Westward Ho

We’re on our way to a friend’s 60^th birthday celebration in St. Ives, Cornwall. We could have driven there from Manchester in about eight hours but how enjoyable is that? We decided instead to allow five days – not by driving very, very slowly but by stopping off here and there to do some hiking and to visit various old friends living in Devon. It’s now day four and not everything is going to plan. The dinner party arranged by one of our Devonian pals has been cancelled because he is currently in hospital recovering from a heart attack; and so has the evening out with another couple due to one of them contracting a nasty virus. So far we have only managed a hurried meeting over coffee with a third couple - and much of our conversation was taken up with the subject of illness. Let’s hope our birthday boy remains in good health – at least until we reach St. Ives.

Otherwise the journey has had much to commend it. This part of England long ago developed a holiday industry dependent upon its landscape and agricultural heritage. Visitors seem to like the mix of soft green hills, wooded valleys, thatched cottages and rustic accents; the bleak moor-tops, cliffs, coves and sandy bays; the simple, hearty local produce such as clotted cream, pasties, seafood and scrumpy. For many of us these are the quintessential elements of childhood holidays - always associated with sunny summer days – and as adults we are drawn nostalgically back to the idyll, even though we know that it must be subject to a reality check from time to time: especially the sunny days.

Keen, therefore, to remind myself of some of those past pleasures I insisted that we stop at a cider farm at the earliest opportunity. I was aged 17 the first time I went, with my school-pal, to a Devon pub and asked for two pints of scrumpy. The landlord, a huge, unsmiling man, looked intently into my eyes and said “Scrumpy’s for the men”. We turned and scuttled off to a less principled establishment. But I’m over that now and the pretty young girl serving at the cider farm could not have guessed my journey from belittled beginner to confident connoisseur as she obligingly served me samples of the apple nectar.

“Which is the driest” I said “I like it very dry”.

“Well” she said “the Tornado: but may I suggest you try a couple of less dry ones first? It really is dry”.

“OK” I said, humouring her. What would a mere girl know of dry cider? Surely they like it sweet? She handed me a tot of the Farmhouse and stood back. My taste-buds, accustomed for so long to bland, industrially produced impersonations, sprang immediately to life; my nasal passages, hitherto quietly aspirating, stung now by sudden astringency, contracted sharply and, perhaps, visibly.

“Mmm. What else do you have?” I said, trying to maintain an aura of sophisticated appreciation.

“Well, the next one up is the Sheep Stagger. See what you think”.

This time I was more prepared. “Excellent”, I said, “but what about the dry one?”

“OK” she smiled as she poured the Tornado, though I did sense that she had not been fooled by my bluster.

There’s dry and there’s Tornado - but I was fully committed now and obliged to nod in appreciation while trying not to wince as I savoured the sample.

 I left the shop with four litres of Tornado, four of Farmhouse and four of Stagger - all in plastic containers of the sort normally used to hold industrial cleaning fluids. My manliness upheld – at a price – I am happy to declare myself pleased that traditional cider is still made and appreciated.

I have drunk most of the stuff but am saving some Tornado for the birthday after-party. It might just re-ignite memories – and more – for some of the older guests.