Despite yesterday being a Saturday, I still woke up at 8am. And that in spite of Friday’s Guinness binge. After a year or so without one, a routine is beginning to establish itself.
Before my binge, six of us dined in a restaurant in a nearby fishing village. It was funny listening to us talking about our meals, the menu, the wine. Already I am thinking about food in a new way. I was torn between the cod and the special - monkfish. I went for the monkfish. My friend across the table ordered cod because, he said, monkfish is always tough when roasted. I knew my fate.
On Saturday morning a few of us headed to the farmers’ market in the nearest ‘big’ town, Middleton. Back in London I am a regular at Broadway Market in Hackney. Middleton is far less gentrified. There are no Maclaren pushchairs blocking the cake stall here, though there is a queue round the block for the hot chocolate, meaning I have to wait for my long black. I pick up some smoked eel and mackerel and a few bits of veg. It has one thing in common with Broadway - it is fucking expensive.
After the market we stroll through town and grab some lunch, followed by a visit to the country outfitters. It has only been a week but I try on a range of flat caps before reason takes hold and I walk out sans chapeau. Next in the high street is the off licence, and I let out a shriek of delight when I see James Boags Premium, my favourite beer in the world, in the fridge. I buy their entire stock.
It is now Sunday evening and I am sat outside my cottage joyfully sipping one, tapping away and reminiscing on my week. Today has been beautiful. Three of us drove to the seafront and walked a few miles along the beach, picking up pebbles and shells and at one point stopping to have a horse drawing competition in the sand. It started out overcast but cleared as we walked back. It is always a bonus when the weather changes so dramatically in a day, like getting the best of both worlds.
There is now a wonderful twilight and before the sun sets I will go for a stroll around the grounds and look for a gate to lean on. For now I am content to sit back and enjoy my surroundings. Last night I walked to the village, about two and a half miles. On the way home it was pitch black and I took a detour through a harvested field. I picked my spot and walked, turning off the torch. Every now and then I would turn it back on to check my progress. Each time I would pirouette, and marvel at my solitude.
For someone used to being in a city, it is an extraordinary sensation. As a teenager growing up on the coast I would walk out as far as I could at low tide. When I finally reached the first gentle waves I would look back and feel like the only guy left alive after some terrible apocalypse. It felt like that last night, compounded by the darkness and the occasional arc of light as my torch beam sliced through it - true peace and an overwhelming sense of harmony.
Looking back on the last seven days it is hard to piece all these things together and say which has meant the most - the people, the place or the cooking. It doesn’t matter. All three are great and I already feel like I have been here for months. The coming week is taking shape; I have a lot of extra things on and next weekend to think about. Before all that though there is an order of work to pen and a uniform to be ironed. Tomorrow I kill my first crab, and I want to look my best.
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