Bakewell - a tart free zone.

We were sort of accidental visitors to Bakewell. We'd set off from our pitch just outside the bijou Staffordshire town of Leek intending to take a leisurely scenic Drive along the A5004 from the spa town of Buxton to the "Capital of the High Peak", Chapel en le Frith via Whaley Bridge and from there towards the town of Castleton. This is such a celebrated route that it even has its own Wikipedia page! Sadly, the road was closed so we had to find an alternative route and headed for the ancient town of Castleton via a more direct route. The approach over the peaks past the famous Blue John cavern is spectacular however, and worth doing even if you're not intending to stop.

Which we didn't.

We'd visited Castleton before, and made the steep, steep climb up to Peveril Castle, the eleventh century fortress which dominates the town and gives it its name. While I can recommend the view, we weren't really up for the climb - which is really steep, and it wasn't yet lunchtime so we decided to push on through the Peak District countryside and search out a little pub somewhere. The trouble was, as we made our way though picturesque village after picturesque village, every single village pub we saw appeared to be shut! So much for all day opening...

Eventually we ran out of picturesque little villages and hit the market town of Bakewell. I like puns and wordplay, so any visit to Bakewell brings to mind any number of "Tart" jokes. I won't inflict them on you however*, because not only are they of questionable taste and quality they are also factually inaccurate. You see - whatever Mr Kipling might tell you - there is no such thing as an authentic "Bakewell Tart". The genuine Bakewell Pudding is an entirely different beast, lacking the sickly sweet icing and layer of strawberry jam that adorn the version familiar to supermarket shoppers across the land.

Anyway. Unlike the picturesque little villages Bakewell was most definitely open and veritably thronged with people. Monday is market day, and the livestock market on the edge of town was also in full flow. There was no chance of parking anywhere near the centre of town, so we headed to the main long stay car park, which happens to be right next to the livestock market. You get there by heading out of town and then sort of coming back on yourself, which is odd, and makes you think you must have missed the entrance, but we got there in the end.

To be met by a sign declaring "CAR PARK FULL."

We're not the sort to be put off by that kind of thing, however, and set off down the long car park access road undeterred. The road was lined with signs making it clear that parking was prohibited, and with cars belonging to people who clearly understood that this rule did not apply to them. Reaching the car park we saw that the "CAR PARK FULL" wasn't exaggerating - the place was rammed, with cars and livestock trailers as far as the eye could see. It seemed hopeless, but we learned a long time ago that no matter how full a car park might appear, there is always somebody just about to leave and patience is always rewarded. And so it was on this occasion. It took us less than five minutes to find a car that was just about to vacate its space, and we wasted no time in taking advantage.

So we allied forth from the car park, the sound of the livestock market ringing in our ears, to be greeted by Market day in Bakewell. We approached the town via two bridges which led us towards some large stone pillars - presumably the symbolic gates of the town welcoming the visitor and inviting you in, which is a nice touch.  Except on the Monday we were there the market was in full swing, and somebody with a "Scissors and knives" stall had chosen to adorn these gateposts with huge yellow plastic signs advertising what I presume to be one of their top lines.

So, fact we and the hoards of other visitors that day were greeted with an advert for "Heavy Duty Toenail Pliers! Cuts through the thickest toenails!"  Oh yeah! Stay classy, Bakewell!

We eshewed the delights of toenail pliers, and indeed the delights of the market square altogether really. Don't get me wrong, we like a good market - I'm originally from Doncaster, a town which boasts one of the finest markets in Northern Europe** - but we also quite like breathing, and there were so many people crammed around the stalls I couldn't see how it would be possible to stand near one of them and still have space to inhale.

I did, however, tarry briefly by a rather bare looking stall staffed by some pretty organised, if intentionally shabby, looking teenagers with rather brightly coloured (and on closer inspection, really rather good) skateboards. They represented "Skatewell", a skater run project trying to get a skatepark built in the town. They were articulate and clearly passionate about their cause, and I really do wish them well. I used to skate a bit as a kid, and my wanderings around Bakewell suggest that most of it is ideally suited for water colour painters, but not so much for skateboards - it's a form of transport that doesn't work well with cobblestones.

I liked the Skatewell kids very much indeed - and they underlined something that I've thought for a while.  Places like Bakewell are brilliant for forty-something people like me. They're great places for more senior citizens and they are excellent places to be a child. But for teenagers? Nah. I can't imagine being a teenager in Bakewell is all that great. So here's hoping they get their skatepark. They deserve it - not just because there's bugger all to do in Bakewell if you're fourteen, but also because they've got themselves together and organised themselves to make it happen. Like I said, I was impressed.

But I was also hungry. It was lunchtime and as regular readers of this blog will know, lunch is a serious business and searching for a place to eat it is always a pressing concern.  Did we find anywhere? Why yes we did. And it was fabulous.

I'll tell you about it next time...

*Oh, alright then, just one. Stolen from Radio 4's excellent "I'm sorry, I haven't a clue!", "Bakewell Tart - instruction to be shouted at Nigella Lawson..."

**Actually true. There are a lot of good things about Donny, although I'll acknowledge that many of them are well hidden...

Clearly a great sense of civic pride...

This isn't really a post, just a big shout out to the awesome people of Leek. Since the Leek posting went up - in which all I basically did was buy a hosepipe - it's had more hits than any other posting since the start of the blog. And I'm talking nearly ten times more than any other post. In less than a week.

My stats thingie won't tell me what proportion of the hits were from Staffordshire, but I do know that the vast, vast majority of them were certainly from the UK - and it just can't be a coincidence. No. The vast majority of the hits for the post were from the people of Leek. It tells you something about a place when so many people who clearly haven't read the blog before come and find me just because I'm talking about their town. That kind of love for a place tells you a lot.

Go and pay them a visit sometime - I promise you it's worth the trip. Both the people and the place are genuinely fabulous.

The Peak Weavers - perfection and Parfait.

As I mentioned in the last post, we'd taken the caravan to the Staffordshire town of Leek to meet up with an old friend who was about to relocate to the islands of Scotland. Such a farewell needs to be marked with fine food and finer wine, and our friend, who happened to be the proprietress of the finest independent wine shop in Staffordshire* knew just the place to go.

The Peak Weavers is a bed and breakfast cum restaurant establishment that has established a pretty impressive reputation for itself since the current owners, Nick and Emma took it over in 1999. Housed in a building that was constructed in 1828 for a local mill owner, the Peak wavers - named for its Peak District location and weaving heritage - now houses a forty cover restaurant and six bedrooms. Clearly we've never stayed there, but if you happen to be travelling sans-caravan, I'd recommend this place just on the strength of the food. Seriously, when an establishment produces food to this standard you can trust everything else.

Because the food was seriously good.

We were a little early for our table, so we took a seat in the small bar area (I suspect it was originally the mill owner's parlour or something) and chatted over drinks perusing the menu. It's a cosy and welcoming space, and although it is a little snug you don't get any kind of sense of being on top of other guests. The host was attentive but not intrusive and the atmosphere pleasingly convivial. At a suitable lull in conversation we were escorted into the immaculate dining room and seated at our table.

There was some discussion about wine, which I took more notice of than usual, because this was one of the rare occasions when I wasn't driving. I didn't choose though, because however much I know about wine** our friend knows an awful lot more. I'm rather ashamed to note therefore that I have no idea what we drank, except to say that it was delicious. (Mental note to self - if you're drinking when you're eating at a restaurant you're going to review, make notes!) Suffice to say I was impressed. The food though, oh my. The food just knocked me out of the park.

I started with a crispy duck salad with a dressing of ginger and soy. What can I say? The duck was perfectly cooked and the dressing was beyond fabulous, just coating the leaves and duck pieces enough to add flavour but not so much that the duck itself was over powered - and so perfectly seasoned even I didn't reach for the salt. That's a rare thing for me, and probably my ultimate compliment to a chef who gets the seasoning right first time.

Mrs Snail and our friend started with a hot smoked salmon and prawn cocktail with a "green goddess" sauce - except Mrs Snail's was an all salmon affair because if she eats prawns she turns blue and dies. These came served in the traditional cone shaped cocktail glass and were declared to be delicious. I was fascinated by the green goddess sauce, which I'd never heard of, but seems to be a sort of flavoured mayo type thing with parsley, anchovies, lemon and other good things. Such a refreshing change from the standard gloopily pink Marie Rose sauce you usually get smothering this sort of thing.

That's one of the things I liked about the Peak Weavers - everything was done with a bit of imagination and flair.

Our main courses were equally impressive. I went for a rib-eye steak, because I'm a man and I like meat cooked on fires, and I was not disappointed in any way. The meat was perfectly cooked - possibly the first time I've been served a medium steak the way I like it, normally chef's seem to interpret "medium" either as "the customer knows nothing, they will have their meat the way I know they should have it" or "the customer is clearly squeamish, I must cook away all traces of pink". Not here. My steak was pink, juicy and gorgeous.

The steak came with some wonderful chips and roasted vegetables. I was in something approaching heaven. Mrs Snail opted for a ham hock salad style thing which was packed with flavour and our friend went for a lamb dish which looked and smelled astounding. Our friend pronounced it to be "amazing", and I have no cause to doubt her judgement.

Finally, there was dessert.

Dessert can be summed up in one word.

Wow.

However, that's not the sort of finely judged commentary you've come to expect from this blog, so I guess I should expand on that a little.

Our friend declined dessert, which frankly makes me doubt her sanity just a little, but having taken another squint at the menu me and Mrs Snail were completely unable to resist. I went for a Pavlova which arrived smothered in cream, strawberries and blueberries. All jolly lovely, of course, but the best bit by far was the meringue. This spectacular confection was beyond mere sweetness - somehow managing to be much, much sweeter than sugar. Crisp and brittle on the outside, soft and chewey  - but not gooey - on the inside. Honestly, I could have eaten it all night.

And yet, I hadn't chosen the most impressive thing. No, Mrs Snail did that when she selected the Passion Fruit Parfait. Now, "parfait" may well be the French word for "perfect", but I've never really been much of a fan. This though, this really lived up to its name. Beautifully presented and perfectly judged in terms of flavour, my only criticism of this dish was that it was only designed to serve one, so I was only able to steal a tiny spoonful. That spoonful did contain two or three of the little peach coloured balls that were adorning the top of the parfait, and they  were a revelation.

I think they're best described as slightly oversized orangey caviar, and they behaved much like caviar in the mouth - popping on the tongue and releasing an ooze of flavour directly onto the taste buds. Fortunately this is where the similarities to caviar ended, because caviar is disgusting and tastes of overpoweringly salty fish***. This however was wonderful, and tasted of Passion Fruit. It was the final little bit of flair that lifted the dish from mere greatness to an entirely different level of awesomeness. Parfait indeed.

And that is what the Peak Weavers seems to be all about. They source their meat locally and adjust the menu to what is seasonally available. Essentially they take fine ingredients and then apply a bit of skill and imagination to make good things even better. Seriously, what more could you wish from a restaurant? This isn't the kind of blog that awards stars, but if it was, I'd need a bloody galaxy to adequately reward this place - even if co-owner Nick did spend some time dissing caravans while we took coffee in the lounge...****

*The Wine Shop, Leek

**Which is rather a lot, actually...

***This is objectively true. I've eaten the finest caviar on earth. It was disgusting and left a taste in my mouth I couldn't get rid of for days.

****More of that in a future blog. All I'm saying is "challenge accepted"...

Taking a Leek!

So, the caravan was serviced, half term was upon us, and it was time to set off on our first jaunt of 2013.

Normally we'd head north - trolleying off to the Lake District, Scotland or the North East of England. But this year we pointed the car south towards Staffordshire. I know. We didn't know anyone went there either. It's a very under-rated place, Staffordshire. If I'm honest we weren't really going for the place, but to wish an old friend "bon voyage" as she packs up her life and moves it to the wilds of the Scottish Isles - where, ironically, we'll probably see a lot more of her than we have at any time since we parted ways at the end of University about a century ago. Thus it was that we found ourselves pitched up two miles outside the ancient borough of Leek. It's an odd little place, with much to recommend it, and even though our friend is no longer there I'll be surprised if we never go back.

It's an old place, Leek. First granted its charter in 1214 this little town has sat on the banks of the River Churnet  for some time longer than that. My first experience of the place was late on a Saturday afternoon when, having pitched up on site I discovered that I'd somehow mislaid the filler tube for the Aqua Roll*. This isn't always a problem of course, but the taps on site were about fifteen feet** above ground level and trying to fill the barrel without a tube would have involved getting more water on the ground (and me) than in the Aquaroll, and squelching my way across a campsite in sub zero February temperatures was not appealing in any way.

So, into Leek I went, in search of hosepipes.

Well, of course, I didn't want an actual hosepipe, but food grade plastic tubes compatible with campsite taps are surprisingly hard to come by. A search of the site's information room had revealed that there were no dedicated camping/caravanning supplies outlets within easy reach, and in their absence, I figured a bit of hosepipe would do the job.

So I drove in, followed the signs for short stay car parks and ended up in the staff car park of the "Staffordshire Moorlands" district council, which apparently is based in Leek. I was immediately impressed. Why don't more places do this? The council offices clearly need a car park, but given that the offices are closed on the weekend, coincidentally the same time that more people than usual want to come to the town, why on earth wouldn't you turn the council's staff car park into a pay and display on the weekend? Especially given the fact that the council's offices are about forty yards away from the town's historic market square?

Genius.

Seriously - I know it's geeky of me, but I'm always impressed by stuff like this. It shows that the people running the place have thought about stuff and are using their assets effectively. In this case, it also frees up the market square, which is normally used for parking, allowing a rather good little Saturday Market to be established without  making it impossible for people to park in order to shop there.

It was rather late in the day, and most of the stalls were packing up by the time I got there, but even then I got the impression of a pretty vibrant mercantile scene. There were stalls full of antiques, books, records (and I do mean records - proper vinyl, not just CDs) and a particularly fine collection of old Corgi and Matchbox vehicles which caught my attention rather more than it probably should.

What caught my eye the most though was the wide array of food based offerings. Stalls purveying jams and preserves, baked goods, meat - you name it, it was on sale. Or at least had been, as I say, I was there pretty late in the day. It's the kind of thing that I love to see in a market square - a lot of local produce and organic logos as far as the eye can see. Not that ogling the market was finding me a water barrel filler tube, so I set off down the high street to see what I could see.

As with so many other old towns, at street level everything looks pretty much the same as everywhere else - although there is a pleasing proliferation of independent shops here the high street chain stores with their generic shop fronts are also much in evidence.  Right at the top of the street though, a large display of gloriously muddy vegetables outside an old fashioned looking shop caught my attention. Could this be that rarest of things, a good old fashioned Green Grocer's shop? Well, yes - with the emphasis on "old fashioned", it would appear.

The Home and Colonial Stores is a remarkable place - a Leek institution it seems - and perhaps the epitome of what a good food shop should be. I walked in expecting it to be rather small and pokey, but in fact it's much, much larger than you'd guess from outside. I was going to describe it as TARDIS like, appearing larger on the inside then the outside, but actually it's more like something from the drawing board of MC Esher - it just extends on and on and every time you think you've reached a point where logic and physics dictate it must end, there's just a little bit more of it.

Seriously, I'm not even exaggerating. It must be the longest shop I've ever been in, and I'll go to my grave convinced that the interior of the place is longer than the building in which it is situated. As for what they sell, well. The short answer would appear to be "everything". Basically if you can eat it, you can get it there - unless it's out of season. None of your Asparagus air-freighted from Kenya here let me tell you.

It's more than just the merchandise though. There's something about the look of the place too. Sitting here reviewing my photos from this trip I'm appalled to discover that I didn't take a single photograph of Leek, which means I don't have a shot of this Edwardian looking shop front. Fortunately, there are plenty of pictures, and a short review/history of this remarkable little shop on the Totally, Locally, Leek website, which not only gets me off the hook, but also allows me to neatly segue into talking about this example of the sense of community that pervades the very cobblestones of the town.

The little market square is part of it, as is the way local businesses have joined together to promote each other's interests. Other places often seem to define their love of their local identity by declaring what they don't think fits in - as evidenced by the "keep Costa out of [insert town name here]" campaigns that spring up periodically***. Totally Locally Leek is more about making it easy for the general public to find and support local business, which in turn of course supports local jobs and helps prevent the high street becoming littered with the blight of empty shops. Indeed, so far as shops closing down in Leek, it seems to be the chain stores that are suffering, not the independents, which has to count as a win.

I'd walked the full length of the street, from the market square to the rather impressive war memorial - an obelisk shaped tower presented to the town in 1925 by the Nicholson family in memory of the fallen of the First World War and their son, Lieutenant Basil Lee Nicholson, who fell at Ypres - and not found a suitable camping store. There was a Millets in the throes of a closing down sale (what did I tell you about the chain stores suffering?) but nobody who could sell me a filler tube or a hosepipe.

So I turned on my heel and headed back for the market square to seek the assistance of the Tourist Information Centre which occupies one corner. The nice lady pondered my query for a second and suggested that I "try Wilco", which apparently was to be located "through the little alley next to New Look". This turned out to be good advice. The alley was indeed narrow - literally wide enough for one person to walk through, which led to a lot of  "no please, after you" politeness, but the Wilkinson store was indeed able to furnish me with a hosepipe at a ridiculously low price and I headed back to the caravan in triumph.

And what with one thing and another, I never did get back to explore the place properly. We didn't even set foot in any of the town's twenty seven or so pubs (there are five in the Market Square alone) which is seriously not like us! Still, as I said at the beginning - we'll be going back some time, so I guess you should watch this space. We never even ate lunch there - but don't worry, there will be a restaurant review, because we did eat out one evening (which again, is not really like us) so please do join me next time to find out what the Peak Weavers had to offer...

*I say I mislaid it because Mrs Snail insists that she's never touched it. I could protest that I've never taken it out of the caravan except when I was using it to fill the damn Aquaroll, and that I certainly haven't taken it out of the 'van while it's been parked up over the winter, but honestly - what would be the point?

**Clearly an exaggeration, but they were genuinely chest height. I have no idea why.

***Such as the successful campaign in Totnes I mentioned in an earlier column. Don't get me wrong, such campaigns have their place, but Totally Locally Leek is a much more positive way to go about things...

Getting back on the Road - a cautionary tale of servicing.

As the days begin to lengthen, the sun climbs a little higher in the sky and February draws to a close, it is clearly time to get the caravan off the drive and set up for the new season. Not that the season ever needs to end, of course - there are still places to go and sights to be seen in November, December and January after all. But at some point it is important to check everything apart and make sure it's all working properly.

In short, you need to get the beast serviced.

Now, there are many things you can do yourself - I'm so insanely proud of replacing the flush on our chemical toilet that I might even write a blog about it at some point - but if only to make sure there's somebody to take responsibility when a part fails, it's a good idea to get the professionals to take care of it.

For the first few years of our caravan ownership, this involved hitching up and taking the snail back up the road to the dealership we bought it from so that their workshop could give her a thorough going over. There were a couple of drawbacks with this arrangement, however. For a start, while I'm not naming the dealership - for reasons which may become evident later I'm just going to refer to them as the "Disgraced Dealer" - they're a couple of hours down the road. Taking the caravan there and back therefore used up the better part of half the day. Twice, once when I took the 'van and dropped it off, and once when I went back to pick it up again, usually the following weekend.

Eventually, I began to regard this annual expedition as a bit of a waste of both time and fuel. I also came to regard the dealership as a little slapdash in their attitude. The caravan began to start coming back with minor things not done, the final straw coming when they neglected to connect the lead which enabled the on-board battery to be charged from the mains hook-up or the tow-car. Since the pump always operates from the battery, its failure to charge left us with no running water, and therefore no shower. Since this happened while we were pitched in the middle of a field with no access to a toilet block our inability to shower was more than a little bit of an issue.

We were saved on that occasion by the generosity of the farm's owner, who let us keep charging the battery up in one of his sheds, but having no desire to repeat the experience we resolved to find an alternative service provider.

Initially we looked around other caravan dealers, taking the view that pretty much any of them would do a better job. The problem with that of course was that we had no real way of knowing how good their work would be, and none of the dealerships we considered were any closer to our house than our original, disgraced, provider. The vaguely pointless trips up the motorway would be forced to continue - surely there must be a better way?

It was Mrs Snail who found the answer.

There is a growing band of  specialist caravan engineers who will come to you and service your 'van wherever you are. It's the perfect service - not only do you not have to trolley your way up and down the motorway, the service is carried out on your drive not in a dealer's workshop. This means that you can see what the engineer is doing, which turns out to be important.

You see, it turns out that in the privacy of their workshop  the team of caravan engineers who I had paid every year for several years to service my little house on wheels weren't actually doing a whole hell of a lot. Being a trusting type I'd just been forking over the cash and assuming that the work was being done to a competent standard. They told me their work was top notch, and I had to take their word for it because I was forbidden to set foot in their aircraft hanger of a workshop "for my own safety".

Hmmm.

We called in Steve, who operates his Caratec mobile Caravan Servicing and repair business from Sheffield. He brought his trailer full of tools and parts up to Road Snail's base in Harrogate and spent most of a cold, overcast February saturday on my drive. He showed me everything he did and explained why he was doing it.

Now, I suspect there may have been other reasons I was never allowed into the Disgraced Dealer's workshop.

Steve greased up my jockey wheel, because it was essentially lubrication free. He did the same thing for the corner steadies. It seems that they hadn't been done in a while. He checked my tyres - both should have been replaced before the previous service, which had been carried out a year earlier by Disgraced Dealer, who had either failed to notice they were past the end of their recommended safe life, or noticed and failed to tell me. Genuinely not sure which is worse.

While we're on the subject of potentially dangerous errors, the gas exhaust flue for the 'fridge was pointing into the 'van rather than out through the vent - something which was not actually a problem because I don't think we've ever run the 'fridge off gas, but  Disgraced Dealer wasn't to know that and if we had we would potentially have been pumping carbon Monoxide into our living space - something which we all should have filed under "not a great idea".

There was more, but you get the idea.

By contrast Steve not only showed me what he was doing, but whenever he replaced something he gave me the part he'd removed so that I could see that it had been done. And then, after spending about seven hours on my freezing cold driveway, he charged me considerably less than Disgraced Dealer used to. What can I say? He was the very model of professionalism and efficiency. His work (which we have subsequently tested with a four night trip down to the midlands) was neat, thorough and effective.  I can't recommend him highly enough - if you're in the Yorkshire/Lincolnshire/Derbyshire area I strongly suggest you check out his website.

If you're not close enough to Steve for him to come and take care of your Caravan, I strongly suggest you find a similar mobile operative near wherever you are - just check and make sure they're members of the "Mobile Caravan Engineer's Association".

Once Steve had done his thing all that remained was to hitch the 'van up to the car and take her out for the first run of the year - about which, more later...

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