The Seed Has Been Sown, And The First Beef Has Been Salted

I've long been a fan of cured meats, smoked fish and booze. Last weekend I managed to combine a destructive evening of boozing and a highly constructive day learning how to cure and smoke foods at the wonderful Empire Farm taught by the equally wonderful (although not as French as you may imagine) Marc Frederic. As French as they get in Burnley I suppose.

With my trusty, if a little reckless, sidekick Adam beside me we set off, already a little thirsty, from South East London heading for Holbrook House Hotel. "I don't want to leave later than 2" I had said the night before. "I'll be at Sydenham at 2:15" came the reply. Sigh. However, it was half term so mine was the only 4x4 driven by a hormonal fool on the road, as the mums had Boden shopping to do online whilst their PG (polish girl) looked after Tarquin and Gemima. Oh dear. 10 lines in and I'm already veering off subject towards an inappropriate rant. Must try harder.

Anyhoo, we got a bit held up at Stonehenge, which is never a bad place to get held up, unless you're in a crusty convoy heading for Glasto in the late 80s/early 90s and it's the Police holding you up. We pulled in to the gloriously beautiful Holbrook House, a Georgian mansion, at about 5:30, had a quick G&T and went to dump our bags in our room. Which was up the lane. Round the back of the gym. Past the staff car park. Just beyond the bizarre 1970s nuclear shelter looking concrete block. Through a muddy puddle. And through the waterfallesque torrent of water coming from the blocked gutter. Georgian mansion this was not. The ceiling was damp and stained, and the bowl of sweets, which we demolished anyway, were all at least 8 years old... Oh. Was it pot pourri? 

Never mind. Alan had just arrived and was instructed to take us to the pub with the best cider in Wincanton. On dropping us at Uncle Tom's (which had the most quintessentially un-PC sign hanging outside), he handed us a card with a phone number on it. "If you can get all the way to the bottom of town from here 'avin a drink in each one we'll send someone to scoop you up and pour you back to the 'otel." Great. A challenge already and we've only just got here. Certain we were up to the job we bowled in. And almost bowled straight out again. Basically, there was a bloke with an iron lung and about 6 other red faced cider drinkers with double handed mugs of local scrumpy. Double handed to negate the shakes I'm told. To a man they chuckled at my jeans being 'arf way down yer arse buoy' and generally our towny nature. We had Yeovil Ale and avoided the cider. A sensible option you may think, and short term definitely the correct one. 26 hours later it was one I was still regretting, however. From than moment I suffered indigestion and was burping every 30 seconds. Even 26 hours later Adam assured me it smelled exactly the same. Nice.


Needless to say we made it to the bottom of town, after missing out The Dolphin Hotel, admittedly, and arrived back to the hotel a little late for our 9 o'clock table. The staff seemed delighted about this however, as it meant they could shuffle out a few more guests from the dining room so we didn't ruin everybody's evening. So we ruined theirs, with polite banter and impeccable manners. And the only glass that got knocked over was by the waitress. 


I had hare tortellini followed by supreme of chicken with lentils and dauphinoise potatoes, Adam had shellfish raviolo w a lobster bisque and steak and chips. Yes, the menu, like the crockery, wine list and decor, was stuck in the mid 80s, and didn't seem like it would be out of place being served by people in pastel coloured uniforms on square plates, like a hot chocolate in Inside Story on a trip to Chester circa 1986. Oh yes, I just remembered, the plates were square. 2 bottles of Bourgogne 1er cru washed it all down and we retired. Or had planned to. We;d forgotten the hike. Down the lane. Round the back of the gym. Through the staff car park. Past the 70s nuke bunker. Through the muddy puddle. And the waterfall. Which was now as noisy as Niagara.


Sleep would prove impossible until this were fixed. Having called reception to get our room changed, I went out and fixed the gutter, and removed about half a ton of leaves and muck from it. I then very smugly called reception and told them not to worry, as I had sorted it out, and we could discuss it in the morning, certain Darren would be discounting the room a tad...


Day 2 soon...