A couple of months ago, an invitation arrived. Would I like a room at the Savoy for the Baftas? I could attend the awards, guzzle champagne, walk the red carpet alongside Demi Moore and Ariana Grande and so on. Sadly, I replied, I was already booked up that weekend as a judge for a very different kind of competition: the World Marmalade Awards in Cumbria. This year marks the 20th anniversary of this event, held at a whopping Grade-I listed house just outside Penrith, surrounded by stone walls and sheep. Ahead of time, all judges were told to bring warm clothes, so I drove from London with a suitcase of jerseys. Upon arrival, I was shown to a room with a four-poster bed (given to the family by Queen Anne) but no heating. There didn’t seem to be central heating at all, in fact. An Aga in the kitchen and a coal fire in the judging room, where hundreds of amber-coloured jars were waiting to be tasted. Otherwise, we judges needed our warm clothes. Some wore scarves, others thick tights. Two came down to breakfast in puffer jackets. ‘Ah yes, they’re in the attic. I thought they might be chilly,’ remarked one of the family. Actually, after the initial shock, I enjoyed the privation. I ran from the bathroom to my bedroom, skin steaming in the cold, and slept under a duvet and three blankets. In the evenings, we warmed ourselves with Aga-baked potatoes, venison lasagne and red wine. I grew up in the Borders where I could see my breath hang in the air from bed, but have become a soft southerner too prone to flicking on the heating via my phone. If you’re worried about the reading on your smart meter, I suggest a trip to the north. They still do it differently there.
One of my fellow marmalade judges was Alex Evans, food buyer for those glorious bastions of motorway civilisation, Tebay on the M6 and Gloucester on the M5. You’ll know if you’ve stopped at either because they’re so superior to the usual greasy layovers. No Burger King or Costa here. Instead, butcher’s counters, fresh bread, Scotch eggs and excellent wine. Tebay has become a victim of its own success, admitted Alex, and parking can now be a nightmare. That said, I recommend a visit if you’re passing, even if you don’t need the lavatory. My mother warned me I should be careful driving after all that marmalade, so on my return journey, I pulled into Tebay for a sausage roll. Purely to rebalance my sugar levels, you understand.
I didn’t return to London. Instead, my small terrier Dennis and I motored on to North Wales for a two-week writing retreat. I do this periodically if facing a book deadline, and sometimes turn quite feral. In north Yorkshire a few years ago, I bought a rabbit from the Castle Howard farm shop (so, feral-ish) and spent a few days pausing from writing only for a bowl of the subsequent stew. No farm shop in Porthmadog but I do come across what must be the country’s best pet shop – rows of dog snacks including lamb trachea, pig snouts, rabbit ears, cow’s ears, turkey necks and ‘lamb’s legs with hair’. ‘Very unprocessed,’ I remarked approvingly to the assistant, as I paid for a dried cow’s nose for Dennis. ‘We did have a vegetarian come in once who turned green,’ she tells me.
Along from the pet shop is a family-run bakery. I went in for a snack of my own and noticed that everyone – customers and staff – was speaking Welsh. When I piped up (‘Please may I have a Welsh cake?’), I felt like a Merchant Ivory character. Are there parts of Ireland and Scotland there this would apply, or is Wales bravely holding out? Alas, next door to this bakery is a new Greggs, with a sign outside offering a ‘limited edition chicken katsu bake’ for £3.90. When this branch opened in November, there were queues outside. The Greggsification of Britain continues.
I turned 40 while in Wales. ‘You’re not going to be alone on your birthday?’ friends asked beforehand, aghast. ‘I won’t be alone, I’ve got Dennis,’ I told them. He and I celebrated with a walk along the River Dwyfor to Lloyd George’s grave, surrounded by daffodils about to bloom, while I contemplated the big questions: Does it matter if I’m now 40 and not married? Do I actually want a baby? Am I going to make that weird noise whenever I sit down from now until death? Back at the crofter’s cottage, I had my Welsh cake and Dennis had his dried cow’s nose. Fortunately, I’m not yet so senior that I confused them.
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