Sunday in Bristol, and Ice Cream with Rachel

[rhythmaning]

Sunday started much the same as Saturday; it was quite a nice morning. I lay in bed listening to the Archers, waiting for sounds of children to die down until it was safe to get up.

Toast and coffee, and then G said, let’s go to the pub. A typical English Sunday morning, then.

We went to the Cellar (?), what had once been Britain’s smallest pub – or was is Bristol’s? Whichever, I had been there before it was converted: it was basically someone’s front room, with a bar and beer; every student’s dream. Now, it had been opened up: the front room is still there, as a snug-bar, but there is lots of space out at the back, and there is even a beer garden – people were out there, despite the February chill.

We sat inside and read the papers; me, I drank diet coke, aware that I had to drive later in the day.

Walking back, G pointed out the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ temple; he pointed at the sign outside it, and said, you’d have thought they would get the apostrophe in the right place.

I looked at the sign. It read:Jehovah’s Witnesses. It is in the right place, I replied – one Jehovah, so it is singular. No, he said, many witnesses, so it is plural. G has known me more than half his life; he should know by now not to get into an argument with me, since I will be right. (I am.) He did English at Cambridge, too. Huh!

When we got back to the house, K was cooking roast chicken. Various children were running around, or sulking, or playing computers, or playing musical instruments, or, seemingly, doing several of these things at once. Mostly the running around bit, whilst sulking and playing a musical instrument.

One was dressed in a pale pink tutu, tights, and ballet shoes. She was performing in a children’s performance that evening in the Colston Hall; I had been invited, but I couldn’t go.

G (to a four year old): what are you doing?
Child: I’m waiting.
G: what are you waiting for?
C: I’m waiting for something to happen!

After lots of food (but no wine; the joy of driving), the kids decided everyone had to watch the Fantastic Four. So we watched the Fantastic Four. When I was a lot younger, the Fantastic Four was my favourite comic; my mother used to pick it up for from the newsagent-sweetshop on the corner of Well Walk and the High Street; it was Carnegies, I think (they used to make wine gums, and mint boiled sweets) as she returned home on a Friday night.

The world of my comic was nothing like the world of the twentieth-first century Fantastic Four; or maybe I just don’t remember.

I drove north in the winter twilight, listening to Andy Shepperd’s Soft on the Inside big band. I was heading to see a friend from university, Rachel*, who lives on the edge of the Malvern Hills. I had been there several times before, but never in the dark. I left the motorway, followed the road to a small village, and took the single road track out of it. I thought I was going in the right direction, but after a while, when I came to a junction, I couldn’t work out where I was on the map I had; the signpost didn’t match anything on the map. I phoned Rachel and told her what the sign said. Keep going then veer left at the next junction, she said.

I was there in about two minutes – it was absolutely the right road, and I was in completely the right place. Still, her tiny hamlet is not signposted anywhere.

Rachel and I studied botany together, and we were in the same college. This was quite something, since there were only a dozen or so botanists in our year (and that was a big year), so it was rare for two of them to come from the same college. (Botany had the highest ratio of faculty to students of any department – about two to one – and it was the most expensive undergraduate course you could do at the time, even costlier than medicine [although that wasn’t available as an undergraduate course – but you get the idea].)

Several years ago, Rachel decided to set up her own business; she wanted to do something, but didn’t know what to do. She liked real, home made ice cream; so she decided that she would make real, luxury ice cream – the kind of stuff that you would make at home, if you could be bothered; not the frozen fat that we commonly buy in shops.

She set up business by herself; her firm is called Just Rachel. She used to have a message on her answerphone that said, We can’t take your call just now… The other part of the “we” was her van.

She has been a great success: she has a steady business, and she has won a variety of awards; she was one of Rick Stein's “Food Heroes” in the book version of the tv show (unfortunately, she didn’t make it onto the tv version – print media only!). A few years ago, a couple of us spent a long summer’s evening trying out various different recipes Rachel was testing; it was delicious, but very rich – a little goes a long way.

Rachel mostly made ice cream for the restaurant trade, but recently she has branched out into retail. You can buy it in some shops, or online. Here is the website: http://www.justrachel.com/ - it contains a list of outlets. (Gratuitous plug over. Actually, no: the brown bread ice cream is really delicious!)

I hadn’t seen Rachel since my wedding; we missed each other last time she was passing through Scotland. It was good – and very easy – to catch up. We spent a pleasant evening, eating a rich gammon-and-lentil casserole thing, drinking wine, and eating a little bit of ice cream. It was scrummy.

This was the first time I had met Rachel’s new man; they have been an item for a few years, though he lives forty or so miles away, near the Welsh border. He is into food, into whisky, and climbs mountains, so we had a lot to talk about. After I had described the Scottish Malt Whisky Society and Valvona & Crolla, he was planning a trip north of the border.

It was a very good evening.

The next day I drove north again, a flying – driving – visit south. Lots more CDs (The The – though this time it was Dusk).

All in all, a great trip.

*You may have noticed that Rachel has a name. Everyone else who I have written about – unless they have an LJ user name – just has an initial. This is because, when I started writing this journal, my wife said I could only write about her if it was anonymous, and I reckoned that should apply to everyone else, too. Rachel, however, I promised I would plug; so I have to give her name, don’t I?

Comments

[itchyfidget.livejournal.com]

Sounds like fun. Particularly the part with whisky, good company and ice-cream (the kids bit, I can leave).