A meal worth 6 nights of sleeping on the ground for

We just got back from a(nother) camping holiday in Cornwall... no, I don't love camping that much, but it is cheap and it means you get to eat out if there is even a hint of bad weather - there is no way the camp stove will cope in this wind/rain/mist! My, isn't it getting dark? We can't possibly cook outdoors in the dark! Oh well, I guess we will have to eat at Rick Stein's. Or Fifteen.

We ate at the Seafood Restaurant one lunch, and it was possibly the most lovely meal I have ever eaten. But then again, anything remotely truffle-flavoured has me salivating in anticipation and my fillet of brill with potatoes and mushrooms was smothered in the stuff.

Fifteen was also a good experience, in a wholesome, supporting-local-produce, giving-local-people-valuable-work-experience kind of a way. Even the uniforms were really cute, fresh and funky, in true Jamie Oliver style.

I did manage to squeeze into my wetsuit on a few occassions - in between meals - and do some light body-boarding, but the conditions were wa-a-ay too rough for me to consider taking a surf board out. Surfing is a sport which requires total lion-heartedness to attempt and learn - it is no sport for namby-pamby knock-kneed wimps such as myself. I did manage to stand up for a bit in Venezuela a few months back, but soon after I copped a board in the face and ended up with a badly cut lip and a severely impaired "fearlessness" factor.

Just prior to cutting my face up, I had reached that rare state of mind (for me) where the combination of sunshine and cold water and adrenaline made me look at the board and think "I am going to tame this sucker!" and a swell of fierce grrl-power rushes into your veins. The thing about surfing is, you have to really, really want it in order to do it properly, if you know what I mean. It truly is an all or nothing sport.

And frankly? I would rather be watching those crazy death-wish surfers from the comfort of a good restaurant, relishing the fresh raspberries and licking white chocolate mousse off a spoon. Do I sound food-obsessed? Because I think I may have made the wrong career choice.

London Swelters In Summer Heat Wave

Wow. It's getting hot over here. Amazingly, the weather for our camping holiday in Wales was actually pretty good, with balmy-to-warm days and light-showery nights (except for that one night we camped through the longest, loudest thunder-and-lightening storm In The World). We even went swimming in our bathers on a couple of occassions. No matter that we needed resuscitation and silver blankets to resume breathing afterwards.

Wales itself was gorgeous - huge, practically empty beaches; massive sand dunes to run down; loads of beautiful walks where you found yourself tripping over ruined castles and ancient monuments (check out this 5,500 year old burial cairn); enough surfing and body-boarding to keep my knees and elbows nicely bruised; all with fresh air filling your lungs with every inhale. It's amazing (or maybe not so) that after living in London for so long, clean air actually seems to have a taste - and that taste is good. Almost as good as the raspberries and strawberries we spent picking one sunny afternoon on the farm where we were camping. But not quite as good as the home-made raspberry jam you could buy from the farm shop. Which, by the way, is best consumed on the day of purchase, spread liberally on a fresh, cloud-soft scone, with a generous dollop of clotted cream on top. Heavenly.

We also had a lovely piece of local bass from the fishmongers (so thats what non-supermarket-bought fish tastes like) which we ended up baking in the oven, after smoking out the entire apartment block with our "disposable BBQ" on the balcony. (Note to Self: naked flames and rental properties don't mix. Also: does it mean you are getting old when your best memories of a holiday are all food-related? Never mind).

Anyway, I also got to meet the Boyfriend's extended family - his paternal auntie, her welsh husband and two of their grown-up kids, at a lovely (if somewhat red-wine hazed) BBQ - the proper full-size, outdoor, established kind. She is a very talented print artist and makes a lip-smacking aubergine pickle.

All in all, it was a very good holiday. Ultra-relaxing, with enough surfing and coastal walking activity to prevent one's muscles from atrophying. I just wish I was still bobbing on the waves in Llangennith, with nothing to look forward to except a slightly smoky piece of delicious, freshly caught fish for dinner, with freshly picked raspberries for afters.

Camping, UK style

We are going camping next week, in Wales - a region famous for rain, sheep, leeks and welshmen singing rugby songs in the back of taxis. The 5-day forecast is looking depressingly bleak. This weekend is supposed to be OK (ie. mid-20's), but all of next week is blocked out by raining cloud icons. I have been trying to convince my boyfriend to book a last minute trip to Spain, or Greece, or France, or anywhere the sun is shining and there might actually be a small incentive to go swimming at the beach.

As it is, I hardly see the point of packing my boogie board and wetsuit if the weather is sure to be crappy. I did my time body-boarding-in-the-sleet; crying in the open-air changing rooms because my fingers were too stiff with cold to pull my wetsuit over my ankles; and I hope never to repeat it. Perhaps, if there was a possibility of a hot bath and a large bed at the end of it, I could throw myself in - but crawling through the mud into a freezing, tiny tent after spending the best part of the day submerged in an ice-cold sea doesn't appeal, for some ungodly reason.

Did I mention that we went camping during the Boscastle floods? Oh yes, we were out there, moving the tent to higher ground in the dumping rain (so that we were only under 1 foot of water instead of 2), getting soaked every time we had to leave the tent to use the bathroom, cursing the rainclouds and eating our meals at the local Tesco's.

Contrary to what you might expect, camping is huge over here. In fact, it is enjoying something of a renaissance (witness the Cath Kidston floral-patterned tent). The only teensy, tiny flaw in this UK-wide trend is that: 1. the weather is shit. 2. The weather really is shit and 3. I'm not joking when I say that the weather is shit. There are about 2 weekends in England where the weather is perfect for camping, and it is impossible to predict when those weekends will occur. So booking a camping holiday in advance is a really silly idea.

On the other hand, you can get on a plane and be somewhere ridiculously sunny and hot within a couple of hours...Boyfriend, if you are reading this, please take note. I am starting to weary of your insistence on camping in the UK. Please can we buy a caravan or some plane tickets? Please?