Postcard fron Norfolk - Quay Tea

Ponies on a beach.  A serene scene, one would imagine.

The thing about the countryside is that it is oh so very dark and oh so very full of strange noises, or rather, noises made strange by the dark.  Ignorance, imagination and some woodland creature innocently and nocturnally going about its business do not for a great night’s sleep make.  In the past I have been kept awake by, in no particular order; a banshee (turned out to be the wind), a badger in the bathtub (turned out to be rain on a skylight) and a fox apparently caught in wood chipper (turned out to be a fox caught in another fox).

This morning’s alarm call came courtesy of a pine cone falling off a tree and rolling down the roof.  So, the morning’s cardio routine out of the way, it was time for a walk on the beach.

But not before preparing a picnic.

I have, for several years now, been trying to track down the perfect picnic hamper and, like anyone in search of just the right something or other, have in the meantime been going without, while droning on at length about it.  I was coming to the conclusion that the only way to obtain the perfect hamper was to make one myself and had gone so far as to Google ‘basket waving’ and follow up with ‘not as therapy’, when I was fortunate enough to be given a picnic hamper.

I can tell it’s a picnic hamper because it is lined with gingham and has plastic glasses, plates and some cutlery inside, all cunningly secured with loops of elastic.  Gentleman and Player’s fashion editor did not appreciate the aesthetics of the thing.  It is, I have to concede, not a traditional picnic hamper, being made out of bamboo rather than wicker, but I think calling it ‘The Tenko Box’ was a little cruel.  Not unlike Tenko.

Now that I’ve used it however, I am developing a degree of affection for The Tenko Box.  This is largely, I recognise, affection by association, because it contained sandwiches and tea today and anything that produces sandwiches and tea is OK by me.

There was also a bold experiment in pic nic tea making, or rather, a return to the days of greatness.  Back in the seventies, I had an uncle whose idea of making a proper cuppa was to get out his camping gas stove, brew up some boiling water, and do the thing properly.  The man could brew up in the teeth of a gale and, as somebody who liked an al fresco cuppa on holiday in Scotland, usually did.  The decades gallop forward and I had got used to the convenience of flask tea, that is, tea in a flask allowed to stew and brew until when you drink it you can’t shake the suspicion that somebody has used the flask recently to store Bovril, or diesel, and has not rinsed it out properly.

Fast forward to earlier this summer and a long overdue breakthrough.  A large flask for boiling water, a smaller flask for milk and some teabags.  And so it was that with my two flasks and my teabag, I was able to brew up on the harbour wall what shall henceforth be known as ‘Quay Tea’.

Quay Tea was a resounding success, free of the tannins and criticism that formed so much of a feature of flask tea it actually tasted like, well, tea.

And very welcome it was too.  We had just done two hours on Holkham Beach, where the early start was put to good use in beating the crowd.  The beach was deserted apart from enthusiastic dog walkers, there enthusiastic dogs and horse riders with their skittish mounts.

I had not appreciated just how crazy horses are.  At least the ones on the beach were. Presumably they have seen water before, not least in troughs.  One would think from the reaction that splashing across a small stream provoked that their rider was urging them to swim the Amazon.  I thought it was just supposed to be witches that had a problem with crossing running water but no, apparently it’s horses too.  This may explain why witches ride brooms rather than ponies.

Out on the beach, back through the pines.  And what better way to get the old heart rate back up again then, in the middle of a lovely walk through the shady pines, suddenly recall every M R James story I’ve ever read.

Still, better that than Black Shuck.

Run!  Run back to the car and waiting Quay Tea and, if necessary, beat the spectral hound to death with the Tenko Box.

12 days of Christmas – walking off the turkey

Off to Hampton Court for ice-skating. Not actually ice-skating you understand, the Thames last froze over 100 years ago and anyone attempting to skate on it had better be towed along by a speed-boat. No, ice-skating on the seasonal man-made outdoor rink. Well, not actually ice skating on that either - to do that you need to book your tickets in July, 2005, but rather to look at the ice rink installed at Hampton Court and place your bets on which skater will fall over first.

As the day was very mild, falling had a double jeopardy, as there was a half-inch of water on top of the ice. This made for impressive plumes of spray as people shot about the place, but did make everyone a little cautious.

Walking alongside the Thames, pausing only to shout at the puppy not to chase joggers (one of whom was, I have to say, a little bad tempered – well so would I be if I was jogging while the rest of the world was simply strolling or just reaching for the extra-comfy sweat-pants instead) was a good way to work up an appetite for a pic-nic consisting of whatever Christmas dinner had not yet been consumed, forced into a bap.

Why do Christmas dinners always result in so many leftovers? I suspect it’s because people buy stuff to eat at Christmas that they don’t usually eat and don’t even like. Sprouts are the prime example. This year we didn’t have any and they weren’t missed. Having said that, I do now have the oddest craving for one. Maybe the human body needs just three sprouts every year, no more, no less.

What this doesn’t apply to is Christmas Pud. I’ve been road-testing them since November to pick just the right one to serve up to the family (orange panettone).

The swans and ducks on the Thames don’t get sick of an unvaried diet – as we finished our pic-nic, a swan sidled – there’s no other word for it – up in the expectation of a bit of bread. We tossed a bit to the river, it fell short, I stooped to retrieve and relaunch and then the bloody beast launched itself from water to bank in a single slingshot motion, complete with angry hiss.

The angry hiss was almost drowned out by the startled scream that issued from me. The last place I wanted to be at Christmas was in A&E explaining to the nurse that my injury was caused by brutal pecking, explaining to the royal parks constabulary that I didn’t mean to kill the sodding thing but that it bit me and so I strangled it in reflex (easy, so much neck to choose from) and explaining to the chap from the local paper that no, I did not think ‘seasonal swan slayer’ would be a good headline.