat which happens to be a very good source of protein. Low in cholesterol, it is rich in all manner of things like minerals and trace elements - and of course it really is one of the most toothsome things you can eat, especially in the cooler months of the year when most of us feel the need for something filling and substantial.  A deer’s wild foraging allows the meat to develop deep and interesting flavours, with lean and tender textures - and of course it does not have the high carbon footprint associated with the industrially created feed given to most farmed animals. “Encouraging more people to eat wild venison is better for biodiversity and helps protect our future forests”, comments Andrew Stringer, Forestry England’s head of environment. “Our venison is 100 percent wild, lead-free and from well managed forests. With more people becoming aware of the challenges around intensively farmed animals, wild venison is a perfect solution for those wanting to eat less but better meat.” We have mentioned in these pages before how Farm Wilder supplies meat boxes from Westcountry farms that have adopted regenerative farming methods and which are committed to supporting and restoring wildlife to their farms. Now the community-interest company has become the only supplier of venison from Forestry England’s woodland sites across the South West. Farm Wilder’s co-founder Tim Martin says: “If you enjoy eating meat, and are able to source sustainably reared wildlife friendly meat like ours, then you can eat it with a clear conscience, knowing that your delicious meal is helping make our countryside healthier and bringing back our wonderful wildlife.” Looking at my collection of cookery books I spotted the perfect guide - a tome called Ultimate Venison Cookery, by Nichola Fletcher - which is the be-all and end-all on the subject of preparing the meat of deer.  It even has an entire chapter on the making of venison sausages with recipes ranging from a basic banger, to posh-nosh such as the venison with juniper, pine nuts, and Scotch whisky version.   It also has chapters on the sources of venison (First Catch Your Deer would make any vegetarian swoon with horror), the eating quality of deer meat and another entitled The Venison Toolkit, a treatise on venison enrichments such as jellies, stocks and marinades. There’s a section on light dishes you can make as starters, and even a special subdivision on venison mince. Then, of course there are the main recipes areas such as roasting, dealing with steaks, the aforementioned casseroling, pates, pies and terrines and dealing with the “fifth quarter” - i.e. the offal. And yes, there are even deery deserts, like reindeer milk ice cream – which sits oddly next door to a proceeding chapter on “skinning and hanging” your venison. All this fuss is well worthwhile in my opinion because venison is one of the finest meats we have in this country. As the book’s blurb says: “Venison attracts more misunderstanding than any other meat. It is now widely available and eagerly sought-after for its health benefits. However, lack of understanding mean that many people still give out wrong cookery advice based on pre-conceived myths.” There are no preconceived myths concerning venison in my house - just an out-an-out desire to cook Farm Wilder’s recipe for a proper warming pie made of this most fabulous of West Country meats… RECIPE Venison Pie Game pie is a dish entwined in British history and you can choose from a variety of fillings for example venison, pheasant, rabbit, partridge or even pigeon, the list goes on.  You can either top with pastry or a creamy mash potato. Ingredients 2 tbsp vegetable oil 1 kg stewing venison 1 x 375g packed of ready rolled puff pastry, or short pastry, shop bought 1 beaten egg, for glazing 2 medium carrots, diced 250g sweet potatoes, or butternut squash, diced 1 large red onion, medium diced 1 tbsp tomato puree 2 tbsp plain flour 250 ml red wine 600 ml stock,  2 tbsp red current jelly 1 tbsp teriyaki sauce, optional 3 sprigs fresh thyme 4 crushed juniper berries Method Pre heat oven to 140c fan assisted. Heat the oil in a large sauce pan add the venison, cook over a high heat until browned all over. Lift out and drain on kitchen towel and set aside. Lower the heat, add the carrots, onion, sweet potato or butternut squash and cook stirring for 3 minutes until softened. Add the thyme, juniper berries and stir for 1 minute.  Add the tomato puree, flour and cook for 1 minute. Now add the venison, red current jelly, red wine and stock, stir and bring to a simmer for a few minutes. Pour into an ovenproof casserole dish, cover and bake in the oven for 1 ½ at 140c fan assisted until the venison is nice and tender. Remove from the oven and cool. Lightly a flour a work surface and roll out the puff pastry to fit the pie dish.  Pour the venison mixture into the pie dish, place the pastry lid on top of the pie dish, make a hole in the middle of the pastry to let the steam escape and crimp the edges with a fork, brush the pastry with the beaten egg and decorate with any left over pieces of pastry. Bake the pie in a pre-heated oven at 200c, 180 fan, Gas 6 for 25-30 minutes until the pastry is well risen and golden brown.

Many years ago - when digital photography was in its infancy, hence the quality of these photos - I spent a long hot sweaty and very wet day on the Caribbean island of Dominica. The reason we went ashore from the Star Clipper was to explore the Indian River which originally got its name because the Kalinago (Carib Indians) lived in the green rich hinterland it serves. The river was important to them - they used it to transport goods for trade with sailors and travel by canoe along the island chain. The wide coastal wetland features near the town of Portsmouth spectacular buttressed Bwa Mang trees - and I’m told the Indian River is among the most picturesque of Dominica’s 365 rivers, although it was hard to say the day we were there because it was raining so heavily. A number of local boatmen, rowing river boats with wonderful names, take you past many types of wild life and plant life as you travel slowly up river. On a dark wet day with black clouds and plenty of lightning strikes it’s a bit like Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Apparently various scenes from Pirates of the Caribbean were filmed here - although on sunnier days, I imagine. The target for our voyage upstream was the famous 'Bush Bar' where you more or less have to try the signature rum drink. Apparently they also serve smoked fish and a variety of other drinks, juices and local cuisine - but I didn’t see any. However I was very very careful with the rum - which was, in my opinion, almost hallucinogenic in its strength, Several of my friends were soon worse for wear. And I mean, really really out of it. So much so that later myself and the late Jeffrey Rayner went aboard another sailing ship as the guest of the captain where we wined and dined until midnight - whereas the Indian River victims went straight back to the Star Clipper for a long lie-down full of strange dreams… And, blimey, didn’t I look a lot younger back then…

A cold grim February grey day dawns and the morning’s work requirement - which is calling for 1500 inspirational words on food and drink - is, for once, realising nothing but a blank screen. So what to do? Well, right now I can think of nothing - absolutely nothing - I’d rather think about than all the fabulous dishes I’ve enjoyed while on various holidays around the globe.  If social media sharing sites like Instagram are anything to go by, I am not the only one reminiscing with taste-buds and tummy. After two years of zero-globe-trotting, a great many people are thinking about the culinary jewels which sparkle in the ‘happy departments’ of their memories.  These do not have to be the expensive six-course banquets consumed in posh restaurants or hotels. Some meals sparkle like stars in the vast void of the past because they somehow marry the concept of perfection with a sense of place.   Or, indeed, the sense of being in the wrong place. I can think of memorable dishes which stand loud and proud partly because their appearance seemed somehow incongruous, or not exactly in keeping with their surroundings. For example, the very best spaghetti bolognese I have ever eaten was consumed - not in Italy - but in a small outdoor cafe on a Corfu mountainside.  Maybe I was extra-hungry after having walked up the long hot slopes to the ghost village of Old Perithia - or perhaps it really was just a perfect bowl of pasta and meat. I’m not sure, but I lean toward the latter. Because the spaghetti was absolutely spot-on al-dente and the meat content had great flavour, having come from a lamb reared on those very mountainsides. The cook had included vast amounts of fresh garlic from her garden and just the right dose of herbs collected from around the village. She had not held back when it came to lubricating it all with excellent local extra-virgin olive oil. Each morsel also contained an almost imperceptible hint of cinnamon - which is the Greek way when it comes to minced meat. It was served, by the way, with a truly amazing orange and olive salad. Okay, an Italian would scream: “That is NOT spaghetti bolognese!”  I wouldn’t argue. But who cares? Spag-bol is what it said on the hand-written menu. A “Greek take on spaghetti bolognese” would have perhaps been more accurate. And how about my most memorable cheeseburger and chips? Not devoured in Texas or anywhere else in the USA, although I’ve had plenty of top-notch burgers across that great nation. The best example of this now ubiquitous dish was presented to me in a little road-house on the island of Hokkaido, northern Japan.  By way of explanation, a local farmer told me: “Hokkaido is like your Kent - it is the garden of Japan.” The main local delicacies will have any English person feeling at home - cheese and potatoes. And no, I had not heard of Japanese cheeses before, or oriental spuds come to that. But both are a big deal in the fertile farmlands of this beautiful volcanic region. High peaks surround the fields and clear rushing rivers interweave the myriad foothills.  At every touch and turn you come across lush crops growing here, harvests occurring there and little farm gate shops everywhere.  Hokkaido potatoes are famed throughout Japan, because of their texture and flavour. They make the best chips imaginable. And cheese is a big deal in this dairy region. I particularly liked one which reminded me of Devon’s Sharpham Savour, which in turn is based on a French Savoie style cheese, boasting a rich, creamy hit with a slight tang. Just right for melting over a burger made from 100% grass-fed, aged, dairy beef. I sat with other journalists in a windy alleyway in a place called Niseko Village, thinking: “Blimey! This is the best cheeseburger I have ever eaten!” Here’s another unlikely memory… You can’t get much further from the sea in Europe than Vienna - yet one of the best plates of fish and chips I’ve ever eaten was a superb dish of deep fried local catfish and spuds, served at the Labstelle Restaurant in the heart of city.  One of the finest barbecues I’ve ever had was cooked for me, not in Argentina or any other beef country, but in a steep vineyard in Madeira. The meat was cooked on long skewers over vine-wood by a man called Antonio Oliveira, who makes the island’s superb Barbusano wine. One of the best salads I’ve ever had was served in a restaurant on top of a Swiss mountain in the middle of winter. So impressed was I, that have have written entire subsequent articles about the wonderful way the Swiss have with salads, no matter what the season.  Of course, it is far more usual to discover that location lends itself, perfectly and intrinsically, to the food that’s being prepared. Take ceviche - the delicious and refreshing South American dish of raw fish “cooked” or soused in some kind of liquid - usually, but not always, the juice of some kind of citrus. A cooling ceviche made from fresh harvest conch meat soused in coconut milk was a thing of beauty I shall never forget - served, as it was, in a beach cafe on the beautiful isle of Petit St Vincent in the Caribbean. I once learned to make an equally delicious ceviche at a cookery class in the truly amazing Jade Mountain Resort, St Lucia. The view of the famous Pitons - St Lucia’s extraordinary twin-mountains - was enough to make you drool before you even began chopping salad stuff freshly picked from Jade Mountain’s own jungle gardens.   Talking of doing the chopping myself, one of the best lunches I have eaten was one I cooked my greedy self in Vietnam. I hasten to add, this was also at a cookery school - this one staged by local village women at the excellent Anam Resort just south of Na Trang.  My best evening out dining from pillar to post was probably in the Sardinian capital, Cagliari. I say probably, because I’ve had a great many of these and they’ve generally been a little overly lubricated with alcohol, so there are other candidates. Anyway, just before the Covid lockdowns I went for a night out in Cagliari, guided by my pal Enrico Cao who manages a wonderful B&B called The Place in the city. We started by eating nibbles of bottarga - pressed mullet roe, otherwise known as Sardinian Gold. The night ended hours after midnight with me wailing: “No more! Please no more!” after a 15 course dinner at Su Tzilleri’e su Doge - an ancient and fabulous restaurant built into ancient city fortifications up on Cagliari’s main hill overlooking the port. The best picnic I have ever had was with six female friends in the old Perrier bottle sand quarry in Provence, while staying at the amazing Hotel Crillon le Brave - one of my favourite hotels in all of Europe.   Some memorable dishes are so simple they almost defy description. Like the dish of half a dozen sea urchins I ate for breakfast - fresh, dripping and straight from the dockside at Bari on the Italian coast. Or the strips of best Parma ham brought from a truly heavenly delicatessen in the back streets of Lucca in Tuscany. I don’t know if itchy feet is the right phrase, but you can probably tell from this article that - like so many people after 24 months of staying put - I am yearning to go off on some culinary adventures once again. If all goes well, I’ll be doing just that and reporting on my discoveries in these pages during the coming year.

Prawns and Prawning: A Timeless Tradition Around England’s Coasts There’s a Van Morrison song which ends with a simple observation borne of absolute contentment. “Wouldn't it be great if it was like this all the time… mutters the old Irish crooner in a strange lilting and poetic little number called Coney Island. “Stop off at Ardglass for a couple of jars of mussels and some potted herrings in case we get famished before dinner…” says Van Morrison as he speaks the words in his gravelly Irish brogue rather than sings them… Not many rock stars intone the delights of preserved seafood in their work. But I have been to Ardglass on Northern Ireland’s east coast and eaten mussels and potted herrings - and then gone on to be lonely but satisfied and nourished on tiny uninhabited Coney Island - so I know just how good such a journey can be… And I would repeat his observation: why can’t life be like this all the time?  That is certainly what I was thinking on a Devon beach last week as I finished a wild foraged prawn cocktail in the sunshine and reflected that it was probably one of the nicest things I’ve eaten this year. Perhaps ever.  And the prawns in question were not preserved, frozen, bottled or jarred. They were very fresh indeed, having been caught by myself and by my chef-lecturer pal, David Beazley, just minutes before. Lovely, juicy, sweet prawns. The most pinky-orange and flavoursome prawns I have tasted a long time.  And at this point I’d like to reflect on the extremely satisfying activity of catching your own food, then cooking it right there and then on a beach. We did it the other day in these pages when we hooked a few mackerel off Lyme Regis - but perhaps I liked this prawning thing even more, because it reminded me of my West Country childhood when we regularly netted these lively crustacea and cooked them for lunch. Okay, so it’s hard work and you‘re going to get wet and maybe cold - and all for a little bag of prawns that you could buy in a supermarket for a couple of quid. Which is immediately untrue because no shop-bought prawn in the world will taste anywhere nearly as good as a fresh one taken from Westcountry waters… But my point is as much about mental satisfaction as it is about flavour.  As kids, those prawn sandwiches we’d make after we’d nicked a pan and a camping stove off mum would be the very finest things on our summer menu - even if they did only consist of white bread, butter, salt and loads of white pepper.  But the thing about growing up and getting wiser and more experienced as a cook - and befriending someone like the talented Mr Beazley - is that you can do so, so much more with foraged ingredients like the humble hand-caught prawn.  “I just know those leaves will work really well - especially that sorrel,” said David as he put together our prawn cocktail. “Although I am a forager, I am a chef as well - so I know what to pick then I use my cheffy skills to perhaps do something more adventurous with it.” We’ve met David before in these pages - he is a chef-lecturer at Exeter College and he was telling me the other day that he does indeed take his students out on foraging trips. “So many chefs do not know where their food comes from. They pick up a phone and the ingredients are with them next morning. Apart from anything else, going out to where the food comes from can help give you ideas.” Like David’s concept of picking wild leaves growing up on the sea-cliffs above the cove to make an altogether different, more interesting style of prawn cocktail…  “I’ve picked some yarrow because it’s quite structural and looks nice - and it’s got a mild flavour - some people says its slightly medicinal but I’d disagree with that. It’s quite mild, not grassy - like spinach,” he told me. “I put some sea-beet in, which is actually quite salty - then I put some sorrel leaves in which are quite citrus - so you’ve got that natural lemony cooking-apple taste.  “I’ve put those mixed leaves in the bottom of the bowl just like you would with an iceberg (lettuce) and then I’ve put the peeled prawns on top of that and put some dressing on top of the prawns. A little flick of hot paprika on top - very traditional.” Well, traditional - but with a distinct foraging take. And that is my point. If you know what you are doing you can combine the things you pick or catch and make them into something called a dish. And David prepared another assembly with our fresh caught shellfish, which was a Japanese inspired prawn cocktail that looked a perfect cheffy picture on the plate on a sandy South Devon beach.  It combined a scarlet lick of foraged homemade elderberry conserve with the greens of sea-lettuce and laver seaweeds, both of which David had picked and dried. There was also a white radish, or mooli, he’d picked from his garden. This was finished off by a few spots of bright green shop-bought wasabi paste. Apart from the last two ingredients, the dish really was the cove on a plate. There were elderberries growing up on the cliffs and both seaweeds were abundant down at the low tide mark which is where we’d caught the prawns using a sturdy landing-net David had bought at an angling shop. I won’t give away all David’s secrets - but basically you shove the net along the side of reefs at low tide. Where the rocks meet the sand there tends to be an overhang which is draped in a forest of seaweed - and this is where the spawns hang out to graze, or whatever it is prawns do. The prawners along my own native Bristol Channel coast do exactly the same thing at Watchet - with one big difference… There you cannot see what you are doing in the mud and silted coffee-coloured water, so you are forced to work blind. The resulting hard-labour can be frustrating and punctuated by trips and falls.  Along the South Devon coast the water is clear and you tend to wade across firm areas of sandy sea-bed. The live prawns on both coasts are brown in colour (the Bristol Channel examples tend to be larger, probably thanks to all the nutrient rich silt) - and both turn orangey-pink the moment you throw them into salted boiling water. But the south coast prawns definitely turn a prettier, brighter orange-pink than their Bristol Channel cousins. In these days when environmental concerns about overfishing etc must, quite rightly, rule the roost - do I think the odd half-hour prawn-hunt does much harm? Perhaps it would, if the entire nation went out and did it. But all the hard work required for a child’s seaside-bucket worth of prawns means it’s never going to become a popular pastime - and I cannot believe one bloke with an 18-inch-wide net can do any damage at all in a chilly 30 minutes.   So is all the fuss worth it? Probably not for a lot of folk. But for me it’s the best thing I’ve done all summer. Indeed, I really do ask myself - wouldn’t it be great, indeed, if life was like this all the time… David Beazley’s prawn cocktail and an easy-to-make bisque Trad-but-foraged Peeled prawns Baby sea beet leaves Sorrel Yarrow Cocktail sauce 100g mayonnaise 25g tomato ketchup Squeeze of lemon juice Pinch of paprika to finish Simply build the prawn cocktail as you would using garden lettuce, but use the foraged leaves instead. Or David’s Japanese style prawn cocktail Dried sea lettuce Dried laver seaweed Shell on cooked prawns Wasabi paste Thin strips of radish Elderberry puree 100 g elderberries 10g sugar Place in a small saucepan, cover and simmer for 5 minutes Rub through a fine sieve, add a pinch of salt Arrange all the ingredients on a plate in the most imaginative and attractive way you can - and admire your handiwork while knowing such a dish in a London restaurant would cost you more than 30 quid. Prawn bisque (using the shells/heads from peeling the prawns) 500g shells 100g roughly chopped onion  100g roughly chopped carrot 50g roughly chopped leek/celery 15g tomato puree 50mls brandy 40g butter 40g flour 1 litre water 50 mls double cream Salt Pepper Melt the butter in a saucepan, add the chopped vegetables and cook gently for a few minutes without colouring them. Add in the brandy, broken up shells, tomato puree and the flour and stir well. Add the water and bring gently to the boil, cover and simmer for 1 hour Pour through a fine sieve into a clean saucepan, the resulting liquid should be the consistency of double cream (add a little water if it is any thicker). Add salt and pepper to your own taste. Before serving reheat, add the double cream and any prawn meat that you managed to save.

Back in the day when I was editor-at-large for the Western Morning News I used to fly off to the Isles of Scilly on a regular basis, often just after New Year when my old friend Mike Nelhams would stage his annual flower on in the amazing Tresco Abbey Gardens… Here’s an example of one of the articles I wrote… Plants have long memories. If you want proof of that go to the island of Tresco 30 miles into the gale tossed Atlantic off Land’s End and admire the 285 species which are out in flower today, despite the fact it’s midwinter.  It has been the best year in decades for the island’s famous Abbey Gardens where an annual flower count is staged just after New Year - and the reason so many plants are in bloom is twofold… For a start, the sheltered side of Tresco has an amazingly balmy microclimate - but also the unique plant collection is made up of a great many species from the Southern Hemisphere whose genetic memories are stuck with the concept that it’s high summer despite the fact that it is January. “This is the only garden in UK where the majority of the plants are from Mediterranean Southern Hemisphere climates of the world,” said the Abbey Gardens curator Mike Nelhams. “This means a lot of our plants flower at exactly the same time as they would in New Zealand, or South Africa, and so on… “Some species do adapt to our summers, but quite a lot - because we never really get cold here in the winter - retain genes in their system which make them flower in what is the UK’s winter.  “One of the groups, from South Africa, are the showy aloes - they consistently flower with us in the winter and we have over 65 different species of them.” However, the amazing count of 285 species in bloom is not a record for the island: “We have had over 300 but that was before we had a freak snowstorm years ago,” Mr Nelhams told me. “In 1987 we lost huge amounts of the garden - around 70 percent of the plants died. “We’ve hardly ever had a frost since and the great thing about this year’s count is that it shows it’s all building up nicely again,” he added. Compared to last year, 30 additional flowers were counted including Tibouchina semidecandra and Aloe arborescens - a flowering spectacle unseen anywhere else in the country at this time of year. The New Year flower count, which was completed by Mr Nelhams alongside head gardener, Andrew Lawson, and garden students, is an annual island tradition that has been taking place for more than 150 years. Described by some as a ‘Kew with the lid off’ , the botanical wonderland boasts a global gathering of plants from over 80 countries. Proteas from South Africa, Acacia from Australia and Passion Flowers (Passiflora) from Peru are just some of the exotic flora that adorn the garden at this time of year, thanks to the island’s mild climate. Mr Nelhams said: “Whilst the annual flower count is a tradition that dates back many years it’s an occasion everyone on the island never tires of. With most other gardens in Britain looking less colourful it’s always a wonderful time of year to tally up just how many plants we have flowering in the garden and this year is no exception.”  Abbey Garden has recently bolstered its plant collection after recently acquiring more than 30 new species from Kew Garden. The collection, which was imported to the island in November 2014, included plants from five of the world’s continents including the Bismarck Palm from Madagascar. For more information about the Abbey Garden visit www.tresco.co.uk

A lot of people think about - obsess about - chocolate, especially at Christmas. Which is why I thought, as only a casual chocolate eater - I would put up a post remembering some of the many chocolaty experiences I’ve enjoyed on my travels. Of course, any such journey should begin in Switzerland, where they invented the technique of turning something which seems pretty inedible, into something sublime. A couple of years ago I was in Lucerne where I spent a rather delightful afternoon at a wonderful chocolatier’s right in the middle of town - visit https://www.maxchocolatier.com/ to find out more… Just before the Covid lockdowns began I was in Madeira where they go in for a particularly colourful type of chocolate…According to Science Daily, chocolate is the most widely and frequently craved food on the planet. No surprises there, then. But what is amazing is that hardly any of us know exactly what it is or how it is made.  According to Science Daily, chocolate is the most widely and frequently craved food on the planet. No surprises there, then. But what is amazing is that hardly any of us know exactly what it is or how it is made.  Of course, there is chocolate, and there is chocolate. The industrially made stuff remains a mystery for me but recently I was stating in St Lucia at the amazing Anse Chastanet and Jade Mountain resorts where I learned all about how to make real chocolate. And I use the word ‘real’ in the same way British beer drinkers talk about “real ale”. Something that is made by hand with basic ingredients.  The twin resorts, located near Soufriere in the fabulously scenic southern part of the island, are part of a large and very beautiful demesne known as the Emerald Estate, upon which there happen to grow more than 2000 cocoa trees “Since 2010, our resorts have hand-crafted Emerald Estate Chocolate for the enjoyment of our guests. And with the opening of the chocolate laboratory, guests are now able to not only taste but participate in the making of the chocolate,” I was told. Saint Lucia has a long connection with the cocoa industry which dates back to the early 1700’s. There are many plantations on the island that have been harvesting and producing cocoa for eons, supplying the local market. In celebration, August has been declared the “Month of Chocolate” on the island. Anyway, I took a tour of the estate’s remarkable gardens in the hills just behind the scenic little seaside town of Soufriere and saw how the cocoa is harvested in season after which it is held in fermentation bins before being eventually laid out in special drying racks that can be wheeled in and out of the bright Caribbean sunlight.  It’s an interesting process. You can break open a cocoa pod and pull out one of the white beans and pop it into your mouth. Your taste buds will be treated to a rather pleasant sweet-sour experience that tastes nothing like chocolate. And I mean nothing like - you get no hint of this plant’s eventual culinary destination at all. But you MUST NOT bite into the bean itself or you’ll be treated to a rather nasty bitter surprise. Seasons vary from region to region, but the process of turning the plant material into chocolate begins when the pods are cut open and the white pulp containing the cocoa beans is scooped out.  The pods and pulp are placed into wooden containers where the pulp is fermented for five to seven days. During the process, the beans are turned regularly to help them ferment more evenly and there is, by-the-way, a bye-product of all this fermentation which is a kind of vinegar that the chefs at Jade Mountain now use in their kitchens.  Next comes the drying when the beans are laid out on large racks. All over the Caribbean you will find old buildings that appear to have a kind of railway built into their foundations. These are the rails upon which the big heavy racks can be wheeled out into the sunshine and quickly pushed back again when it’s raining or at night.  Next, away from the estate gardens and up at Jade Mountain’s chocolate workshop, comes the roasting process which is followed by another process which removes the papery skins. The eventual ‘cocoa nibs’ are then ground with stone rollers until they are reduced to a paste. This cocoa mass or cocoa liquor is a pure, unrefined chocolate which contains both cocoa solids and cocoa butter - the natural fats present in the bean. In large chocolate factories the raw material then goes through another process sometimes called coaching in which things like that sugar, milk powder (for milk chocolate) and other flavourings are added. The chocolate at Jade Mountain only contains cocoa and locally sourced cane sugar. Which is why you could describe it as “real chocolate”.  At the workshop we were able to make our own chocolate bars by working the cocoa mass and sugar on the cold marble topped table until the whole thing reached a smooth silky consistency. We then were given moulds and a choice of other ingredients like chopped nuts which which we could embellish our own individual bars.  A day later I found my pistachio flavoured bar in the fridge in my ‘sanctuary’ at Jade Mountain - and very wonderful it was too. This is the sort of chocolate people were going crazy over a couple of centuries ago - very different indeed from the commercial bar in a European sweet shop or even one of the “single estate” specialty bars of chocolate you can buy in most supermarkets now.

The Christmas story is a special one, whether you are a believer or not. Especially the bit about the three mysterious kings who followed a star out of the east. I thought long and hard about that story a few years ago when I was on a press trip to Southern Oman, right down next to the Yemeni border. Our guide took us to a very special place - an archaeological ruin right out in the middle of nowhere by the Indian Ocean - and I read an information sign saying that just ab out all the world’s supply of frankincense used to go out through the sea-facing door of the old fortress. I was fascinated. I imagined that lump of this strange aromatic tree resin may have come through the portal on their way to that famous birthplace in Bethlehem. It sent a rather lovely shiver down my spine - and I say that even though I am not at all religious… I wrote this article soon after the visit… You don’t have to be religious to be enchanted by the Christmas story. Every part of the tale surrounding the birth of baby Jesus in Bethlehem seems to resound with a beauty and a profound sense of magic and mystery. But apart from the idea of an “immaculate conception”, perhaps one of the strangest parts of the best known story in the world is the appearance of three kings bearing gifts. Who were these magi? What was a magi? Why did they follow that star and ride their camels quite so far in its nocturnal beam of light? And why gold, frankincense and myrrh? As a child growing up in the rural West Country, the story of the Three Kings of Orient struck me as being more exotic and bizarre than any other part of the Christmas tale. Especially the mention of those two latter gifts - frankincense and myrrh. Maybe other kids in my class knew what these items were. Even when my father explained something about “incense” and “fragrant oil” I was none the wiser. But I liked the sound of those mysterious gifts they’d brought for a baby in a manger. And, unlike 99 out of 100 things I learned at school as a child, I always remembered the two words. Frankincense and myrrh. Who doesn’t have these curious and unknowable things on the tip of the tongue at Christmas-tide?   Then one winter’s day standing on the edge of a desert gazing at a very ancient and empty ruin on the side of the Indian Ocean, a man called Mussaiam said to me: “You see that opening in the old wall? There was a time when all the frankincense in the entire world went through that doorway.” When I read the small rusting metal interpretation board shoved into the sand near the door at Khor Rori, it confirmed what Mussaiam had said - and it also informed me that this ancient fortress had held sway along this coast from the 4th century BC to the 5th century AD. Which sent shivers down my spine. Because it meant that the Three Kings - or at least the Magi called Caspar who carried frankincense to Bethlehem - must have passed right through this small door.  It was the only sea-facing aperture in the fortress and in this way the folk who ran the place - and controlled the frankincense trade - could monitor and tax the extremely precious incense going out into the wider world. When Mussaiam saw how excited I was, he began to explain that the area that makes up the very southern tip of Oman has always been known as The Land of Frankincense. It has been one of country’s most famous and highly prized natural products since antiquity, and its unbelievably exotic aroma can be sniffed everywhere, wafting out of homes, mosques and souks and even through to modern office blocks and hotel lobbies.   Most of the world’s frankincense is now harvested in Somalia, but the Omani version is the one connoisseurs go for, especially since the Yemeni supplies dried up because of the ongoing internecine war. Indeed this part of Oman, known as Dhofar, is on the border of Yemen and it is the frankincense from here that is considered to be the world’s finest. I asked Mussaiam to explain what frankincense actually is, and with a shrug he said we’d go and find some. With much tortuous twisting and turning we went deep into the coastal mountains past the city of Salalah and beyond a coastal village called Mughsayl. As coastlines go, this must be one of the most dramatic in the world. Vertiginous, impenetrable, wild, empty…  All you see are rocks, more rocks, the odd camel, and the occasional frankincense tree. We climbed some crags to reach a ragged grove of these trees and Mussaiam showed us how its boughs would instantly bleed a pure white liquid gum if nicked with a knife.  This is frankincense - and the stuff that exudes from the brach immediately after the first cutting is reckoned to be the best you can get. It’s a resin and it can be taken from four different trees of the Boswellia genus, particularly the Boswellia sacra, which thrives in the arid mountains around Salalah where it can survive the most inhospitable conditions imaginable.  The few trees we found were growing straight out of solid rock.  These tough little examples were not much more than 15 feet in height and they had a peeling, papery bark. Tapping and collection is a skilled business - the harvesters allow the “tears” (as the weeping gum is called) to turn white in the sun and harden before they take them from the tree.  Almost all frankincense is collected from trees growing in the wild (they are notoriously difficult to cultivate) which somehow adds to the mystique. Mussaiam immediately shoved some of the gum into his mouth and began to chew it because he said it had miraculous health properties. We did the same, although mine only remained within my lips for a second. I found it gritty and the flavour very, very, unpleasant indeed.  Arabic custom has it that the resin is good for a healthy digestion and soft glowing skin. Modern medical uses are currently being investigated, including a possibility that it might be beneficial as a treatment for Crohn’s disease, as well as osteoarthritis and even cancer. There are quite a few varieties of frankincense and around the Salalah area you can visit small workshops where experts sort the resin by hand. It is  graded according to colour, purity and aroma. The whiter and purer the colour, the better the grade. Varieties that appear to have a yellowish tinge are less highly valued, while at the bottom of the scale come the darker examples from Somalia. The stuff I brought home was the very purest white - and a couple of tiny lumps left on the hot-plate of my wood-burning stove is enough to fill the entire house with scent at Christmas.   It helps a non-believer like me to remember the best known story in the world - and its amazing scent sends me to bed at nights during the festivities wondering who on earth the enigmatic Caspar was, and why he and his friends made such an extraordinary journey bearing gifts just over 2000 years ago.

If I was really pushed, I’d say that the walk to and from Culbone on the Exmoor coast is my number one favourite hike to do at Christmas. Here’s an article about it that I wrote some years ago… But be warned: the Coast Path along this section of the Exmoor littoral suffers from regular landslides. In fast, the vertiginous landscape hereabouts has changed completely since I began walking in the area more than 50 years ago. What makes for a truly classic walk? One answer could lie in the phrase which claims imitation is the highest form of flattery…  Today’s walk has been copied – or, shall we say, “borrowed” (others might use the word “nicked”) - word-for-word by two national newspapers and a glossy colour magazine, so it must have something special going for it… Why? Well, for one thing, no other place in the West Country evokes quite such hallowed and spiritual sensations as remote, lonely, beautiful Culbone – home to the smallest complete church in England. You can't get there by car – and consequently the hamlet is one of the most peaceful and quiet in all the country. To visit you must walk. This hike begins by taking the coast path west from Porlock Weir. It's always tempting to bide a while at the small harbour, where Turkey Island sits on a hump of shingle just across the footbridge from the Harbour Master's office.  You'll notice the lock gates beneath the bridge looking as if they've been borrowed from some inland canal. They haven't, for here they find employment occasionally when they're closed to keep in the tide. When the following ebb is complete they are opened so that the water inside rushes off to sea, hopefully taking much of the mud and silt with it. Our walk takes us past the Anchor Hotel, through the alley between the buildings to the place where we turn left up an easy-to-miss footpath. Steps take us up to the fields, which we cross to reach the hamlet of Worthy.  A few hundred metres along the lane we come to a curious thatched cottage – curious because it forms an arch where motorists pay to ply the Worthy Toll Road. We take the footpath that begins just to the right of the cottage.  This takes up through magical Yearnor Wood. A fabulous fantasy-style mansion once stood here - fairy-like with minarets and cloisters and a clutter of other architectural features. For years the big house at Ashley Combe lay in ruins and eventually became so dangerous it was raised to the ground. Sadly they've even blocked up the little follies and tunnels situated here and there in the steep woods. You'll see one on the path to Culbone, looking like a miniature castle bridging the almost subterranean route. It was a Lady Lovelace who had this dreamland built and she even imported a team of Swiss mountaineers to lay a network of carriageways throughout her vertical demesne. Lady Lovelace eventually despaired of the place being back-sunned and departed for the brighter side of the hill, but you can still see vestiges of her dreamscape and perhaps recall the yodelling mountaineers who made the paths and left behind excellent place names like Apple Dumpling Point and Cherry Tree Steep. The path used to be a long, gradual climb from here to Culbone, but over the past 20 years massive landslides have dissected the hill so that now there's a bit of zig-zag climbing to be done. Indeed, this walk does come with a health warning: the vertiginous landscape here is liable to give up the ghost and fall into the sea – every time I visit I discover yet more bits have disappeared.  All at once the track turns away from the coast and into the hill, and within a few yards there is Culbone hanging high above the grey rocks and the grey sea in its enchanting glen. A visit to the tiny church is compulsory – though it takes you a couple of hundred metres out of the way. The smallest complete church in England has a nave that is 21 feet by 12 feet, and a chancel that measures 13 feet by 10 – making a total length of 35 feet. Regular services are still held - many of the congregation arrive by four-wheel drive down the steep track, which we must now climb. It’s a long steep haul that takes us up to the small lane that terminates at Silcombe Farm. You’ll see the farmstead on your right, but we turn left a few metres until we see a track ascending the hill on our right. This takes us up over Culbone Hill to the very top of the Worthy Toll Road.  Keep an eye out for some small standing stones in the bracken among the pine trees to your left – these are the remains of a fascinating prehistoric stone row that runs east-west across the hill. Turn left at the top and walk along the lane for just a few metres before branching right into Smalla Combe. The footpath runs down this delightful valley alongside the stream. We swing left at Pitt Farm to take the track that will reintroduce us to the toll road.  We soon forsake the road for a footpath. This time it’s the right of way that climbs briefly around the shoulder of hill above Yearnor Mill. Now we are walking along the very upper limits of Worthy Wood, but after a quarter of a mile we come to a junction where a smaller path disappears down over the hill.  This is the path that will take us down through the woods back to Porlock Weir. It eventually spills onto the lane that runs inland around the rear of the tiny port – turn right and walk for a couple hundred metres until you reach the junction where another lane descends to the harbour and the car park.   Fact File Basic Hike: South West Coast Path from Porlock Weir to Culbone, returning over the top of Culbone Hill via Silcombe, Smalla Combe and Worthy Wood. Distance & Going: six miles, steep in places. Recommended Map: Ordnance Survey Outdoor Leisure 9. Local Knowledge Porlock Bay oysters Check out the availability of the excellent Porlock Oysters while you’re at the Weir. They’re grown as part of a community based project and are very, very, delicious http://www.porlockbayoysters.co.uk/ Wine Pub of the Year - every year If you’re driving back over Exmoor after this walk and you’re hungry, call in at the excellent Woods in Dulverton which has just won UK Wine Pub of the Year for the eight time running. Great food - and totally amazing wine.

Just over two years ago on a dark winter’s day I flew out of the UK and 12 hours later found myself in this place. I bet that right now, as millions around the globe fear another Christmas will be spoilt somewhat by Covid, that a great many would love to be transported to Mirihi Island on a magic carpet this very minute. Here is the article I wrote at the time… Every now and again - or maybe just once or twice in a lifetime - you get to go somewhere that causes you pinch yourself so you can check you’re not dreaming. There are plenty of earthly paradise zones if you know how to find them, but some have more tick-boxes than the rest.  The Maldives would be one such place, especially for those of us from a wintry Northern Europe. White sandy palm-strewn beaches? Tick. Crystal clear warm seas? Tick. Colourful, bountiful, coral reefs (for the most part, shark-free)? Tick. Fabulous weather? Tick. Fabulous local food? Tick. Friendly people? Tick. What more can you say? Not a lot, really. Not when you’ve spent the best part of a week on a paradise island that is only 200 metres long. Not when you’ve spent 15 minutes walking right around it one way six times - and doubled that number by circumnavigating it in the other direction.  Which brings me to the one big question that people ask time and again about the Maldives… After a day or two on a tiny atoll, what are you going to do? Well, I know there are people who get bored easily, even when they’re in paradise - but I am not one of them. Actually, I found a great deal to occupy my mind during my stay at the amazing Mirihi Island Resort and would very gladly have doubled or tripled my time there.  For a start, a resort like Mirihi offers the ultimate chill-out zone. There are no cars - no traffic at all. There’s no noise, save for the occasional visiting seaplane upon which you will have arrived having enjoyed a 45-minute scenic flight from the Maldivian capital of Maale.  Describing an arrival at Mirihi is well worth the column-space. The Twin Otter seaplane will have banked hard allowing you a seagull’s eye view of the tiny palm-covered islet and its surrounding azure sea and the pilot will have throttled back to allow for an ultra-smooth landing on the mirror-like water. The island boat will come out to the pontoon and staff will take your luggage and politely call you by your christian name, even though they’ve never met you before. The people who work at Mirihi are an intelligent bunch (they probably search for an image of you on the internet so that they can recognise you when you arrive) - and they are extremely friendly and polite. One of them will suggest you take off your shoes as the boat pulls away from the plane and heads towards the jetty.  She is saying: “You might like to take off your shoes now - we will take them with your luggage to your rooms. The thing is, you won’t be needing them until you leave…” As she is saying the words and you are slipping off your footwear, so you are beginning to realise that you are having one of those “pinch-yourself” moments. The wooden jetty, the white sand beach, the tiny islet with its palms beyond… Surely this is a place where movie-stars and prime ministers go on holiday? It’s not the kind of place a chap raised in a West Country council house has any right to be in… But here you are. And they are all smiling, calling you Martin and taking you on a sandy path through the palms and out over another jetty across another beach to a series of thatched villas built on stilts above the reef. One of them is yours - and it is huge and airy and luxurious. You open the sliding glass doors and walk out onto your private balcony and look down the steps that will take you straight into a vast endless tropical fish-tank. And you think: “This will do me very nicely indeed. In fact, cancel the return flight.” You are hot and sweaty after the long flight from the UK and the connection at the busy airport - so you grab the facemark, snorkel and fins the staff have given you for your stay and you go down into that cooling, fabulous, underwater world beneath your suite. Just for a few minutes, just to cool off and relax… And one hour later you realise you’re still out there exploring the reef and will be late for lunch. Not that there is such a thing as “late” in the Maldives. It is one of the most relaxed places in the world. In fact, at the Mirihi Island Resort they have even set the time to be being one hour later than anywhere else in the watery nation so that guests can make the very best of the daylight hours.  Mirihi is out on the western fringes of the Maldivian archipelago, so this makes sense. Not that you will need a clock, unless you have arranged to meet your pals or fellow guests for lunch or dinner.  Talking of which, the food is superb. In fact, it is the best resort food I have eaten in over 40 years of travel writing. Maldivian cuisine is a fat-free, super-healthy, delicious sensation - and there’s plenty of Sri Lankan and Southern India food to go with it. Executive chef Felix Bamert makes sure there are more than 20 different curries on show each afternoon and evening, and there will be a new main theme to dinner day after day.  There is a high-end waiter-service restaurant at one end of the isle (great place for cocktails and sunsets) but the main buffet-style dining centre is massive and airy - and the range of salads, cold cuts, mains, sweets and goodness knows what else is bigger than any other resort offering I’ve ever seen. And everything is freshly made.  So, apart from eating and drinking, what to do in paradise?  Not surprisingly, a lot of it is water-based. There’s an excellent diving centre at Mirihi - so excellent they taught me the rudiments of scuba-diving and had me down there enjoying the non-snorkel-ish bits of the reef in an impressively short time. I’ve had diving lessons before, but these guys were somehow more instructive, more caring and better at it than the folk who’ve given me underwater experiences elsewhere.  Or how about a sunset cruise out to the edge of the atoll so that you can sip cocktails while watching dolphins leap around on the bow wave? That certainly ticked a box for me.  But the ultimate boredom-in-paradise busting treat was an all-day cruise aboard Mirihi’s own elegant yacht… Again we went out to the edge of the atoll and into the Indian Ocean proper so that we could cruise in a place where giant whale sharks lurk in a tidal zone, allowing the currents to bring them quantities of plankton and goodness knows what other microbial stuff they eat.  There were several other boats in the area from other resorts, all full of tourists armed with face-masks and snorkels, all desperate to swim with the whale sharks. It is one of the “must-do” thrills of the Maldives - and there are places where ecologists say it’s gone too far and all the attention is harming those gentle giants.  But out here on the remote western fringe of the archipelago that’s not so much the case - and I have to say the local crew aboard our yacht seemed to have the edge on all the rest so we were soon swimming close to the gargantuan creatures when the other boats weren’t. At one point I was just ten feet from a whale shark that must have been more than 20 feet long. It swam slowly and gracefully below me for minutes, before accelerating effortlessly away. To be so close to something so huge and so wild - and thankfully, so vegetarian - was a thing I shall never forget.  Later that day we were able to swim among manta rays. And later still we were back on Mirihi for a huge banquet laid out for us on the beach, followed by an extensive rum-and-chocolate-tasting session which went on until the early hours. Bored in paradise? Not me. In fact, I was so busy, I was exhausted and could have done with another week in my private reef villa just to chill-out. FACT FILE Nightly rates at Mirihi Island start from $600 (£479*) per villa, on a B&B basis, based on two people sharing. Prices are subject to 10% service charge and 12% GST. For more information or to make a reservation visit  www.mirihi.com  or call +960 668 0500 or email  info@mirihi.com

Since the soft launch of my little yarn entitled The Deer Park this week, loads of people have been asking me on social media how a cynical old newspaper journalist came to write a children’s fairytale.  The answer is quite simple… I loved such stories when I was a kid and the magical woodlands above Dunster sort of remind me of some of those old Grimm’s Fairy Tales. My daughter Nancy, her partner Ross and their lovely Exmoor lurcher Tadgh live near Gallox Bridge (the old packhorse bridge) so we often join them for a walk up into Dunster Deer Park. One day just before the Covid lockdown last winter we were up there as a gale was beginning to blow in from the Atlantic - and the views from wonderful Bat’s Castle always look particularly dramatic in such circumstances.  As we walked down over the hill through the forests, I heard a strange banging noise in the woods and wondered what it was… We soon discovered a big larch tree which had half-fallen over but which had come to rest at a 45 degree angle in the branches of a neighbouring oak - the wind was causing the upper branches of the two trees to smack into one another - and, because the banging sounded a bit like some kind of morse-code message, I began to formulate a story in my mind.  What if that sound was actually being generated by some kind of woodland spirit? And what if it was heard by some children or a child, lost in the woods as the storm approached. And what if there was another threat - my mum used to tell me about the German aeroplanes which would fly low over the West Somerset hills on their way to bomb either Cardiff or the steel works in South Wales.   Her reminiscences of those times always centred on the loss of her china-faced doll, which was the only bomb victim to ever come to grief in the village of Stogumber. Apparently the bombers would sometimes escape British fighters by skimming low over the Bristol Channel when they’d finished their raids - and sometimes one of the aeroplanes would have been unable to release all of its bombs, so the pilots suddenly needed to jettison these fast in order to climb over the 1400 foot escarpment of the Brendon Hills. I know of more than half a dozen bomb craters which were created in this way in the Monksilver and Nettlecombe area and in my own valley above Roadwater. My mums doll was shaken from its perch on a chest of drawers when a bomb blew up in fields just outside of Stogumber and it fell, smashing its little china face. Not a bad death toll when compared of those place which lost so many poor souls… Anyway, all these stories began to swirl around in my mind as I thought about how a modern fairy tale could be developed. There are also a great many legends based in and around Dunster, which of course is one of the most historic villages in the South West region. For example, I seem to remember reporting a story for the newspaper once after archaeologists had found the skeleton of an exceptionally large man in buried under some of the nether regions of Dunster Castle. He had died centres ago in the days when people were a good deal shorter than they are now. I think this guy was something like seven feet tall - so he really must have been regarded as a giant back in the day. Which tied in, because I have another memory of being told about a legend centred upon a giant living at Dunster. The story went that he was so big he kept knocking into things around the village - they they banned him from the place and made him live just outside up on Grabbist where I believe there is a place called The Giant’s Seat. The bit in this legend that sticks in my memory was that the villagers were kind to him and brought him food - so he was kind to them and would do favours around the place. Like, for example, blowing down from his high seat at the washing on washing-day when there wasn’t enough wind to dry the clothes. A tall order for someone who is only seven feet tall - but a good yarn nevertheless.  So you can see, there was plenty of material to be thinking about when the Covid lockdown kicked in and I had time on my hands at home… To be continued… Copies of the Deer Park are available at https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deer-Park-Modern-Fairytale-ebook/dp/B09MG4RGK4/ref=sr_1_7?keywords=martin+hesp&qid=1638270958&qsid=261-9964086-6600138&s=digital-text&sr=1-7&sres=B088WX85PB%2CB006KDAYZC%2CB00577PNQC%2CB005G82AH2%2CB005UAKHBM%2CB0887D9Y6J%2CB09MG4RGK4

Can a product go from being a convenience-store staple to an item that’s regarded as posh-nosh? We know the opposite can happen because clever manufacturers have managed to turn all manner of exotic recipes into cheap sauces and ready-meals - but could you really take something as basic as a can of sardines and make it into an item that even the most discerning of foodies would desire? The answer is an emphatic: yes! As long as everything - from the catching of the fish to the act of canning in the factory - is done just right.  And one of the West Country’s best-known chefs has just taken a major step towards proving that point.  This month, after years of research, Mitch Tonks has launched the Rockfish Tinned Seafood brand – a uniquely British product made using fresh seafood direct from the South Coast of England.  Mitch, founder of Seahorse Restaurant in Dartmouth and the pioneering fish restaurants Rockfish, is well-known for being passionate about getting Brits to cook and eat the wonderful array of sustainable fish swimming around our shores. Now he’s put his money where his mouth is, so to speak, by producing a range of exceptional high-quality canned products which will help ensure a better less-wasteful end for West Country fish. As we all know, seafood doesn’t last long once it’s out of the water - but canning fresh fish can preserve it both effectively, and deliciously, for years.    The Rockfish range includes Brixham cuttlefish in ink sauce, West Country mackerel in olive oil, Lyme Bay mussels escabeche and several luxury versions of Mount’s Bay sardines. And having sampled the range I can vouch that each and every one of the products is very good indeed and worth the price-tag, if you can afford it. Yes, £5 for a tin of sardines does sound a lot but - as any foodie who has spent time in Spain will know - you get what you pay for in this world. I mention that country because the Spanish are in the premier league when it comes to the art of canning seafood. Years ago, when I first spotted a large can of fish being served as the centre-piece of a rather up-market Spanish family’s main meal of the day, I was astonished in a snooty kind of way. But that was my old-fashioned British inverted snobbery getting the better of me. In this country we have tended to look down our noses at tinned food - which (as is so often the case when it comes to just about anything edible) has been a big mistake on our part.  There are canning companies in Spain which go about the challenge of hermitically sealing seafood with all the care and attention that an artisan baker will invest in the making of a sourdough loaf. An analogy which actually extends our “from convenience-store staple to posh-nosh” theme, because it is also happening in the world of baking…  Just look at how Matthews Cotswold Flour has elevated a bag of the white stuff. Its bags of high-grade flour are selling like proverbial hot-cakes nowadays, partly because of the lockdown-induced baking-boom. Today’s more thoughtful home-cooks are discovering that store-cupboard staples should be about quality and not just quantity and convenience. Anyway, it was in Spain that Mitch began to think about the idea of using a top-quality canning facility to lock in the delights of top-quality English seafood.  He told us: “Tinning fish is such a wonderful way to not only preserve the best of the British and help reduce waste from surplus catches, but to add and infuse extra flavour through oils and sauces. It seemed such a shame that it’s a method we Brits haven’t pursued before.  “With this venture, I wanted to find a way for us to preserve our own fish and carefully manage the process from start to finish - thereby ensuring quality and celebrating the magic of tinned seafood.”  Much of the seafood involved is caught by the restaurant chain’s own The Rockfisher boat, but Mitch also uses catches of other West Country fishermen. Landed at its prime, the seafood is frozen at the Rockfish facilities just 17 metres from Brixham’s quayside to preserve the quality and well-known benefits of fresh fish. It is then transported to a canning facility in Spain where it’s preserved and packaged, before arriving back in Brixham. Sadly, no company in this country seemed to have the necessary expertise when it came to canning in the exacting, artisanal way Mitch required…   “After extensive research we found that we didn’t have the expertise to create a premium, hand-made and artisanal product in the UK,” he explained. “So instead we found a fantastic partner in Spain, with generations of heritage and experience, who can create an authentic product, still showcasing how special and delicious our South West coast fish is. From well-loved sardines to cuttlefish… The latter being hugely popular in Spain and Portugal - but many people don’t realise it can be found off our own coastline.  “With this new British tinned fish range, we’re showing that what we have is worth celebrating and getting people eating more of our seafood. Preserving fish in this way is part of the Rockfish team’s dedication to create a more sustainable way to enjoy seafood, with fishermen often finding themselves with gluts thanks to the seasonal nature fish,” added Mitch.  “Through the tinning process Rockfish can preserve seafood at its peak, reduce food waste, and create something truly delicious which can be enjoyed at any time, in a manner of different ways.” Different ways indeed… Like many readers, I grew up thinking sardines were only ever available in tins that their one and only eventual resting place was on a bed of toast. Indeed, the open sandwich in the photos consists of my own homemade rye sourdough bread made using Matthews Cotswold Flour with a French mustard and creme-creche sauce, cornichons and fresh pickled red onion with Mitch’s amazing Cornish sardines. It was the best sardine sandwich I have ever eaten.  But if you take a look at our panel you will see that Mitch has come up with quite a few other ways of enjoying canned seafood other than eating with a slice of sourdough… Eat straight from the tin, serve with sourdough or crusty bread or try some of these ideas from Mitch Tonks.  Spaghetti with cuttlefish, garlic and sage  Fry a little garlic and a few sage leaves in olive oil, add the tin of cuttlefish including all the juices, and warm through. Add cooked spaghetti and toss through. Finish with a sprinkling of parsley  Cuttlefish on polenta Typically Venetian, make some creamy polenta, spoon onto a plate, warm the cuttlefish and all the juices in a pan, and serve on top. If you don’t have polenta, creamy mash works well too. Tinned mackerel shawarma Shred cabbage, red onion and some green chilli and mix together. Grate garlic into some yoghurt and toss with the vegetables. Lay out a flour tortilla or flat bread, and spread with some hummus, place the cabbage on top, then top with mackerel, a sprinkling of za’atar or cumin, a squeeze of lemon and some pomegranate seeds. Wrap the whole thing up like a shawarma. Mackerel Niçoise One for the summer - take blanched green beans, the first new waxy potatoes, tomatoes, red onion and lettuce tossed in a lemony dressing made with the oil from the tin. Flake the mackerel over the top with some black olives - you could even stick it all in a wrap. Sardine Caesar salad Take some of our anchoïade and massage a tablespoon or two into some chopped romaine lettuce, fold through some tinned sardines then grate Parmesan over the top and sprinkle with croutons. The sardine “Reuben” Take two slices of rye bread, and butter one side of both slices. Mix together some creme fraiche and English mustard with a dash of Worcestershire sauce and spread on the non-buttered side of both slices. On one slice, onto the crème fraiche mixture add the sardines with a good grind of black pepper then layer with red onion, sliced dill pickles, a few capers and a tablespoon or two of sauerkraut. Lay a slice of Swiss cheese on top, then sandwich together with both crème fraiche slides in the middle. Lightly press it all together, warm a frying pan and cook the sandwich on the buttered sides until golden brown.  Sardine Puttanesca Warm some olive oil in a pan from the sardine tin, add garlic, chopped tomatoes, capers, chilli and black olives, and cook until the sauce is thick. Add the sardines, cook for a further minute then add cooked spaghetti and toss together. Sardine Som Tam (you could make this with mussels too) Shred carrots & courgette (or green papaya) into thin juliennes. Thinly slice a red onion and halve a handful of cherry toms and place together in a bowl who a few slices of hot chilli.  Make a dressing from palm sugar, fish sauce, lime juice and a bashed garlic clove or two. Mix the dressing with the salad and add fresh coriander and mint. Either fry the sardines in hot oil until crisp or use straight form the tin but simply fold them through the salad and serve.   Bruschetta with mussel and celery escabeche In a pan warm 50ml of olive oil with 50ml Moscatel (or white wine) vinegar and a few tablespoons of the marinade from the mussel tin. When hot, add a handful of finely sliced onion, some finely sliced celery, and a pinch of dried chilli and remove from the heat. Once cooled, cooled remove the vegetable from the marinade and toss with the mussels, add parsley and served on toasted sourdough with aioli. Tinned mussels, nduja & crispy potatoes  Dice some potatoes about 15mm square. Fry some nduja to release the oils then add the potatoes, add more olive oil if needed, cook unit the potatoes crisp then add the mussels to warm through, add plenty of parsley to finish.