The unexpected and sudden arrival of tropical conditions see me scurrying for information about fresh food. I check the website of the local pick your own farm, only to see they don’t open for the summer until next weekend. Bugger!
It is going to be too damned hot to cook for a few days. I am salivating for freshly picked salad vegetables. I scour Google for alternative farm shops, and see there is a Farmers Market at the local outlet village on Sundays. Sorted.
But it turns out I am not. Stupid unpredictable growing seasons. Where I expect to find lots of tomatoes, spring onions, radishes, some watercress, to go with my foreign lettuce (well I know they won’t be ready!) I find only the toms. A few skinny carrots are about too.
However there is wine, grown on the occasionally sunny slopes of the West Country. At double the price of a good Chilean cabernet I am persuaded to try something “full-bodied and great with meat”. Some unusual local cheese infused with various fruits is another snip at the same price as an entire ball of cheddar. Some strange looking bread, “great for toast”, sets me back over three quid for a very odd shaped loaf.
I avoid the nice-looking lady with the chilli chutney, the temptress with the multiple filled doughnuts, and the shifty looking beggar with a variety of odd looking jams and conserves. Somehow I also manage to bypass the freshly cooked sausages although I am drooling rather more than your average Boxer dog when presented with a particularly tasty treat.
Roll on next weekend.