The Sweet Side of Cheddar

Cheddar. Like the cheese? 

Exactly like the cheese. The place where the cheese was first brought into existence and continues to be lovingly cultured in order to make our lives all the more enjoyable, and cheesy. 

Cheddar is a village in Somerset that you have to reach by driving through a gorge (Cheddar Gorge by coincidence) that is basically a magic portal. As you wind you way down the hill, flanked by giant, foreboding  walls of rock either side, it does actually feel like you're leaving Earth as you know it. A feeling that's further compounded once you get into the village. It's like you've shifted back through time. There are small shops that wouldn't look out of place in a photo of 1950s England. Each of the shops are small outlets selling only food, drink, souvenirs or Christmas crap (honestly). 

Let me give you a little context. A few weeks ago, I managed to persuade two of my friends to join me in a cheese based pilgrimage - the best kind of pilgrimage surely? We were on an adventure to go see the caves and cheese.

So on arrival, our first port of call was the cheese shop. Well, it was supposed to be, but our long drive and the impending onset of hanger dictated that we had to fuel up with lunch and so had to visit a quaint cafe. What else is there to eat in Cheddar? We devoured cheese toasties, with molten gold oozing down the pitifully effective napkins. It was glorious. And then we hit the cheese shop. 

I consider myself a bit of a cheese connoisseur and I don't say this lightly, but I think the best Cheddar in the world is the Cheddar Gorge Cheese Company cave-matured cheddar. It really is the good shit. I have managed to eke out my wedge until now. The last slither of it disappeared into my mouth this very day. I have only eaten it solo. It is too good to be grated nonchalantly on undeserving pasta or lost in a sandwich with common pickle. It has to be savoured. 

Anyway, cheese covered, we continued our mooch around Cheddar to see what goodies it had to offer. As it turned out, all the goodies were sweetie goodies. And they were EVERYWHERE. 

Walking down the main drag of Cheddar village is like running the gauntlet of a diabetic coma. There are fudge shops, sweet shops, ice cream shops, cider shops, a marshmallow shop (yep, my first as well), nougat shops and of course, a whole plethora of various afternoon tea / cream tea / cake outlets. 

It was AMAZING! 

I was in heaven. Sickly, sugary, gooey heaven. 

The realisation soon came upon me that this would be the perfect place for a cream tea crawl. I am 100% committed to this idea of spending a (calorific) day stumbling in and out of the establishments in the shadow of Cheddar Gorge and sampling a variety of the goods on offer. A different cake or treat at every stop. This is a thing right?  

Time constraints being what they were, the day we visited, I had to make so with only dipping my toe into the sea of sugar. After spending time underground in the caves, I staggered to the nearest ice cream outlet ready for a cone of salted caramel. Then we ventured into another cave which was again followed by a stop at an ice cream counter. Yes, it was a two ice cream kind of day. But you weren't there man: you don't know! The second ice cream place had more flavours than I'd ever seen or could dare imagine. Added to this was the fact that there was free toppings. FREE TOPPINGS. It was a no brainer. 

Here's our selection from the ice cream kiosk. Yes, that's hundreds and thousands AND marshmallows. I was all in on the sugar count. 

On the way back to the car, we called into one of the fudge shops but I resisted the urge to indulge further. For a village so steeped in savoury fame, Cheddar is impressive in its selection of sweet treats. I certainly need to return sometime for that cream tea crawl. I reckon I have the form and the experience for such a mammoth task. Especially when there's the best Cheddar cheese in the world to take home as a prize at the end. 

Who's with me? 

Hidden In Plain Sight

Guys, I don't mean to worry anyone, but I'm pretty sure there's a Bond villain living in Titchfield.

I know, I know, it's probably unlikely. However, logic suggests that they have to live somewhere so why not the Hampshire coast?

Let me explain how I have come to this conclusion and I'm sure you'll see the sense in my theory.

In the absence of any great, exotic travels, I have made the executive decision to try to explore more of my local area. To try to search out interesting places that are just on my doorstep, but where I may never have previously ventured: my mission is to discover the jewels in the journey that are so close to home that I've never thought to look.

And so a sunny Sunday morning took me through fields and winding country lanes to the shingled shoreline of Titchfield Haven. Even the name sounds idyllic, and indeed, the sun gives everything a glow of positivity. I walked along the prom and I walked along the stones. The best way to spend a Spring morn.

A fair distance into my walk, as I was sandwiched between the waves and the back markers of a line of unnaturally long gardens, a plain, grey shape, bobbing slowly on the waves, caught my eye out to sea.

This was no normal boat.

It was steel gun-metal grey; the sort of shade that you only see as a tiny plastic boat ready to be torpedoed on a Battleships board. It was smooth but blocky in shape - a rounded body with no edges. There was a plastic control shelter that looked like the top of a submarine such was the even, industrial shape. Save for a few black lines, there were no other markings at all. No name. No numbers. Nothing. Someone was trying to be incognito.

As I stood on the beach, blatantly ogling the strange sight, a rumbling started behind me. Turning around, I was met by the sight of a motorised trailer emerging from one of the long gardens. The metal frame was led by two small wheels at the front. These pulled a large gas tank that sat atop a single large wheel at the back. The whole contraption was about the length of a transit van. Mouth open, I stared as the metal monster trundled independently down the shingle of the beach towards the shoreline.

There was no driver and no line. I glanced towards the grey shape circling just offshore. The trailer must've received word from its sea captain. It was responding to the call.

Steadily, it approached the water's edge and still it kept going. Front wheels submerged. Back wheel submerged. Until I thought the gas tank was going for a dip too. But it stopped, perfectly positioned. The driver (I'm not a sea-goer by trade - is that the right term?) of the boat spun the grey vessel around in a rude-boy style so that it didn't seem so lumbering any more. It was now lined up to dock with the trailer. The driver edged it towards its target and the engine pushed against the waves to force the boat easily into the frame. The squeaking of rubber on rubber announced that the seabird was nestled in place.

Then this mysterious driver (maybe captain is a better term) whipped out the controls that had done all the communication. They were no larger than a toy remote control, albeit a high end toy. A black box held in both hands with four dials was all that was needed for one man to land a damn heavy vessel back onto dry land.

With a flick of a dial, the free-wheeling fame lumbered back through the shallow waves and up the incline of the stony shore and up to the garden to be safely stored away in the secret shed.

Now, I'm not an evil genius by any means, and nor do I know the details of their code, but I'm of the opinion that villains should keep their business secret. When this guy takes his boat in or out, EVERYONE stops to look. Or to take photos. Not a good plan for keeping your evil goings on low key. So many men, women, children and dogs were fascinated by the event.

The fact is that this whole process of using the remote control to wheel your trailer in and out of the water speaks to everyone who once played with a remote control of some type. Anyone who had a remote controlled car wanted a remote controlled truck. And anyone who had a remote controlled truck wanted a remote controlled plane. Once you had that, where was left to go? Apparently a ten-foot remote controlled boat trailer, that's where.

The mere concept delves into that childhood need for power over technology. One man I witnessed, stopped to talk to the villain (NEVER talk to the baddies!) and was visibly bursting with boyish excitement. He was smiling the inane smile of a kid in a sweet shop as he asked questions and basked in the glory of being in the same air space as the spy boat and radio-controlled trailer.

During the whole 'interaction' with our villain, I was pleased to see the villainous, covert entity stayed in character. He answered questions in simple responses, never elaborating; the baseball cap stayed on; the collar stayed upturned; the obligatory dark glasses were stuck to his face; the expression on his face was constantly resting as a slightly grumpy mannequin; all of which kept his identity more or less indistinguishable. But at the same time, he was never rude or villainous to the caller hovering enthusiastically on his boating doorstep.

Well handled dear villain.

Titchfield may not be the most exotic of places, but sometimes "nice" is all you need. Nice can be everywhere if you know where to look. The walk along the beach in the sun was nice. Watching countless dogs playing in the surf was nice. Clearly, the ice cream that I was forced to indulge in was nice. Even the Bond villain was affected by the sun and was being nice to the drooling fanboys who stopped to admire his boating infrastructure.

Twenty minutes from my house and I could find a haven of my own. Sometimes these places are closer and more obvious than we think. Even the places where villains hang out are less hidden when the sun shines. And he didn't even seem to mind that much. Courteous but curt. That's all I want from a villain.

Well, and a finely-groomed moustache to twiddle fiendishly. One can dream.