Melplash Show

Having grown up breeding Portland Sheep, a local rare breed in Dorset, the Melplash Show near Bridport is one of mine and my mother's annual events. Every year we select the best of our young stock to take to the show, exhibiting them to the crowds in order to promote the breed and ensure their continuation. Whilst most of our time is spent in the ring as the sheep are judged, we always manage to sneak off to other parts of the show too, having a tradition of spending our winnings on a pot of local honey. For me though, there are two main attractions; the horse section and the food hall.

I always enjoy watching the skill and nerve shown by the show-jumpers as they fight it out for the fastest clear round, and there are endless debates to be had on which horse is the best regardless of it's rider. This year however, I was drawn over to the showing rings as a friend was competing in the 'Retrained Racehorse' Class which I thought was particularly testing seeing as they were doing a motorbike display in the next door ring. These sorts of places are the best if you like people-watching,  as well as the great friends you stumble upon, there are the proud owners and breeders, dodgy dealers, tweedy judges, pony club kids and a good few women who seemed to think it was a good idea to wear heels in a  muddy field.

These are probably the same women that actually buy the ridiculously overpriced artisan smoked meats on sale in the food hall, drawn in by the area's 'foodie status' as Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's hunting ground. Nonetheless, there are stacks of stalls with more affordable and equally mouthwatering products on offer to take home or just scoff straight away which I would definitely recommend; I plumped for a delicious duckburger with plum sauce from the 'Somerset Ducks' Company as my lunch of choice.

Naturally, the place is awash with every variety of cider imaginable and there is a substantial choice of dessert available too from local ice cream and frozen yoghurt to chocolate coated strawberries and homemade fudge in delectable flavours. The home produce tent is always worth a look as well; whether you find it's contents inspiring or amusing is up to you! There are competitions for the largest onions, most uniform trio of beetroot, most original edible objets d'art and the very best of local home brewing. The diversity of different infusions presented here amazed me in all their amber and ruby tones and I went home with a seed planted in my mind to make some of my own. I've collected a lot of berries and bought a lot of sugar, so watch this space...

The Transition

During my last 48 hours in Italy, I went from rags to riches as far as accomodation was concerned. My flight from Sicily arrived in Rome at 8pm so I was forced to stay there overnight, travelling on to Siena and then Pisa for my flight back to England the next day. Naively I had chosen the cheapest hostel I could find in close proximity to Termini train station, a mistake. I was a little too warmly welcomed into a grotty reception room by a man who seemed to think I was interested in paying for my room by other means. Having firmly established that I wasn't going to do so, I only felt slightly reassured to see other smiling twenty-somethings hanging around as I was shown to my room. Under the circumstances I would have preferred a dorm room, however I had to have a single seeing as I would unsociably be rising at five a.m the next day to catch the bus to Siena. The room itself smelt rotten and was full of mosquitos. I didn't want to be in there let alone sleep there. Luckily, a knock came at the door and it was a Dutch girl inviting me to spend the evening with her and a group of friends she had made whilst travelling in Italy. She swiftly introduced me to almost everyone else staying in the hostel, lent me some midge repellent and off we went for the Fontana di Trevi. There we shared a bottle of cheap white with two slovenian friends of hers whilst people-watching and sharing the similarities and differences between our lives and languages. As the evening deepened, the fountain was cleared for cleaning and we moved on to the Spanish Steps, mirthfully watching shiny great Mercs glide past Dolce & Gabbana. Two a.m stole up and we trudged back to our rooms, where I still couldn't sleep despite my tiredness.

Two and a half hours later I woke to the two alarms I had set, and crept out of the building to odd looks from the bin men. A taxi to the bus station and an awkward wait amongst the other lone early risers followed, I was asleep on my sore old feet but at least I had spent my last night of the year in Rome at two of it's most iconic places to sit and ponder. 

I slept for most of the journey, waking only for hazy glimpses of sunflowers and arriving back to my house for half past nine.

After a tearful day of stress, Violetta and Linda helped me lug my heavy cases down to the street but even so I managed to be late for the train and had to hurl myself and my bags down the platform at top speed, begging a family to help me lift them onto the train as stuff fell out of my handbag left, right and centre. I resigned myself to sitting on my suitcase by the doorway at all times as I couldn't move them any further, unfortunately these parts of the carriages were not air conditioned. 

So after three changes, it is fair to say that I arrived at Pisa Aeroporto looking slightly dishevelled and I didn't exactly fit in when I showed up at the VIP Lounge, my mother having treated me to a business class flight home courtesy of  an avios freebie. Still, the trick is to look as if you don't care, so I toddled over to the bar and made myself a Bellini, sat back and relaxed, finally.

The 'plane-food' was agreeable enough; a very British tray of beef stew, a selection of cheeses with quince jelly and some chocolate truffles served with an even more British amount of politeness. I slept soundly for the remainder of the flight, waking only for the captain's announcement that we had landed. However smoothly we had done so though, it always going to be a jolt for me mentally.

Having arrived, I set to comforting myself with the things that, strangely, I had missed from home during my year abroad. I drowned myself in golden syrup covered porridge, dripping lardy cake and honey - covered soda bread. The most quintessential thing ever was the afternoon tea we had with a friend, of clotted cream on home-made scones (from Mary Berry's 'Baking Bible') and strawberry jam, swapping stories of our european adventures over a pot of tea. The old french house was apparently coming along nicely and she had adopted a lost stone-marten kit for a short time.

I noticed the things I had previously taken for granted that one just doesn't see anywhere else. The rounded trees and hedges of our fields were in such contrast with the striking  cypresses that had shaped the tuscan landscapes. The un-embellished bones of English history such as Maiden castle, Hambledon Hill and Stonehenge were once again new to my eyes and our livestock brought fresh fascination as they peacefully grazed in the mist each morning.

While the sun has been out though, and we've had birthdays to celebrate, we've lived in the most mediterranean way that we can find time for. Granny has grown lots of zucchini whose flowers are my favourite antipasto of late, and we're holding out hopes for the cavolo nero she planted too, which is almost recovering from it's earlier caterpillar attack. Lunch in the garden is much encouraged by the cat  who adores it when we are outside, where Mum prepares lots of Italian specialities that she brought back from her last trip to Siena. For my birthday lunch we eat prosciutto and pecorino from the man in the funny hat at the Sienese market, bringing back fond memories, and we imitate as much else as we can with mozzarella, olives and basil bought here at home.

For my Mum's birthday dinner, I go to two brilliant books for inspiration.
Local Italian Anna del Conte's book on the 'Classic Food of Northern Italy' teaches me a failsafe summer dessert of nectarines stuffed with amaretti biscuits and baked. Then 'Polpo' gives me an amazing recipe for beet cured salmon on focaccia,  another for Campari cake with vanilla ice cream (which we wash down with the first spritzes that I have ever made myself), and another for lamb chump chops with caponata.

But here is one of my own everyday recipes, easily thrown together (especially if you happen to have a glut of these things in your garden) and instantly Italian, it can be eaten alone or tossed into pasta:

Pan-fried Zucchini with tomatoes and mint (for one)

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
2 shallots/1 onion
1 courgette
a handful of cherry tomatoes
a handful of fresh mint
1 lemon/orange
salt and pepper to season


heat the olive oil in a frying pan and sweat the shallots over a medium heat. chop the courgettes into thin rounds while this is happening, and add them to the pan when the shallots are getting soft. When you find that the courgettes have swallowed up all of the oil and are sticking uncomfortably to the pan, add the juice of your lemon or orange and the halved tomatoes to remedy the situation and ensure nothing gets burnt. When the skins of the tomatoes are just beginning to wrinkle, take the pan off the heat and stir in your seasoning if needed and a handful of chopped mint which will wilt with the heat of the vegetables alone.

The length and depth of Italy

Going to Trento was the beginning of the end. Once I was there, racing my last Italian 800m of the year, I knew that I wouldn't really stop travelling until I was back in Dorset, England. As I looked out of the car window, Tuscany's soft cloud like mountains vanished and became dramatically green and vertiginous on either side of the motorway, like raw emeralds jutting from the uniform rows of vines that clothed the valley floor. The roofs of the houses were different, to cope with the snow and there was a northern simplicity to the architecture. Most people that didn't speak Italian spoke German instead, and 'speck' featured heavily on the menus. Post-race, Trento's historical centre was almost deserted as we wandered the pretty streets looking for a bar in which to console ourselves with a negroni or two, laughing off our tactical blunders. The next day we were back in Siena, and all of a sudden I found myself having to say  goodbye to my companions, and it seemed the cat had got my tongue.

My next stop was Rome where I met up with some great friends of mine and in turn, their great friends. We ate a casual supper of biscuits, cheese and salami with a good slug of Campari to accompany it; the perfect partner to our lengthy evening's conversations. It was all over too quickly as we wolfed a pitstop farewell lunch the next day in Trastevere. At the Osteria ditta Trinchetti we gorged ourselves on figs with hot stringy scamorza and crispy prosciutto accompanied by a very refreshing glass of house white that really merited more time than we were able to give to it. Sad but sated, I scurried off to the airport in search of Sicily.

As I flew further  and further south, the heat of the sun became visible on the water and my smile broadened by the second. I was welcomed at first by a gelato at the side of the road from Marta's father who had just the same youthful good  humour as Marta herself. Then by Briciola the terrier's kisses, and then again by a huge dinner prepared by Mamma Pellegrino including the most wonderful parmigiana di melanzane that concealed boiled eggs amongst it's rich layers. That night, Gianpiero insisted on picking us up in his truck after dinner, and carted us off to his friend Fausto's house where we drank salted coronas with green lemons picked straight from a tree that hung over our shoulders. After a swift introduction to the Sicilian dialect by the 'picciotti' (boys), we headed off to an unknown destination, down a long and uneven dirt track. Eventually we arrived into a moonlike landscape, isolated and illuminated only  by the plethora of stars carpeting the sky; the 'Punta Bianca'. Out we clambered and flopped down onto the undulating white clay, where we rested for hours trailing our feet in the translucent black water and absorbing the silence.

The following days passed in an equally beautiful and typically Sicilian manner. Taking lunch with us from the bakery across the road, we would go off exploring on the moped taking care to park it in the shade so as not to grill ourselves on our return. Thus we spent afternoons at the beach, watching through the cut glass waves as fish swam about our feet, falling asleep to summer songs and daubing our bodies with the recurring white clay, this time found at the Scala dei Turchi. We ate out at a local pizzeria with friends, where I chose the delectable combination of pesto, sun dried tomatoes and rocket as my topping to be followed by a palate-cleansing lemon sorbet.

A family dinner on the balcony one evening provided me with ample opportunity to practise my Sicilian to raucous laughter as we feasted like kings. Barbecued meats were piled high onto the plates and we painted on  the dressing with a sprig of rosemary. Grilled zucchini, roasted balsamic peppers and stuffed tomatoes complimented it perfectly. Watermelon and ice cream followed, with the grand finale being produced from the freezer in a slim, frosted bottle. Pale yellow and with a hand-written label, I knew that this was something special; home-made frozen limoncello cream to be poured into shot glasses as soon as we could manage to unplug the ice from the neck. I am hoping to recreate my own one day at home having been lucky enough to be told the family recipe.

Another time, grinning mischievously, Marta's father brought home a roasted chicken and a beautifully wrapped square parcel which he quietly slipped into the fridge. Dolci! The famous cannoli stuffed with fresh ricotta, dipped in pistachio and cherries and every other confection possibly able to be constructed with ricotta, pastry and almonds were set before me as the family regarded my every mouthful with satisfaction and insisted that I try everything.

Having been shown around the old Agrigento, seeing the schools, piazzas and churches so familiar to my friend, and the offices of the carabinieri where her father works, I was taken to the best Gelateria in town, 'Le Cuspidi'. There I went against all of my purist notions about ice cream flavours and plumped for a decadently creamy  and over the top scoop of 'cheesecake'. This fuelled us for an evening stroll at the Valle dei Templi, whose ancient floodlit pillars stand out from afar but grow ever more breathtaking with every stride taken towards them. At dusk is the very best time that one can go to see the temples of Giunone and Concordia as the view from the hills, the dramatic sun setting and the balmy temperature combine to make a truly incredible atmosphere. The addition of a huge bronze torso in the classical style of polish sculptor, Igor Mitoraj, only enhances the scene.

That evening we drove shorewards on the 'motorino', our dresses fluttering in the warm breeze, to San Leone, the hub of local nightlife. Dinner was the first stop, at the best fish restaurant there is, 'Trattoria Il Pescatore' where a friend of Marta's works and personalised our platters with balsamic names. Never have I tasted fresher seafood and so I savoured every mouthful of tender squid and nut-encrusted bass. When we arrived at the bar quarter, the car park was alive with lights, music, chatter with parked vespas being used as seating. Extravagant greetings were given every few paces as we twisted through the throngs and over to the bar, everybody appearing to know everybody somehow or other. Later on, the party moved onto the beach where people danced and sang at the kiosks to well known Italian songs that I had never heard before.

Marta would catch me at times, knowing that I was contemplating my departure, and smile sympathetically. On the last day, the smell of freshly crushed basil and pine nuts greeting us as we returned home for lunch didn't make my leaving any easier and it was with a heavy heart that I boarded the bus back to the airport at Trapani. Marta's family had been the most welcoming and generous hosts and shown me so many beautiful things, I sincerely hope to be able to return the favour one day and also to keep on returning to Italy. I am thoroughly addicted and now I am going to have to go cold turkey for quite a while.