Weekend 21-24 January 2016
Hi there.
It all started well.
Thursday night was a supper evening at Blue Elvan. There were only three of us, Tim, Peter and I.
The conversation was easy, the food was as usual equal to at least two Michelin stars. The gravlax, only a small part of the smorgasbord on offer was extremely well received as was the game pie. It may well have been that the salmon had been swimming in the Erme that morning and like the "game" in the pie was fresh until caught this very day. All of this was consumed with a bottle of Crement, a few Rioja's, was that glasses or bottles and a small libation of port.
A certain degree of rowdy off-key singing followed. The volume, in part due to the heavy rain falling on the conservatory roof for we could barely hear the backing tracks! As the drink took hold, all thoughts about the weather front, now with us and threatening to continue into mid- morning Friday was lost to us. Indeed it is fair to say there was an air of bravado.
Surprisingly Peter "Ironman" Nixon was the first to suggest that the evening should draw to a close. It was barely 2230hrs. Unusual as it is always Peter that wants to party on. However given our 0830hrs start at The Mews the following morning we thought that he was probably right.
Earlier that evening when Tim had presented me with my Walnuts and Abricot confiture from Suzie, for which I am indeed most grateful. I placed these items next to my sleeping bag in the reception area. "What's that?" asks Tim pointing at my sleeping bag. Before I could reply he follows this obvious question with a statement. "Suzie says you are not to use your sleeping bag. You will be in trouble". Looking at Tim I could see he had that determined Burls look upon his face so I thought I would humour him. "Ok, no problem". That's the end of the matter. Well it was until I came to get it to turn in. "Where's my sleeping bag" I asked. "I've hidden it." says Tim. It was too late to argue. Smiling, I turned in.
Too say Friday morning was bright and clear is far from the truth. It was raining hard with a fair degree of wind blowing. We ate breakfast, prepped our bergans, made bacon sarnies, with lashings of HP sauce and filled water bottles. Mike, sporting some rather snazzy new walking trousers, alas the old grey ones have been retired to the "Working around the garden" section of my wardrobe, also dons some new Goretex gaiters and his foul weather over-trousers. The arrival of Peter Nixon a little after 0810hrs saw us setting off at 0824hrs.
The walk uphill to moor gate, all on tarmac gave evidence as to the water coming off the moor. The gutters were filled to capacity. At Moorgate the flat even area inside the gate was a lake. Several of the paths leading onto this area were cascading water down into it and rushing out the other side onwards into the fields. We could not walk through that. Tracking along the wall uphill for a short while we crossed first one then another and another "stream" until we were on the moor. It was sodden everywhere. Our next way point was the old railway line to Redlake. We were walking uphill with water covering our boots. No matter what direction, route or path we took. Our feet were within meters and minutes soaked. There was a fine drizzle and the ever present Dartmoor mist. Down to about a hundred meters. I thought that the railway track would be good and solid with relatively dry going. It was a river. The banks either side in the cuttings etc. was holding the water and guiding it downhill. We waded across and away uphill towards Hangershell Rock. In an attempt to keep away from the torrent of water coming off this part of the moor we struck NE but it was soon apparent we had moved to far off our intended track line. We turned E and within a short time there, looming out of the mist was Hangershell. Moving on to Three Barrows we decided that as our feet were soaked through we might as well stick to the cross country route. This way is wet in Summer so whatever it was like after all this rain we were about to find out. We slipped, slided and fell for the next 4.5 K. Regaining the railway line not far from the spoil tip at Redlake. This was 4"-6" deep in places and at one point necessitated a 100 m detour as it was far too deep to wade through.
We reached Redlake at 1050hrs. Usually we sit at the top and enjoy the view but although the mist had cleared there was now a keen wind blowing and we had started to get somewhat chilled. Tim and I pulled on an extra layer for warmth and our wool hats. We busied ourselves with our gas stoves and heating water for a hot drink. Tim was making coffee for Peter which Pete had for once remembered to bring a mug, albeit plastic, we keep telling him to get a metal one, some water and coffee. I made a hot chocolate and whilst waiting for the kettle to boil we all got stuck into our bacon sarnies. It was whilst munching I noticed Peter had one boot and sock off his feet. The sock, blowing in the wind and hanging somewhat precariously off an old iron hook that was protruding from the ruined wall of the ruined building we were trying and failing to obtain some degree of shelter from. Pete, seeing the quizzical look upon my face said "My feet are wet, I'm letting the sock dry." "Pete," says I "why only one sock and what happens if the sock blows off that hook and falls into that ten feet deep hole with the underground stream beneath?" "Oh, yes." He removes it and lays it upon a rock to dry. That's optimism I thought.
Tim meanwhile had discovered that his Jetboil had blown out. A few choice words were uttered and he relit it. Well the thirty minutes we had allocated for lunch was up. Tim and I packed and shouldered our bergans. Peter dug into his bag, pulled out some dry socks, put them on and we were off. Our track out was into the flooded railway track. This had to be for a good 700 meters. Wading through I shouted back to Peter. "How's your dry feet?" His reply was lost upon the wind.
The journey back was less eventful than the journey out. True there was still an inordinate amount of water lying everywhere but it was starting to run off. The sun came out for the very last bit coming off the moor and before long, 1350 hrs to be exact we were back at Blue Elvan.
Here Mike had a quick glass of Barley water, a pint in fact. That bacon was salty. Tim retrieved my sleeping bag and throwing all my kit into the car I was off home. I had made arrangements to collect Callum from school at 1520hrs. We then spent half an hour in the park next to the school whilst I chatted with all the "Yummy Mummies". Home for a spa and then surprise, Tracey asks me if Callum could have a sleep over as they were going ashore that evening. No problem. He's good company.
They collected him about lunchtime and I had the remainder of the day to myself. In truth I did very little but sit down with a coffee or three and read.
Sunday. Up to Mum and Dad's for some toast and T an hour or so with them and I'm away.
Next stop "The Co-op". Good socialist me. None of this Tesco nonsense. Capitalists!
As usual I need help in locating some of the various items I had on my shopping list. Just as you get used to a location for something or other they move it. Why? Anyway the children who were stacking the shelves, I thought you had to at least 16 to work in a shop, knew even less than I did where the Mascarpone cheese was. One thought it was a tin of pasta! I opted for the served option today as it seemed there was slightly less of a queue. Well you know what went wrong there, so I wont even tell you. This tap and go on the credit card is brilliant. Even the acne faced youth serving me knew how to work it. A smug smile appeared on my face for I had remembered my carrier bag, into which I placed all my rations. Packing them neatly as Jackie has trained me.
It all started well.
Thursday night was a supper evening at Blue Elvan. There were only three of us, Tim, Peter and I.
The conversation was easy, the food was as usual equal to at least two Michelin stars. The gravlax, only a small part of the smorgasbord on offer was extremely well received as was the game pie. It may well have been that the salmon had been swimming in the Erme that morning and like the "game" in the pie was fresh until caught this very day. All of this was consumed with a bottle of Crement, a few Rioja's, was that glasses or bottles and a small libation of port.
A certain degree of rowdy off-key singing followed. The volume, in part due to the heavy rain falling on the conservatory roof for we could barely hear the backing tracks! As the drink took hold, all thoughts about the weather front, now with us and threatening to continue into mid- morning Friday was lost to us. Indeed it is fair to say there was an air of bravado.
Surprisingly Peter "Ironman" Nixon was the first to suggest that the evening should draw to a close. It was barely 2230hrs. Unusual as it is always Peter that wants to party on. However given our 0830hrs start at The Mews the following morning we thought that he was probably right.
Earlier that evening when Tim had presented me with my Walnuts and Abricot confiture from Suzie, for which I am indeed most grateful. I placed these items next to my sleeping bag in the reception area. "What's that?" asks Tim pointing at my sleeping bag. Before I could reply he follows this obvious question with a statement. "Suzie says you are not to use your sleeping bag. You will be in trouble". Looking at Tim I could see he had that determined Burls look upon his face so I thought I would humour him. "Ok, no problem". That's the end of the matter. Well it was until I came to get it to turn in. "Where's my sleeping bag" I asked. "I've hidden it." says Tim. It was too late to argue. Smiling, I turned in.
Too say Friday morning was bright and clear is far from the truth. It was raining hard with a fair degree of wind blowing. We ate breakfast, prepped our bergans, made bacon sarnies, with lashings of HP sauce and filled water bottles. Mike, sporting some rather snazzy new walking trousers, alas the old grey ones have been retired to the "Working around the garden" section of my wardrobe, also dons some new Goretex gaiters and his foul weather over-trousers. The arrival of Peter Nixon a little after 0810hrs saw us setting off at 0824hrs.
The walk uphill to moor gate, all on tarmac gave evidence as to the water coming off the moor. The gutters were filled to capacity. At Moorgate the flat even area inside the gate was a lake. Several of the paths leading onto this area were cascading water down into it and rushing out the other side onwards into the fields. We could not walk through that. Tracking along the wall uphill for a short while we crossed first one then another and another "stream" until we were on the moor. It was sodden everywhere. Our next way point was the old railway line to Redlake. We were walking uphill with water covering our boots. No matter what direction, route or path we took. Our feet were within meters and minutes soaked. There was a fine drizzle and the ever present Dartmoor mist. Down to about a hundred meters. I thought that the railway track would be good and solid with relatively dry going. It was a river. The banks either side in the cuttings etc. was holding the water and guiding it downhill. We waded across and away uphill towards Hangershell Rock. In an attempt to keep away from the torrent of water coming off this part of the moor we struck NE but it was soon apparent we had moved to far off our intended track line. We turned E and within a short time there, looming out of the mist was Hangershell. Moving on to Three Barrows we decided that as our feet were soaked through we might as well stick to the cross country route. This way is wet in Summer so whatever it was like after all this rain we were about to find out. We slipped, slided and fell for the next 4.5 K. Regaining the railway line not far from the spoil tip at Redlake. This was 4"-6" deep in places and at one point necessitated a 100 m detour as it was far too deep to wade through.
We reached Redlake at 1050hrs. Usually we sit at the top and enjoy the view but although the mist had cleared there was now a keen wind blowing and we had started to get somewhat chilled. Tim and I pulled on an extra layer for warmth and our wool hats. We busied ourselves with our gas stoves and heating water for a hot drink. Tim was making coffee for Peter which Pete had for once remembered to bring a mug, albeit plastic, we keep telling him to get a metal one, some water and coffee. I made a hot chocolate and whilst waiting for the kettle to boil we all got stuck into our bacon sarnies. It was whilst munching I noticed Peter had one boot and sock off his feet. The sock, blowing in the wind and hanging somewhat precariously off an old iron hook that was protruding from the ruined wall of the ruined building we were trying and failing to obtain some degree of shelter from. Pete, seeing the quizzical look upon my face said "My feet are wet, I'm letting the sock dry." "Pete," says I "why only one sock and what happens if the sock blows off that hook and falls into that ten feet deep hole with the underground stream beneath?" "Oh, yes." He removes it and lays it upon a rock to dry. That's optimism I thought.
Tim meanwhile had discovered that his Jetboil had blown out. A few choice words were uttered and he relit it. Well the thirty minutes we had allocated for lunch was up. Tim and I packed and shouldered our bergans. Peter dug into his bag, pulled out some dry socks, put them on and we were off. Our track out was into the flooded railway track. This had to be for a good 700 meters. Wading through I shouted back to Peter. "How's your dry feet?" His reply was lost upon the wind.
The journey back was less eventful than the journey out. True there was still an inordinate amount of water lying everywhere but it was starting to run off. The sun came out for the very last bit coming off the moor and before long, 1350 hrs to be exact we were back at Blue Elvan.
Here Mike had a quick glass of Barley water, a pint in fact. That bacon was salty. Tim retrieved my sleeping bag and throwing all my kit into the car I was off home. I had made arrangements to collect Callum from school at 1520hrs. We then spent half an hour in the park next to the school whilst I chatted with all the "Yummy Mummies". Home for a spa and then surprise, Tracey asks me if Callum could have a sleep over as they were going ashore that evening. No problem. He's good company.
They collected him about lunchtime and I had the remainder of the day to myself. In truth I did very little but sit down with a coffee or three and read.
Sunday. Up to Mum and Dad's for some toast and T an hour or so with them and I'm away.
Next stop "The Co-op". Good socialist me. None of this Tesco nonsense. Capitalists!
As usual I need help in locating some of the various items I had on my shopping list. Just as you get used to a location for something or other they move it. Why? Anyway the children who were stacking the shelves, I thought you had to at least 16 to work in a shop, knew even less than I did where the Mascarpone cheese was. One thought it was a tin of pasta! I opted for the served option today as it seemed there was slightly less of a queue. Well you know what went wrong there, so I wont even tell you. This tap and go on the credit card is brilliant. Even the acne faced youth serving me knew how to work it. A smug smile appeared on my face for I had remembered my carrier bag, into which I placed all my rations. Packing them neatly as Jackie has trained me.
Home. It is now 1400hrs and I decide I am
"cooking" diner this evening. I had trawled through the internet and
landing upon Jamie Oliver's website I see a dinner for one called Roasted
Chicken Breast with lemony Bombay potatoes. This rather exotic dish the
blurb maintains is super easy to prepare and cook needing only 55 minutes. I
had already checked and printed off the list of ingredients. Fresh ginger,
turmeric, cumin, fresh coriander, peppers etc. I was at first a bit stumped
about the "higher-welfare chicken". This had me thinking. Was this
some chicken that had been raised by the welfare state and not a
farmer in the green rolling hills of Devon? Was it a chicken that had, like so
many of us seen a downturn in his fortunes and was now down on his luck and
seeking a leg up from the social? I don't know. What I do know is that the
Co-op no longer has a butchers department and you have to buy some packaged
chicken. Two drumsticks and two breasts. My plea for only one breast drew a
stern look from the female assistant. Anyway.I set about scrubbing, peeling, mixing and pre-warming the oven. I do stray a little from the recipe but feel I need to set my own signature upon the dish. Its prepared and it's nowhere near scran time. I won't cook it yet.
Item 2.
Lemon Mascarpone four layer cake with caramelized lemon
peel and drizzled fondant icing.
Sounds good. You bet. Now
some of you out there might well be thinking.. "Uh Oh." Fear not. I
am confident. After all how hard can it be. It's only like mixing concrete and
plastering the top surely.
Things started to go slightly awry about now. One of my first tasks was to zest a lemon and caramelize it. I knew we had an apple corer because I bought that in Cadillac market. Reasoning that we must have a zesting tool, for we seem to have everything else I turned the drawers up and out. As I came across items I thought I would need for cake baking I pulled them out. The food processor/ concrete mixer was filled with all sorts of flour, butter, baking powder, caster sugar etc. Now to switch on. The lid didn't look right. What? I had forgotten to place the whizzy mixing thing on the shaft of the motor so had to empty all the ingredients out, place it, refill it and switch on. Watching the stuff whizz around I had to drop in four eggs. Now I know to crack these into a cup first. Everyone knows that right. What I wasn't expecting was the splash-back as they hit the surface of the mixture. A good pastry chef has flour over the work surface ask Paul Hollywood. I cannot believe how much butter, sugar and Mascarpone goes into a simple Lemon cake. You'd have thought it to be quite healthy. It can't be. I line of couple of tins with parchment paper. Yes I know cutting edge stuff here, lob in the mixture, run the trowel over it to smooth it out then pop it into the oven.
Things started to go slightly awry about now. One of my first tasks was to zest a lemon and caramelize it. I knew we had an apple corer because I bought that in Cadillac market. Reasoning that we must have a zesting tool, for we seem to have everything else I turned the drawers up and out. As I came across items I thought I would need for cake baking I pulled them out. The food processor/ concrete mixer was filled with all sorts of flour, butter, baking powder, caster sugar etc. Now to switch on. The lid didn't look right. What? I had forgotten to place the whizzy mixing thing on the shaft of the motor so had to empty all the ingredients out, place it, refill it and switch on. Watching the stuff whizz around I had to drop in four eggs. Now I know to crack these into a cup first. Everyone knows that right. What I wasn't expecting was the splash-back as they hit the surface of the mixture. A good pastry chef has flour over the work surface ask Paul Hollywood. I cannot believe how much butter, sugar and Mascarpone goes into a simple Lemon cake. You'd have thought it to be quite healthy. It can't be. I line of couple of tins with parchment paper. Yes I know cutting edge stuff here, lob in the mixture, run the trowel over it to smooth it out then pop it into the oven.
As I place it on the middle shelf
the side wall of the oven becomes dislodged. Here am I with a 200C oven and
bits are falling off. I jam in the shelf and make a mental note to fix it when
both the oven and I have cooled down. Set the timer and as the instructions say
"wait till the cake turns a golden brown and lifts slightly from the
edge".
Well nothing to this cookery business. I always said Nigella Lawson was only there as eye candy. No more tins of cold curry or all Day Breakfasts for me when Jackie's away in future. Watch Heinz profits drop now I murmur to myself. I make a coffee and think about retiring to switch on the PC. Drat I have the ironing to do for my shirts and trousers for tomorrow. Well by the time I've finished all that it's gone six and the afternoon has disappeared. Four hours in the kitchen. Still it was all pretty easy and I am totally confident all will turn out well.
That's when it all went wrong!
I would like to blame someone, anyone but me, but cannot. I should know better than to trust Jamie Oliver, a Cockney lad who always looks like he needs a good wash and a haircut.
The cakes came out.
Well nothing to this cookery business. I always said Nigella Lawson was only there as eye candy. No more tins of cold curry or all Day Breakfasts for me when Jackie's away in future. Watch Heinz profits drop now I murmur to myself. I make a coffee and think about retiring to switch on the PC. Drat I have the ironing to do for my shirts and trousers for tomorrow. Well by the time I've finished all that it's gone six and the afternoon has disappeared. Four hours in the kitchen. Still it was all pretty easy and I am totally confident all will turn out well.
That's when it all went wrong!
I would like to blame someone, anyone but me, but cannot. I should know better than to trust Jamie Oliver, a Cockney lad who always looks like he needs a good wash and a haircut.
The cakes came out.
They looked golden brown and
had risen well. I let them rest for five minutes as instructed then placed them
on a wire rack to cool. The icing was ready all I had to do was slice the two
into four layers, lob on the filling, throw on the caramelized lemon, wait a
bit longer and scoff some with dinner. My, was I feeling smug. Anyone can cook
boiled cake with a few Marchello cherries in it. This takes skill.
Using the heat of the oven in went
the Lemon chicken and Bombay potatoes. Thirty minutes later I pulled 'em out.
The chicken's not cooked. In it goes again for another 15 minutes. Out. It's
still not cooked. Remember my own little stamp on the recipe we talked about?
That was bacon wrapped around the chicken. I figured it had slowed down the
cooking time so removed it. The 1" cubed spuds were also a bit "el
dente" In it went again. Meanwhile I turn my attention to the layer cake.
What had risen like a young man on his wedding night was now two craters. Both
still some 4" around the circumference but a bit of a gooey mess flat in
the middle. It hadn't cooked. I thought I could fill this with my mixture. The
edges were great but the thing was falling to pieces before my eyes. I pull out
the chicken again. It's still not cooked correctly but everything else is
starting to overcook. If I had a cat I'd kick it.
I give up. It's either open a tin of beans or salvage what I can from this culinary disaster.
Where did it all go wrong? I think I may have gone a cake too far.
Sorry this has gone on a bit but there's nothing on the TV tonight and there certainly is nothing to eat in front of it either! There are photos I took showing the various stages including the disaster at the end but figured I would not send them and spare myself the added embarrassment.
Any boiled cherry cake left Tim?
Thank you once again for the walnuts and jam Suzie.
Mike.
I give up. It's either open a tin of beans or salvage what I can from this culinary disaster.
Where did it all go wrong? I think I may have gone a cake too far.
Sorry this has gone on a bit but there's nothing on the TV tonight and there certainly is nothing to eat in front of it either! There are photos I took showing the various stages including the disaster at the end but figured I would not send them and spare myself the added embarrassment.
Any boiled cherry cake left Tim?
Thank you once again for the walnuts and jam Suzie.
Mike.
