week 41 - Hamlyn All Colour Cookbook

 

After roast lamb shoulder with onion sauce the previous Sunday, this week it was roast pork. And, again keeping with the theme of local ingredients, the meat - a piece of rolled loin - was bought from W Lindsay in Cockermouth. And it was roasted with apples from the one of the two apple trees in the back garden of the holiday cottage we were staying in. 

The other apple tree was weighted down with cookers, so I also rustled up a Scandinavian apple charlotte for pudding. Like a proper domestic goddess. Served in what a subsequently realised was probably a crystal fruit bowl, found hidden in the back of a cupboard.

The recipes were from the wonderful Hamlyn All Colour Cookbook, also found in the back of a cupboard. First published in 1970, it features such wonders as chicken in aspic and turkey in aspic.  Never too much of a good thing. The most fascinating chapter, and certainly the one ltat has aged the least well, is based around pasta, rice and noodles; with recipes for noodles with a kidney sauce, with added tinned sweetcorn; cold rice salad with tongue and oranges; and , for desert, chocolate shell pudding (pasta shells in a sauce made of cocoa powder); and apple macaroni pudding (yes, apple puree with macaroni).

I have included pictures of both dishes I cooked, just to show the glorious wonder of technicolor. Lord alone knows how they made the food look quite so radioactive, but I would hazard a guess plenty of - subsequently banned - e numbers were involved. Luckily our dishes were artificial colour-free. Still garnished with plenty of curly parsley, though.

Celebration pork - adapted from the Hamlyn All Colour Cookbook

2kg pork loin - rolled or on the bone

Vegetable oil

8 eating apples - cored if you'd like- I couldn't find a corer, so didn't bother

curly parsley

Pre-heat the oven to 220c

Dry the pork skin and score, if it hasn't already been done by the butcher.

Rub a little vegetable oil in the skin, salt generously and roast for 25 minutes

turn the heat down and roast for another 40 minutes

Place the apples around the pork and cook for a further 40 minutes

If after this time you don’t have tooth-scattering crackling, carefully remove the apples, turn the heat up again and check every 5 mins until the skin has crackled.

I served it with carrots, lashings of gravy and colcannon - shredded leeks and cabbage cooked in butter and mixed through creamy mashed potatoes. And a baked apple per person. Three if you're the Ewing.

Scandinavian Apple Charlotte - adapted from the Hamlyn All Colour Cookbook

2½ cups cooking apples, peeled and cored

2-3 tbsp sugar

2 tbsp butter

1-1½ tbsp brown sugar

1 cup bread crumbs

½ cup fresh whipping cream

grated chocolate to decorate

Roughly chop the apples and place in a pan with the sugar and a tbsp of water. 

Cover the pan with a lid and place it over low heat.

Cook apples until they break down into a lumpy puree, stirring occasionally. Add a splash more water if needed

Let the cooked apples cool down completely.

Gently heat butter in a frying pan over low heat.

Add the bread crumbs and mix.

Increase the heat to medium and the breadcrumbs and stir constantly till they become golden brown and are crispy. This takes longer than you think, as you want them to be very crisp, but be careful they don't burn.

Add sugar and mix well. Let the mixture cool down.

Whip the cream in a large bowl until it reaches soft peak consistency. 

Place a layer of apples in the bottom of a serving bowl (or four individual glasses)

Add a layer of crumbs, followed by another layer of apple puree and then another layer of crumbs.

Top with the whipped cream and decorate with chocolate shavings.

Refrigerate for 2 to 3 hours before serving.

week 40 What to Eat Now - Valentine Warner

You think you go on holiday to get away from routine, but somehow - after fortuitously managed to escape to Cumbria for a fortnight between lockdowns - we still ended up cooking a roast in our cottage on both the Sundays we were there. The only day of the week it feels completely normal to eat a big plate of meat and potatoes in the middle of the afternoon, even if the rest of your regular routine has gone temporarily out of the window.

We didn't actually eat our roast at lunch time when I was growing up, but at dinner time (in the Southern sense). As well as the appropriate accoutrements to go with what ever meat was being   - yorkies, stuffing, mint sauce, apple sauce etc - there's was almost always a white sauce of some type. Either with cheese and baked with cauliflower (or broccoli, or leeks, or shredded white cabbage, which is surprisingly good) or with onion.

The onion sauce always started as a finely chopped onion, that would be prepared on a Sunday morning and then placed in a Pyrex measuring jug and covered with water until later. A becahamel would then be whisked up and the onion added. Reassuringly comforting and, even back in the 80s, rather old fashioned. But, while it might be outmoded, it's also bloody tasty and after seeing a recipe in Valentine Warner's What to Eat Now (yes, I did take cookbooks on holiday with me) it seemed time for a revival.

Sharing in the staring role alongside the revived onion sauce was a rolled shoulder of sweet salt marsh lamb. Reared on the marshlands on the Solway Firth Estuary, a few miles from where we were staying - you could see the estuary from the bedroom window - it was purchased from Cranstons Cumbrian food hall in Penrith. We also picked up some buttercup-coloured Lancashire whey cream butter in Booths to make the sauce.

As an added (and unknown, as I also bought my own onions) bonus the couple we let the cottage from were also our neighbours, and they invited us to help our selves to as many of the homegrown onions in the shed that we needed. I soon realised one would be more than enough...

Roast lamb with roasted roots and onion sauce

adapted from Valentine Warner 

3 big sprigs of rosemary 

1.75kg shoulder of lamb

4 carrots

4 parsnips

1/2 swede

olive oil

sauce

onions 3 medium (or one giant)

25 g butter

200ml dry white wine

1 tsp caster sugar

splash of white wine vinegar

1 tbsp plain flour 

450ml milk

Heat the oven to 220c. Strip the rosemary from its stems, combining the leaves with 1 tbsp salt and a plenty of black pepper. Rub into the lamb shoulder and leave to one side.

Peel the carrots, swede and parsnips, splitting the parsnips and carrots in half and schppi ng the swede into large chunks. Put them straight into salted boiling water and parboil them 6 minutes. Toss them in a bowl in a little olive oil, black pepper and salt.

Tip the vegetables in a baking dish and and place the lamb on top. Cook it for approximately 45 minutes. Remove when the lamb is still a little pink in the middle.

Meanwhile, peel the onions, and finely dice. Melt the butter in a pan. Add the onion, season, and sweat for about 10 minutes. Pour in the wine, sprinkle in the sugar and cook until the onion is soft, about another 20 -30 minutes (this step always takes longer than you think it should).

Add the vinegar and keep on cooking until all the liquid has evaporated. The onions should not be coloured. Sprinkle over the flour and whisk in thoroughly. 

Start adding the milk slowly, whisking all the time. When all the milk has been used, cook the sauce very gently for a further 10 minutes. The consistency of the sauce should be that of double cream.

Remove the lamb and put it on a board to rest, place the vegetables back in the oven and cook for a further 10 minutes if needed. Remove the vegetables and put on a platter.

Slice the lamb and lay over the vegetables. Pour any additional juices from the joint into the sauce, and pour the sauce into a jug. In Valentine's words, this is one heck of a lunch.

Pork life (under canvas)

I’m rather fond of camping, in fact a few nights under canvas was the very first trip the Ewing and I went on together. We went about ten miles up the road, it rained pretty much constantly and our air bed had a slow puncture, but that just seemed to make it all the more exciting and romantic. Well, until we came to our final morning and the rabbit with mixamatosis turned up. My wife may laugh thinking back, but I still have nightmares.

As sure as a circle keeps going round, our most recent trip together was also camping, this time to the Pig Place, an hour up the M40, on the Oxon/Northants border, following a lovely visit a few years back. And yes, it rained, and our mattress developed a puncture. Although now, after a decade together, the drizzle and lying on the lumpy ground had lost its allure somewhat. We have upgraded to a better tent at least, so on this trip we were happy sitting in the porch, waiting for the black clouds to pass so we could light the stove and have a cuppa.

It did start out bright though, so we made the most of the new Trotters Bar, a trailer with glorious views over the Oxford Canal and Cherwell Valley. With Thatcher’s on draft or local cider available by the pint, as well as a large range of gins and other spirits. We enjoyed a cider with blackcurrant (very 90s uni days) and a strong scrumpy, while sinking into a couple of the sofas that are positioned in a great spot on the slope leading down to the water.

The whole place is pretty idyllic. Set on a smallholding – featuring the eponymous pigs, chickens and runner ducks, the best kind of duck – it’s a beautiful, but back to basics spot.  While there are no showers and the only water is from their own borehole, there is a well-stocked farm shop on site, as well as a trailer kitchen serving freshly prepared food that is open for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

Dinner options included sweet and sour pork or a pork balti (plus a couple of veggie choices) served with chips, rice or a jacket spud. I had the sweet and sour with chips, which was everything I hoped it would be. Lean chunks of loin, from the farm, in a tangy sauce with mixed pepper and pineapple sitting on top of a bed of excellent chips; hot and crispy and fluffy and all tasting even better after a couple of pints of cider. If your're lucky, you might even get a visit from Sid, although there was no way I was sharing.

We may have been going back to basics, but we hadn't abandoned civilisation completely. So, of course, a bottle of organic port was an essential nightcap. it may have gone some way to insulating against the cold, but it certainly didn't help with four o'clock moonlit stumbles to the Portaloo, or my head the next morning. I did get to see the sun rising over the canal though, so not all terrible.

If dinner was good, the brekkie was superb, as good as I remembered, maybe even better. And, even better than that, if you get up early enough (everyone gets up far too early when they're camping) you get to see the farm animals being fed. The sight of the pig losing his shit over a loaf of bread was quite something to behold. I think I've finally found my spirit animal.

Happily for my wife, I enjoyed my first meal of the day in a more relaxed manner, all while admiring the glorious view across the Oxfordshire countryside.  We both chose the full english and, although I’m not such a committed ouef-avoider now days, I haven’t moved much beyond omelettes and scrambled egg, so the Ewing had my brace. They offer hen or duck eggs (both from the farm) so she had two of each, although I only seemed to get half a slice of toast and a small chunk of sausage in return…

There were also fantastic bacon and sausages (relatives of our new friends) as well as mushrooms, properly hot baked beans (something of a skill in itself) and toast buttered right to the edges. As well as the most gorgeous view through the mini orchard of apple trees and across the canal.

While I hate to shatter the carefully crafted illusion that I'm basically Robinson Crusoe reincarnated - and I could repair the mattress by lashing together a few branches, while simultaneously rubbing a couple of stray twigs to start a fire to cook a spot of lunch I had fished and foraged - I must confess we spent the afternoon at the nearby retail park buying new camp beds, followed by watching the Spurs game at a nearby pub, where I foraged for Scampi Fries and cider instead.

Saturday night at the campsite saw the annual performance by the Mikron Theatre Company - who arrived by narrow boat from Yorkshire – performing Revolting Women, a story commemorating the centenary of the suffragettes. So of course, for the first time all weekend, it hammered down. In honour of their visit there was a barbecue with wild boar hot dogs and pulled pork rolls. Unfortunately I don’t have any evidence, but the Ewing retreated to eat her dinner in the car, which probably tells you all you need to know about the mood in camp….

Thankfully a couple of beers plus a very restful night on our new camp beds meant we could greet the, slightly grey but still dry, morning with renewed vigour. Especially when it involved  a feathered guest who had come to say hello, plus hot sausage sandwiches with lashings of oxford sauce and several mugs of steaming tea. All hail the electric kettle by the bore hole.

After managing to get the tent down and cram everything back into the boot just as the heaven's opened again, we smugly decamped down the road to the Coach and Horses in Adderbury, to a lovely traditional pub which also boasts what must be the best value Sunday lunch in the whole of Oxfordshire.

Despite not having a reservation, the landlord very kindly squeezed us in at the bar thanks to a late cancellation. And when our roasts appeared I could see why. Four quid for pork loin, which of course I had to round the weekend off with, or half a roast chicken and stuffing, served with no less than five roasties (and yes, Amy One Potato ate them all) plus boiled veg that tasted reassuringly like being back at my nan’s house again. Only this time we didn’t have to hear the stories about so-and-so over the road; and I didn’t have to do the washing up.

Even better was the fact that they had a pudding menu (two fifty each) that included jam roly poly and custard. One of my very favourite things in life and the perfect antidote (along with another pint of bitter for the non-designated driver) to the persistent drizzle that had (mercifully) started the moment we stuffed the last bit of camping gear in the car.

While it maybe in turns too hot, too cold, too wet, too windy. camping is still a great chance to relax, get back to nature and, best of all, have a good giggle. In fact, the Ewing loved it so much she's already bought a new super duper sleeping bag and booked our next trip for the August Bank Holiday. I've packed the port, painkillers and a poncho (bank holiday equals guaranteed rain). What else do you need?

A Festive Test

It's the most wonderful time of the year; a time to eat drink, be merry, get heartburn and have an argument. And, with this in mind, I devised a Festive Test Treat that would cunningly tick all of the above. A visit to our, newly opened, local carvery for three courses - all featuring the mighty, and clearly on-trend, yorkshire pudding - all drenched in lashings of faint regret and gravy.

Things started reasonable promisingly, with a decent selection of ale. Being a Marston's pub, the range featured a selection from their stable including Hobgoblin, Ringwood and Pedigree amber ale. I went with the, seldomly seen so far south, Sneck Lifter, from Jennings Brewery based in Cumbria. A traditional dark bitter, perfect for a wintery afternoon.

I had ordered the carvery as my main and was handed a golden ticket to the gravy train, with a promise the staff would alert us when the Ewing's main was nearly ready to leave the kitchen. So we sat back and relaxed with our pints, while fifty per cent of us watched Spurs put five past Stoke on Final Score and fifty per cent of us tried to solve a remote work-related incident involving a malfunctioning automatic door, both over the screams of the children running amok around our table. All pointers to a great day out.

Just as a member of staff appeared to give us the heads up that the rest of the food was on the way, another arrived with the rest of the food. All of it; our 'sharer' starter and the Ewing’s main. After rearranging the space on the table to fit the plates, a confused voice piped up; ‘are there two, or three of you', while we all turned a stared at my Tottenham beanie, occupying the empty seat next to me. 

Not that our confirmation of the former had any bearing anyway, as both staff vanished as quickly as they had appeared, leaving us with a surfeit of batter-based products and some sympathetic/horrified (delete as appropriate) looks from the tables around us at the mountain of food in front of us. Well, I had promised it would be a test, just not of my wife's patience.

I’m still not really sure whether it’s better or worse to assume that our invisible friend wanted to take down a whole camembert, rather than it being an appetite sharpener, but I was thankful the carvery call hadn’t been more timely as it gave me the chance to fully concentrate on the cheese. 

This proved a lucky thing, as congealing camembert in a Yorkshire pudding is as tough to eat as it sounds, although also delicious, especially when paired with the random handful of trail mix that adorned it. I'm not sure the warm and wilted leaves were adding much though, other than a metaphor for an overriding sense of wilted despondency.

The Yorkshire wrap was a behemoth of a pudding, stuffed with a whole roast dinner, before being carefully rolled up in grease proof paper adorned with faintly nauseating faux dictionary definitions of made-up words like 'hyper delicious'. With nothing to compare it to, the Ewing proclaimed it pretty good, if a little unwieldy to eat. As is the issue with many wraps, it also suffered from unfilled ends, but they did provide a bonus jug of gravy for dunking.

As there was already roast potatoes nestled in the wrap, they decide to serve it with a wholly superfluous - but actually very tasty – pile of chips and, even more randomly, ramekins of mushy peas and pickled cabbage. While I love mushy peas, here they provided a distracting sweet gloopiness; the pickled cabbage however, was pretty inspired, bringing some well needed crunch and tang. 

The carvery was everything a carvery should be; a hammy guy serving slices of ham with a smile (I also tried turkey, but skipped the dangerously desiccated beef in case we drew more attention to ourselves when the Ewing has to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre). Add oversized yorkies, overcooked carrots, ladles of gluey gravy (which tasted surprisingly good), squares of rubbery stuffing, decent roasties, and a wan but tasty cauli cheese, and it was all I ever wanted. Seriously. And a veritable bargain at £6.45.

The fun didn't finish there, as I insisted we stayed to sample the delights of the 'zingy raspberry yorkshire pudding sundae'. A potential aberration that tasted far better than it sounded. In fact, I'd go so far to say I really enjoyed it; a nostalgic mix of Mr Whippy van sauce, fresh cream and ice cream, crowned with strips of pud (which actually worked) and garnished with disc of diabetes. Even the Ewing smiled; although that may have been the constant supply of Sneck Lifter I was bribing her with.

Overall the whole experience was just like a microcosm of the festive season - crying babies, over-indulging, too much beer and a roller coaster of emotions, from elation to despair. All over the space of a few hours. Plus bonus yorkshire puddings. Pretty perfect really. Happy Christmas, one and all, see you on the other side; have fun and don't forget the Rennies.

Keep Portland Weird - all the pubs pt.3

After our previous travails on Portland had led to a well-needed day off the sauce - spent visiting the lovely Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door - we were feeling suitably refreshed and ready for our final leg of the tour. Auspiciously it was also my birthday, so we had already breakfasted on a feast of extra hot chilli sausages from Weymouth’s famous sausage shop and lardy cake from Sgt Bun’s Bakery in preparedness for the day’s travails.

Our first stop wasn’t a hostelry at all, but the statue of the Olympic rings found at Portland Heights which overlooks the harbour where the 2012 sailing events were held. We then headed East on the South Coast Path, past the Fancy's farm, with its field full of goats and wallabies and around to Balaclava bay, which gives wonderful sweeping views back around to Weymouth. 

From there it was just a short walk around the foreboding prison – originally opened for use of convict labour, to help construct the breakwaters of Portland Harbour, but now a young offender’s institution – to reach our first stop of the day.

The Clifton Hotel didn’t look particularly prepossessing when we arrived at a little after noon, but there was a blackboard outside advertising live music for the coming weekend and the sign behind the net curtains in the window said they opened at 12:00, so I remained hopeful that we were still on target for our first pint of the day.

As the Ewing’s hand went down on the handle of the porch entrance and she quickly turned to look at me over her shoulder, I knew we had been thwarted. ‘Travelling Manned’, as any fans of Road Food would be familiar with - or in other words finding somewhere that should be open is closed when you visit, named after a particularly unluckily contributor.

After the Ewing had tried around the back of the building - she's nothing if not persistent - and still getting no joy, I conceded that a beverage wasn’t going to happen. I also decided (my tour, my rules) that visiting the pub was as good as a pint, at least for the purpose of this challenge. So we ticked it off the list and set off up the road for a second attempt.

Marilyn Monroe thought everything happened for a reason, while I’m more of the mind-set that things happen as an improbable result of the intersection of independent casual chains. Whichever way you look at it, it so happened that the Clifton being closed meant we got to spend more time at the next pub, the George, which turned out to be a very good thing.

Clifton Hotel - closed

Sticky carpet rating -

Overall score -

Built in Jacobean times, The George is one of the oldest buildings on the island and it feels like you're stepping back in time as you wind your way through the comforting warrens that lead to the different bar areas. We sat in a wood panelled room that had pictures of all the King George’s hanging on the wall, alongside a macabre, but beautifully hand written, list of all the shipwrecks that had occurred on the islands up to the 1960’s.

Beer choice was limited, but they had Sharp’s Atlantic ale alongside the familiar Doombar, which is a slightly more interesting beer and was well kept. The Ewing, apparently having learnt few lessons from the previous leg of the tour, started on the Rosie cider, although this time it was Rosie’s Pig; a, mercifully, less alcoholic version that tastes dangerously like cloudy apple juice.

The improbable independent casual chains must have been aligned for the second time when we looked at the lunch menus and the Ewing noticed the ‘mid-week roast’,  an incredible concept that really needs to gain more traction. As it was a Wednesday there was no doubt what we were going to order and we soon had two piping hot plates of roast beef in front of us. For six quid I couldn’t have hoped for any better; a special shout out must go to the very good gravy and amazing spuds. So good that Amy ‘one potato’ ate three. Well, it was my birthday.

The George - 1 x pint Sharps Atlantic ale; 1 x pint Rosie’s Pig; 2 x mid-week roast £19.05

Sticky carpet rating: 6.5 a difficult one to rate, the George is more of a traditional hostelry than a sticky carpet special, but is still very down-to-earth. Seeing Sooty on the bar is always worth a bonus point.

Overall score: 9 a lovely, cosy pub and the midweek roast was proper home cooking and great value. Beer choice still not great, but my pint was in tip-top condition.

The Royal Exchange was a rum old pub, in more ways than one. When we arrived there was Palmers ale (from Bridport) on cask and a roaring log fire, which made for a promising start. Less promisingly, every gust of wind (this is Portland, remember) blew the front door open wide, despite all attempts to wedge it shut with various folded flyers and beer mats. 

Of course, unaware of this issue, I had elected to sit by the door, and despite the efforts of the friendly locals to leap up and assist us every time the door thudded open, there was an awful lot of beer mat origami going on at our table as the easterly wind swirled outside.

Still, the disruption wasn’t enough to stop us ordering another round of rums, especially after the Ewing spied they had cherry flavoured Old J. Wary that it might taste like cough medicine (it did), I stuck with the eminently more sensible Pussers Gunpowder at 54%. A rum based on the strength of the tot all naval officers used to receive every day at twelve noon. I’m surprised we recorded any victories at sea.

The Royal Exchange - 1 x pint Palmers 200 ale; 1x pint Palmers Copper Ale; 2 x pints lime and soda; 1x Old J Cherry rum on the rocks; 1 x Pussers Gunpowder rum on the rocks; 1x Shakey’s scratchings; £15.40

Sticky carpet rating: 8 - darts, pool, a weekly meat raffle and a great big jar of pickled eggs on the bar next to the scratchings.

Overall score: 5.5 ok beer choice, lovely log fire and friendly staff and customers but the layout is bit cavernous and probably suited to being a bit busier. Just don’t go during an easterly wind…

Staggering from the pub we seized on the golden hour of the afternoon - after post-lunchtime pints and before pre-dinner drinks - to complete our loop of the South Coast Path around the island. The route took us past Rufus Castle, a blockhouse built for William II, and down a precariously steep path to Church Ope Cove; a small secluded bay on the sheltered eastern side of the Isle.  

Historically it was a famous smuggler's spot but nowadays, due to being sheltered from the wind by the cliffs on three sides, the beach is home to the far more staid pursuits of swimming and snorkelling. It also made the perfect place to settle down on the shingle and contentedly watch the Atlantic ocean crashing onto the shore (and eat an impromptu picnic of Ritter Sport and Haribo. Well, we needed a fillip to help us climb back up the cliff again).

Our apres dinner stop was the Punch Bowl, a pub that was missed off the West Dorset CAMRA map for, presumably, not having any real ale. While this might be so, it completely overlooks something even better - a huge bowl of sweets on every table. There must be something about this neck of the woods as the last time I remember seeing something like it was at a pub in Weymouth a few years back, when the Ewing appeared from the loos shouting; 'they had a dish of peppermint creams in the toilet and I gobbled them all up', before passing out in a pile of chips back at the B&B. Still one of my favourite memories.

Anyway, back to the drinks; no ales meant Thatchers cider for me and the house white rum on the rocks (yeah, I didn't think that was a great idea, either) for the Ewing. While we supped our drinks we also had a chance to drink in the decor, with the liberal amounts of bunting and Chelsea memorabilia, and the punters who were thirstily debating the meaning of life in between throwing a few arrows at the dart board. 

The staff and customers seemed to soften to us the longer we stayed, especially when we got into a conversation about the best flavour of Cheddars - prompted by a mastiff that was sitting up on a stool at the bar next to his owner, eating the cheesy biscuits from the counter on demand (if you're interested, although the classic flavour is very good, I think I might just prefer the cheese and pickle flavour).

The Punch Bowl - 1x Thatchers Gold cider; 1x Expedition rum on the rocks; 1 x pint lime and soda; 1 x Cheddars cheese and pickle flavour; £8.60

Sticky carpet rating: 8 – bowls of mints on the tables; a dog sitting at the bar; luminous vodka shots in test tubes; a separate room for pool; snooker on TV, need I go on…

Overall score: 5.5 a pleasant enough pub with a lively after-work atmosphere but no real ale on offer and there's only so much Chelsea memorabilia a Spurs fan can endure. 

The New Inn was our dinner stop, lured in by the ten pound moules frites special on a Wednesday night and the fact that - apart from crisps, sweets and  the ubiquitous Shakey's scratchings -  no other pub in Easton sold food. Still, it seemed a a very civilised choice for a celebration dinner.

We started with Black Cow vodka (they were out of Dorset Conker Gin) tonics and a dish of garlicky olives and soon progressed on to the vino - the perfect accompaniment to the plump, cantaloupe-coloured line grown local mussels. As good as the molluscs were, the real draw was the creamy West Milton cider and bacon sauce they had been cooked in; which I took great pleasure drowning my dish of chips with after every nugget of seafood had been extracted. 

As posh as the New Inn thinks it is, it’s still a Portland pub, and I mean that in the nicest way; friendly, quirky and grounded in its Dorset roots. While an islander we got chatting to said it was a bit too fancy to be his regular local any more, as an outsider it was a great place for dinner and is definitely the pub you would take home to meet the parents, even if it might not be the most fun.

The New Inn - 2 x Black Cow vodka tonics; 2 x sauvignon blanc; 1 x mixed olives; 2 x moules frites; £50 (inc. tip)

Sticky carpet rating: 3 - A predominately eating pub - the Xmas menu features fancy dishes such as beetroot risotto and grilled hake with lentils, -  the New Inn gets the lowest SC rating on the island

Overall score: 7.5 lovely service and great value mid-week deals, although the rest of the menu is on the pricier side. The beer selection looked one of the best on the island.

The Corner House had been chosen as our last stop as I wanted a good, old fashioned, sticky-carpeted final fling before we headed back up the causeway to reality. And on paper it ticked all the boxes; furniture backed in plush red velvet, a shelf crammed with second hand books and board games, free roundels of slightly stale looking bread topped with slightly rubbery melted cheese on the bar,  a resident dog, a pervading smell of open drains unsuccessfully masked with a generous spritz of Pledge…

Unpleasant scents aside, I did really warm to the Corner House, helped when the Ewing ordered the Cane Trader rum, another dodgy house special. After consulting the leather-backed instruction book, the barmaid announced ominously that it only came in double measures, charged at the rate of a single (yeah, me neither). Added to the fact that their measures were a more than generous 35ml – versus a standard 25ml – and she ended up with a nearly triple measure of spirit with her cola. With my Mountgay cola and a final packet of Shakey’s scratchings the whole bill totalled £6.60. 

In all, it was probably a good thing that the persistent aroma and our flagging spirits (not literally) lead us to the decision that one round was enough. With spirit measures this strong, combined with the unholy array of drinks we had already consumed,  we would still probably be trapped on the island now. A shame for me, as I was enjoying drunkenly crooning the 80’s soul soundtrack to the Ewing, but a merciful escape for her who had grown tired of my tuneless singing and become distracted by the large bag of prawn crackers the barmaid was studiously munching her way though.

The Corner Inn - 1x double Cane Trader rum and cola; 1 x Mountgay Eclipse and cola; 1 x Shakey’s pork scratchings; £6.60

Sticky carpet rating: 8 stupidly cheap spirits, free snacks on the bar, wines dispensed from a giant box on the wall; furniture upholstered in plush red velvet that made me feel like I was in my Nans’ front room.

Overall score: 6 – I liked the Corner House, even if I was feeling giddy from all the rum (and fumes from the air freshener). This is potentially a cracking little pub and one that I would love to revisit in more fragrant circumstances.

As our attempts at catching public transport throughout our trip had consistently been thwarted by First Buses’ risible Number 1 service, I promised the Ewing that we could walk the final five miles back to our apartment. Walking also meant we had to pass several Chinese takeaways, with my wife’s plaintive cries getting persistently louder until I reasoned that any money saved skipping pudding earlier in the evening would probably only end up being spent on prawn crackers anyway.

Which is how we ended up in Ocean Bay, directly opposite the Chesil Chippie where we had started our adventures a week before. In another serendipitous twist a fellow customer began chatting to the Ewing, entranced by what he described as her ‘mountaineering outfit’, seemingly unable to believe the only hiking we were doing was between drinks. As it turned out, he was an islander who had also visited every pub - although, from the sound of it, rather more times than we had - and he told us a fascinating potted history of the hostelries as we patiently waited for our prawn crackers, spare ribs, sweet and sour sauce and seaweed.

In fact, his words got me thinking. If the pubs had already changed so much in recent memory, not to mention all the openings and closings that were constantly occurring, what would they be like in the coming years? I began to muse out loud - maybe we could plan another pilgrimage around the island; maybe we could make it an annual trip… But as I turned to consult the Ewing, she was already rapidly disappearing towards the mainland in a trail of prawn cracker crumbs; her screams swallowed up by the now infamous Portland wind.