Scotch ale trail - Edinburgh edition

There’s something romantic about train travel. Sure, it might seem hard to visualise it when your nestled in the armpit of the morning rush on the Bakerloo Line, or in the loo on a Virgin Train (and the less said about the bathroom facilities on a memorable journey from Thailand to Malaysia as a child, the better).

But these things aside I have many more positive memories of rail travel that include riding the wonderful Shinkansen, or ‘bullet’ train, in Japan; spending the end of our honeymoon eating a picnic of goat’s cheese and walnut bread, washed down with vin rouge, after getting caught on the Eurostar in the snow somewhere outside Paris; and our mammoth coast-to-coast American adventure, the highlight of which was riding the California Zephyr for two and a half days from Chicago to San Francisco.

Our journey on the Scots Sleeper - from Euston to Edinburgh, although you can ride through the picturesque Highlands all the way to Fort William - may struggle to live up to the heights of breakfasting in the dining car in Denver before spending a day riding through the Rockies, but I was equally excited about the prospect of falling asleep at Watford Junction and waking up somewhere north of Carlisle.

After hearing the call of 'all aboard! (not really, we were in North London, not an American movie), we squashed our case in the cabin - which would charitably be described as 'bijou' by all good estate agents - and raced down to the dining car for a midnight snack.

While it was a little late to attempt the Rannoch smoked duck or the Clunes lamb casserole, we made sure we ticked every other Scottish cliche by hitting up the whisky menu - Auchentoshan and a Balblair - with a side of Irn Bru and haggis flavoured crisps. If you fancy a train beer, large cans of Tennants and Belhaven Best can be had for just £2.30, although more refined brews from Fyne ales and St Mungos are available.

After a decent night tucked in my bunk - only truncated by a knock on the door from our attendant, followed by a cuppa and a shortbread biscuit half an hour before we arrived - we were soon roaming the streets of Edinburgh, the foggy weather matching our foggy heads, in search of a good breakfast. All signs, and a steady flow of hi-vis jackets, were pointing toward Snax Cafe, tucked on West Register Street off the main Princes Street drag.

The biggest breakfast was the plate of my dream, minus the bad egg (not reflecting the quality, merely my antipathy toward it). Alongside the standard link sausage, black pudding, bacon and beans there was the local additions of square sausage, haggis and tattie scone (my dad's favourite, from a childhood spent visiting Belfast) and, instead of white sliced, a floury morning roll to squash assorted morsels into.

The payoff for such a blowout was climbing up Calton Hill, then past the Scottish Parliament and up Arthur's seat, finishing with a traverse around the Beautiful Duddingston Loch. Which wasn't too much of a hardship at all and meant we arrived at the Sheep’s Heid just in time for opening.

Established in 1360 and purportedly the oldest pub in Scotland, as well as a regular stopping place for both Mary, Queen of Scots and James VI – the pub is halfway between Craigmillar Castle and Holyrood Place – who called in to drink and even to play skittles; a bowling alley, built around 1870, remains to this day.

Today it’s the perfect place to get in from the rain and cosy up in a leather wing-backed arm chair by the fire. Fortunate, as it had started throwing it down just as we arrived in the village. It's also a good choice if you like tartan, too, as there's plenty of it adorning the upstairs dining room, although the menu offered is strange a cross- English hotchpotch, boasting crab from Devon, black pudding from Bury and ham from Yorkshire.

The culinary conceit for this trip (after previous holidays spent trying to eat the top 10 national dishes or find obscure local specialties only served at noon on a Thursday) was to only drink Scottish beers, hence the post's title. Whilst this might have seemed like an easy task, until the recent craft explosion it might have meant a days subsisting on Schiehallion (try saying that after a couple) and McEwan's Export. 

My first pint was Autumn Red, a staid seasonal brew from Caledonian - the last remaining of Edinburgh's 'old' breweries, although now owned by Heineken - that was perfect when supped in a wing-backed armchair while watching the rain battering on the window.

As the first day of our trip was my actual birthday (not the practice run I had enjoyed a few day's before at Yauatcha) there had to be cake and where better than Lovecrumbs, who proudly advertise themselves on their website as 'Edinburgh's cake-only cake shop - we don't do soup, sandwiches, bookings or gluten free.' 

From an almost dizzying array of sweet treats housed in the cabinet at the front, I chose the damson and lavender cake (only rejecting a wobbly chocolate tart with a glaze as glossy and black as pitch because, well, it wasn't a cake). While not my usual choice of flavours, this was light and fruity and fun. The Ewing's austere-looking chestnut and apple cake was also a winner.

The Hanging Bat had been mentioned to us several times as a big hitter on the craft beer scene and I was also interested in checking out their onsite microbrewery. Thankfully it was just around the corner from Lovecrumbs, less fortuitously our visit coincided with a mid-afternoon sugar slump (not helped by our early start). Of course, we manfully battled on, who could resist such a selection of cask and keg beers (their bottled menu is something to behold, too) especially when dispensed from wooden taps carved to resemble the winged mammals after which the bar is named.

I tried the Cromarty raspberry infused IPA, a great little early autumn beer with tropical hops blending nicely with the tart Scottish berries and served up at a very easy-going 3.2%, The Ewing also went a bit fruity with a Salzspeicher cherry sour from the Freigeist Brewery in Germany. Named after the ancient salt towers of old Lübeck (made famous in the classic 1922 horror film “Nosferatu”), Salzspeicher is a mix of two great historical Porter styles, the traditional sour German a salty English version.

 

After so comprehensively failing to do the board any justice the first time, we returned on our last day to tackle a beer flight, plus another schooner of the Cromarty raspberry infused IPA. notable brews were a Six Degrees North and Hanging Bat collaboration, La Place Du Soleil grisette; and the Ewing's Burning Sky gooseberry saison.

We also sampled a selection of grub including a passable haggis dog - the sausage lacking the requisite girth, although it was housed in a very decent bun - and some spicy pulled brisket nachos. Pick of the platter was the house smoked bbq wings accompanied by a punchy blue cheese dip that, after I ran out of chicken, I happily spooned up straight from the dish.

After such big-hitting flavours we finished with a big hitting beer, a Fyne ales and De Molen collaboration, Hills and Mills. This was a gloriously dark sticky imperial stout with the autumnal aroma of ginger cake, treacle and prunes and an ABV of 9.5% which made the decision to only sell in thirds seem like a wise one.

You can’t have a serious discussion about Scottish beer without mentioning Brewdog. Started in 2007 in Aberdeenshire by James Watt and Martin Dickie they now have well over twenty bars in the UK, as well as outposts from Barcelona to Brazil. While their marketing may be divisive, their beers have put brewing north of the border firmly on the map.

The Ewing wanted a Pumpkin King, spiced pumpkin ale, but it wasn't on keg and the bottles weren't chilled, so she settled instead for a Cocoa Psycho an imperial russian stout brewed with crushed coffee beans, cocoa nibs and dark malts. At 10% maybe not the best choice for someone that was almost under the table (through tiredness, I should add, not drunkenness) at the last bar we had visited, but well received nonetheless. 

I tried the new Lizard Bride on keg, a union of sour fruit with the hops of an IPA. A batshit-sounding combination of berries and dank funk that might well have fitted in at our previous stop, as well as slipping down with little resistance.

After so much beer it’s only natural our thoughts should have turned to kebabs. Well, my did anyway as at this point the Ewing informed me she had, in nearly 40 years on this earth, never had the pleasure of a few slices of elephant leg in a pitta, all salad, extra chilli sauce.

Inebriated as we were, the lady was not for turning – unlike the gloriously fatty, salty tranches of meat she has shunned all these years – so it was quite by good fortune that we stumbled upon Kebab Mahal, an Edinburgh institution that dishes up both curries and grilled meats (and a variety of pizza, including the mixed kebab calzone, if you so desire).

To start we had chicken pakoras which we were warned ‘came with bones’, which indeed they did and were all the better for it; four juicy, crisp nuggets of thigh, lightly tumeric-infused batter and served with two varieties of ‘special sauce’, white and red. This was followed by an earthy dish of lamb with yellow lentils and a perennial favourite, palak paneer, or cheesy spinach. Not as much fun to say as cheesy peas, but equally delicious to eat. There was also, controversially, a garlic nan, chosen by the Ewing over the customary peshwari in the hope the vast amounts garlic would kill off any residing cold germs (and anyone that came within 50 feet).

I also had the shish kofte, the only kebab they serve with nan, that arrived as a blistered and billowy teardrop of buttery bread with two large minced lamb kofte and a token handful of salad nestling inside. The kofte tasted as glorious as it looked, although I didn’t find this out until the following morning as, being too stuffed to attempt it there and then, I had carried the hefty roll home for the following day’s breakfast.

Possibly the culinary highlight of the trip, and certainly one of my favourite moments, was eating a macaroni pie in the rain on Leith Walk. While carb-on-carb may sound like an unholy abomination these might be the greatest things to be exported south of Hadrian's Wall. As on our previous trip we got our pie from Storries, alongside a Scotch pie that's filling may have looked dubious but tasted delicous, and a hefty vanilla slice.

For 'pudding' we went to Baynes for a coconut snowball - this incarnation being two sponge cakes glued together with icing and rolled in coconut - rather than the marshmallow version. To drink, if more sweetness was needed, was a glass bottle of Barr's Red Kola, an unholy and delicious amalgamation of sugar and e-numbers that purportedly cures sore throats and almost definitely hastens a visit to the dentist.

Man can't live on sugary drinks alone, so we wandered down to the water for a drink. The Port O' Leith Bar - known for it's collection of naval paraphernalia and 'colourful' atmosphere, was closed for renovations, so we trudged on to the King's Wark down on Leith shore. 

Known mostly for their seasonal Scottish food - monkfish cheeks and crevettes in bouillabaisse broth or rabbit saddle stuffed with duck liver and pistachio, anyone? - they also have a range of ales from Caledonian. I enjoyed a pint of Edinburgh Castle, an inoffensively easy drinking, malty 80/- ale, that was revamped at the start of the year in partnership with Historic Scotland. Beer and culture, what's not to like. 

Our final day saw us craving something fresh and containing more than just the dose of vitamin b12 we were getting with each pint. So made our way to Ting Thai Caravan, where, at twenty past twelve the queues were already forming down the street.

We were to find out with good reason, the Thai/Vietnamese/Chinese fusion menu offering good value, and interesting, street food nibbles, curries and soups in a convivial – if rather cramped and cacophonous – setting (factor on getting to know your neighbours quite intimately, although we got the bench in the corner to ourselves). Full marks for the wait staff, too who as well as being welcoming and extra efficient made time for a little impromptu dancing as they dealt with the hordes.

The Ewing's revival started with a tom yam soup with prawns and extra rice noodles, while I had the somewhat less virtuous Char kway teow with its spiced coconut broth bobbing full of squid, prawns and giant green lip mussels and topped with a thatch of fried egg noodles. Maybe not entirely authentic, but lots of fun.

A decent enough salad, that was heavy on the carrot and fish sauce but light on green papaya, bolstered the ‘healthy’ aspect of our lunch, supported by accompanying drinks of sweet roasted coconut water and something spicy with ginger and lemongrass which was a little too ‘freshen-up towelette’ scented for my tastes. Cute little metal water jugs on each table can be filled up from a tap by the door.

Strolling on our way to nowhere, one of the true joys of being on holiday, we stumbled into the National Library of Scotland, who were hosting an exhibition on the history of Scottish cuisine; no not an oxymoron but a glimpse through history that charted the local larder from the delightful sounding crappit heid (cod’s head stuffed with oats, suet and liver and boiled in seawater) through to the rise of the Scottish sweet tooth and ending with a display about sustainability, including allotments and ‘grow your own’, that the Ewing was particularly taken by.

Ironically, after spending a happy hour discovering some hidden culinary gems, one of the first places we stumbled upon was a chippy with this sign in the window. Although I resisted the lure of a battered Mars (having last enjoyed one a few weeks ago, in Bristol of all places) I do confess to being sad that I still haven't sampled the delights of a deep fried pizza (known as a pizza 'crunch' if it's also battered before being submerged in boiling oil).

For our final stop I owe an apology to my wife, who had repeatedly mentioned Jeremiah’s Taproom as a potential drinking spot after researching pubs and bars near the hotel before our trip. For reasons of my own (mainly centred around my antipathy toward the name, I liked the biblical connotations - TE) I had discounted the idea of visiting. But, with an hour or so to kill before our train we decided to brave the hordes of Scottish football fans drowning their sorrows and call in for a farewell drink.

The final drink was a cracker, a Double Mochaccino stout brewed at the Pilot Brewery just down the road in Leith. This was possibly my favourite beer of the whole trip, and was akin to enjoying a coffee and an after dinner snifter in one. A majestic pint to which the clichés ‘velvety’ and ‘smooth as silk’ seem warranted.  So impressed by the beer we also had a half of another Pilot brew, the intriguing Citrus and Basil Sharp, which was a little more summery than the occasion demanded, but equally tasty. 

With another pint sadly refused so we could dash back to Waverly, I excitably squashed into our cabin and climbed into my bunk with the foreboding words of the witches in Macbeth (a film that we had watched at the cinema earlier that evening) still ringing in my ears.

‘Sleep shall never night nor day, hang upon his pent house lid'...

…the next thing I knew I had fallen into a deep slumber, dreaming of Watford Junction again.

Birthday Buns -Yautacha, City

'It’s my birthday

It’s my birthday

I’mma spend my money'

It's My Birthday - Will.i.am and Cody Wise

If the apogee of life is living out the the lyrics from a song sung by an ex-Black Eyed Pea then I've finally made it - although their party featured scantily clad women and exploding cupcakes and mine featured the new Supreme Saturday at Broadgate Circle's Yautacha with a fully clothed (one birthday wish that is just going to have to wait) Stealth.

Stealth was forewarned the place was ‘rather posh’, but for someone that often falls asleep still in brogues and a tweed jacket (really) I think the heads up was more an attempt to moderate her behaviour than fear of violating the dress code. I, for my part, am always impeccably behaved, but for this occasion shunned my Trimm Trabb for actual real boots (albeit with holes in them).

If you need evidence of our suitable attire look no further than the photo Stealth persuaded the woman at the next table (much to my consternation) to take. It’s also the only evidence I have of our pre-dinner cocktails – a lychee martini for Stealth and a negroni for me – a drink that is by its nature supposed to sharpen the appetite but, after looking at the vision above, may conspire to have the opposite effect on the readership. Nevertheless they hit the spot, despite the numerate hunks of ice in mine leading to a less than congruous moment as an errant cube slipped from the glass as I drank…

The set Saturday menu, available from 12-5 at Yauatcha City for a minimum of two guests - features aforementioned cocktails, steamed and fried dim sum platters, half a bottle of wine per person, a choice of mains, post-dinner drinks and desserts from their glittering range of in-house patisserie. It's my birthday and I'll get fat if I want to.

The opening gambit, a steamer stacked with little dumpling jewels, made a strong start with a selection including pork and prawn shu mai, classic har gau, black pepper and wagyu beef dumpling, and a vegetable and truffle wrap that turned out to be a (very nice) piece of stuffed mooli-type radish. An autumal pairing of a crystal dumpling wrap with pumpkin and a pine nut, and heady wild mushroom dumpling rounded things off.

The fried dim sum were again, a bit of a mixed bag and, despite their delicate appearance, rather hefty – on the good side the signature baked venison puffs, the bronzed and friable pastry holding a slow cooked and deeply savoury cargo, were good; even better were the sesame studded prawn toast balls, although the fried bread base would have been better on a full english.

Rather less notable was a mushroom spring roll, which I have almost completely forgotten consuming, and a strange lobster and mayonnaise type roll, covered in an anaemic cobweb-like pastry and served unpleasantly tepid.

The truffled pork belly rib – adorned with impossibly tiny spears of  asparagus and a few edible flower petals for good measure – came topped with a heady adornment that proved to be the final nail in the tuber coffin, leaving me gently sobbing for a mushroom reprieve. (For those who may have feared I could no longer face the fungus, I was happily back eating ham cheese and truffle toasties the following weekend).

First world fungal problems aside it was a masterful piece of pork cookery, the kind the Chinese excel at, with the slow braised and gelatinous meat glazed with a rich salty, spicy sauce and the autumnal funk of the fungi. The accompanying dish of crisp baby bok choi with garlic and soy were, almost, too cute to eat; the dish of sticky and fragrant jasmine rice left sadly untouched.

By the time the piece de resistance, a lobster and glass noodle hotpot, arrived (in what felt like eons after the rest of the food, and after Stealth had tired of pretending to like wine and ordered a lager) we could only half-heartedly pick at the chopped up carapace with the assorted weapons of torture provided. A shame really, as it was a pretty stunning dish that deserved more attention (and £38 on the al la carte menu), with the sweet stir-fried crustacean giving up its briny juices into the bed of glossy mung bean threads below.

Post-dinner cocktails were the now much maligned, but very good, espresso martini, and a classic amaretto sour; and an antacid; and a little lay down...

Desserts was a dizzying choice from the patisserie counter, all baked fresh in house everyday. They also have handmade chocolates and macaroons in eastern-influenced flavours such as sesame cashew, pandan and toasted rice to eat in or takeaway.

By this time the idea of consuming another morsel was threatening to turn things into an unhappy birthday, so thankfully they offered us our cakes to go. An unexpected bonus that also meant I had something to give the beloved Ewing, who had stayed at home on her sick bed - full of snuffles instead of truffles.

First out the box was the renowned raspberry delice; a rose-shaped sponge that was filled with raspberry mousse, madirofolo chocolate and lychee pannacotta before being sprayed with cocoa butter (beats pesticides) and topped with silver leaf. A beautiful cake whose bright, fruity flavours lived up to it's fancy appearance.

The second - the 'chocolate pebble',  comprised of alto el sol single origin dark chocolate, brownie and caramelised white chocolate - was chosen entirely with the Ewing in mind. This was even fancier than the delice with it's chocolate curls and fancy gold 

At £49 quid per person all in, not only was the food some of the tastiest I have eaten for a while, it also put paid to my assertion I was going to 'spend a dollar, dollar, dollar'. Even with the uncouth Stealth's beer and service charge the bill came in at under sixty quid a head; maybe not cheap but excellent value. And while I may have failed in blowing all my cash, we always had the rest of the night to 'put my hands in the air, party like we don't care' (or drink more cocktails and slump by early evening).

The Three Little Pigs at the Tickled Pig, Wimborne

Earlier this year my Grandad moved down to Wimborne and some friends got married. Not much to link the two together, or so you'd think. But the food served at the wedding - a deliciously meat heavy feast of salt beef salad to start followed by Dorset lamb - was from the catering arm of the Tickled Pig, whose bricks and mortar restaurant/cafe also happens to be based in Wimborne.

After an aborted attempt to eat here on a previous visit that was derailed by a trip to the hardware store coupled with rampant hunger (the Pig is on the opposite side of the town to Grandad's new place), we made it safely on the second attempt.

Inside, the ground floor restaurant/cafe shares its space with a newly opened deli that sells everything from locally grown herbs and flowers to chocolates, cheese, pasta and pickles. There's even 'ready' meals prepared in their own kitchen, which you can buy to takeaway with a bottle of Tickled Pig branded wine.

My moules frites were rather moules with a wedge/roastie potato hybrid and a hunk of bread. Like many people with a grizzly seafood story - I shan’t put you off your lunch - I only really fancy mussels when a certain mood takes me, and wondered if the day after an all-day hangover (with hints of concussion from some over-zealous dancing near a low hanging speaker) was the right time to choose them. 

Luckily I had faith, and these were some of the best bivalves I have eaten for a while. The mussels themselves were plump and sweet and singing of the sea and while the advertised samphire was missing in action there was plenty of the promised fresh chilli and a good lick of cream to tone down the salt and spice. A bottle of Sovereign ale, brewed in nearby Corfe, made a good match

Grandad’s pork was served two ways; medallions of pan fried fillet and a hunk of slow cooked belly, propped up by a huge puck of breaded and deep fried mash (like a potato croquette on steroids), carrot puree and cider jus and a scattering of token kale. I assume all was well, as it was dispatched in double quick time (along with a few of our chips) with special praise reserved for the belly, which had that perfect wobbly fat/meat ratio and shredded upon the mere sight of a knife.

While we were waiting for our lunch Grandad had told us of a crackling disappointment (surely the worst kind of disappointment) at a local hostelry he had recently eaten at, but there could be no complaints with the pig skin on offer here. He was especially lucky as not only did he have a giant shard on his lunch, they also bought an extra mega scratching out after they had cleared our plates. Cue much envy from the rest of the table. (the crack-o-meter was off the scale! - TE)

From this angle you may be mistaken for thinking that the behemoth chips rather overwhelmed the Ewing's burger, but taking into account both perspective and the fact the chips could have sunk the Titanic, it was a very solid sandwich. While I would rather have a burger that went out and not up – being as I haven’t quite evolved my boa constrictor’s dislocate able jaw –the cricket ball shaped puck of Devon Red beef had stayed admirably pink and juicy within. 

The real stars of the show, however, were the smoked Dorset red cheddar and home cured pancetta (both available to buy from the deli) which added a huge umami bomb to proceedings. The Ewing also fell hard for the little ramekin of homemade burger sauce which she used to dunk her huge chunks of fried potato, side salad and, when she ran out of food on her plate, fingers.

I find it pretty hard to resist the wobble of a panna cotta, or anything tea flavoured, and so the earl grey infused cooked cream fought off a late charge from the pain au chocolate bread and butter pudding (which coincidentally - made with good old Mother’s Pride and not fancy croissants, I suspect - was also on the menu at Grandad’s new gaff that lunchtime). It didn’t disappoint, served with homemade almond biscotti that almost rivalled the Ewing's. I would have happily eaten more than the one lone New Forest strawberry served alongside, though.

There wasn’t really much of a choice to be made for Grandad and the Ewing; chocolate brownie with honeycomb, salted caramel and the, mysterious sounding, chocolate oil, all the way (although with double crackling and a great hunk of sponge candy, I’m not sure Grandad’s dentist will be thanking us on his next visit). 

I was quick enough to swoop in for a mouthful, and enjoyed the grown up balance between bitter chocolate, burnt sugar and Purbeck ice cream, and the textural contrast between gooey and crisp that makes a good pud. I can’t say I’m any the wiser on the chocolate oil, though.

We finished a wonderful meal with some good coffee, roasted by Amid Giants and Idols, a local roastery based in Lyme Regis. Macchiato for me, cappuccino (don't tell the Italians) for the Ewing and americano for Grandad; not that he seemed to need the extra boost, being far more sprightly than a pair nearly a decade younger than him with their ages combined.

And another big pig up to Grandad, who proved he wasn't a boar, patiently posing for a selfie with the two little pigs and the eponymous tickled pig above the front door. (Grandad is THE BEST! - TE)

Pie and peas on sea (and some ice cream)

For those last weekend who had the (mis)fortune of being in Weymouth, you may have seen - and it was certainly pretty hard to miss - Cher and her band of merry sailors. Led by the curly haired Goddess of Pop, we took to the streets in an attempt to remake 1989's soft rock classic Turn Back Time . Just a standard Saturday, really.

For those who weren't so lucky to catch us, it was a sight to behold. I'll spare you the gory details - what happens upon the HMS mobility scooter stays upon the HMS mobility scooter - but even the salty sea dogs of Wyke Regis learnt a few things that night.

But first the seamen needed ballast, and what better than a good old pie and a pint at the Handmade Pie and Ale House, a renovated pub on West Street selling exactly what it says on the tin.

We had already got stuck into the Jagermeister jelly shots so a pint of very quaffable Charles Well's Try Time - a beer brewed to celebrate (although there wasn't much to celebrate later that evening) the rugby world cup - was a welcome relief. If you order a pie from the set menu, between 12-5pm each day, you also get a free drink with your dinner.

I had the steak and stilton - rather menacingly marked with an 'ss' on top - served with mash and garden peas (pipe, model's own). This was a nigh on perfect pie; double crust, shortcrust pastry (infinitely superior to puff); generously filled with tender beef and a good cheese to meat ratio. Mash was decent, peas buttered and there were lashings of extra gravy (rather gloopy and from a packet, but it lubricated things well enough).

The Ewing chose the GKC pie, filled with chicken, wild mushrooms and garlic and served with a 'We Want Plates' combo of a mini colander full of peas and mini fryer full of chips. Presentation quibbles aside - you can easily decant the accouterments onto the plate, although the rectangular shape makes eating a bit tricky - this was another exemplary pastry product. 

Again, they didn't skimp on the filling, with the decent wack of garlic being particularly welcomed by my wife; less so by anyone else that came into contact with her the following day. I'm also glad I wasn't around fellow dining companion, the Doctor, the following morning, after he chose the breakfast pie -stuffed with sausage, bacon and baked beans - alongside a side of extra beans. 

Probably the first and last time you'll see Cher and her sea captain brandishing plates of pies. In a nice touch the kitchen also personalised the pies with happy birthday messages and even bought a colander of broccoli for the pea and bean-avoiding Cher. Distinguished service crosses all round for the food and the staff who put up with our antics with a healthy mix of good grace and bemusement.

While the pies all went down with no complaints, Cousin Eamonn wasn't such a big fan of the chicken wings; memorably describing them as 'too chicken like'. The stripped piles of bones on everyone else's plates suggested the sentiment wasn't a shared one.

One thing that certainly couldn't be described as chicken (see what I did there) was aunty Pat, seen here an action shot with first mate Winston on board, cruising the streets on her battleship. Add in a crushing sporting defeat; a bride drunk on blue WKD; potential incest on a pool table, concussion in The Closet and a melting drag queen and you've got a pretty standard Saturday night out.

While the following morning dawned clear and bright for some, most of us, unsurprisingly, felt decidedly foggy and grey around the edges. Still, it was nothing industrial strength tea and bacon sarnies couldn't cure and we were soon out enjoying the sunshine with a stroll along the Esplanade.

For ice cream in Weymouth read Rossis, who have had an ice cream parlour on the Esplanade since 1937. To say I was excited about a restorative frozen treat (that karaoke is hard on the throat) by the sea was an understatement. It was also not an understatement to say that upon reaching Rossis - after trudging across the huge expanse of hot sandy beach, it’s art deco sign winking at me like a beacon in the sun - only to find the door firmly shut, made me feel somewhat like Lawrence of Arabia chasing the mirage in the desert.

So onto plan B; Boho Gelato, of Brighton fame, who we first visited at their original location and have just opened in a second spot by Weymouth Harbour. The shop, in contrast to Rossi's art deco curves, is like stepping into the future, with clear cylinders holding today's flavours suspended in the stainless steel and glass counter.

I chose a base of salted caramel ice cream topped with white chocolate and passion fruit ripple, modelled here on the harbour bridge. Both were excellent. the caramel swirl that mined through the former had a salty smokiness while the tropical passion fruit cut through the richness of the white chocolate.

The sorbets were also fantastic, with their eye popping colours and flavours including alphonso mango and raspberry with elderflower. The Ewing sampling the peanut and caramel sorbet alongside a tart and bright sour cherry version.

As is always the way, the minute the Ewing and I parted, she with all the money, and she had made it out of earshot, I noticed that Rossi’s was now open. Cue my most athletic moment of the whole weekend (or possibly on par with the previous night’s dancing to Wham!) as I hurtled down to the shore, risking wet toes and sand-filled shoes for some change for my cone.

In contrast to Boho Rossis had one flavour on offer; natural (although it seems they can offer up to three at a time, including more outre sounding choices such as coconut, forest fruits and cookie dough) which actually came as a welcome relief from the relentless choices faced in this modern world. I ordered my 99, the seaside classic, before hot footing it across the road and to the beach just before the drips started. (not towards me I noticed- TE)

While, especially in contast to Boho’s fancy colours and swirls, it may not have looked terribly exciting, the ice cream was exemplary. Light and smooth like a whippy, but with a sweet, and soothing milky-ness. The kind of ice cream I imagine the Famous Five eating, sliced into blocks and held between rectangular wafers, when on their way to solve a mystery.

And then finally - hangovers abating and ice cream cravings satisfied - we were left trudging slowly over wet sand; just as Morrissey might have sung about in a late 80s classic. For once I wish everyday was like Sunday.