Martin Bell: my time in The Suffolk Regiment during the Cyprus Conflict

Martin-Bell

Martin Bell / Image contributed
 The former BBC journalist and Independent MP, Martin Bell appeared at the Theatre Royal on September 25 of last year. I’ve taken the liberty of re-publishing this Bury Spy interview where he speaks about his involvement with the Suffolk Regiment and his recent book about his National Service during the Cyprus crisis. I also take a look at the Suffolk Regiment Museum, housed in the Gibraltar Barracks in Bury St Edmunds.

The Suffolk Regiment was one of the great infantry regiments of the British Army. It finally disappeared, after 274 years of continuous service in 1959, after a service with distinction through two world wars and in many other conflicts including Cyprus.  Martin did his national service with the regiment in its final years and his latest book, End of Empire, serves as a worthy tribute about the regimental swansong spent on a tiny island fighting a conflict which people today still know very little about. Originally intended as a personal memoir, what we can now read is the story of the Suffolk Regiment via a period of active engagement by a man who has continued his close association with what he calls “the 12th of foot.” Indeed, as you study the Suffolk Regiment Museum vitrines displaying artefacts from the regiments final tour of duty in Cyprus, look closely and among them you will find photographs taken by a young Bell during his time in the Intelligence Service.  Taken for press purposes, they are of a young recruit called Tim Davis and Tim is now one of the museums senior volunteers after an illustrious 26 year career in the Army which saw him rise to the rank of Sergeant Major.

The Suffolk Regiment Museum and Friends was established in what was once the officers mess inside the red-brick Keep at Gibraltar Barracks. The museum documents over 274 years of military history and provides a vital contextual backdrop for modern day military conflict. Located on the Newmarket Road and next to the West Suffolk College which was built upon its once very extensive grounds, little remains of the original army depot which was originally built in 1878. Enter the museum and you will see the original site maps, tracing the former location of parade grounds and infirmaries, office buildings, munitions, vegetable patches and the extensive cellars which have not been explored to date.

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(Exterior of the Suffolk Regimental Museum) 

The Suffolk Regiment was formed in 1685 when King James II ordered the Duke of Norfolk to raise a regiment and include men from Norfolk and Suffolk, although the next century saw more of a Norfolk influence than a Suffolk one. The Regiment already possessed informal links with the Suffolk Militia and tended to depend upon them for new recruits but eventually the Cardwell reforms of 1873 formally recognised these links.

Cambridgeshire was then added to the recruiting area and the Depot of the Regiment was established at Bury St Edmunds where the barracks to house the Depot was built in 1878. However, the title of The Suffolk Regiment had been conferred earlier in 1881 and the West Suffolk Militia and The Cambridgeshire Militia became the third and fourth Battalions, respectively. By the end of the century, 90% of regimental men came from Suffolk whilst the forerunner of the Territorial Army, the Territorial Force, was formed in 1908. This strengthened county links, establishing the fourth Battalion throughout East Suffolk and the fifth Battalion in West Suffolk.

Martin Bell served as a soldier in Cyprus between 1957 and 1959 and a few years ago, as he rummaged through his attic, he rediscovered a chocolate box filled with more than one hundred letters written to his family by him whilst in service. Although he was not a journalist at that point, the letters appear to hint at his future profession because they serve as a subjective war report, giving valuable insights into the life of a young conscript, serving in a conflict that was poorly understood and sparsely covered by the British press. Those letters went on to underpin End of Empire and their descriptions of explosions and terrorism, cordons, searches, interrogations, and riots in the face of a repressive military response with roots in our old colonial history demonstrate why the strategy was doomed to failure. Hearts and minds this was not as EOKA fighters (Εθνική Οργάνωσις Κυπρίων Αγωνιστών / National Organisation of Cypriot Fighters) were treated like heroes and fêted on the streets of Nicosia which, to this day, remains a divided city.

Bell ended up falling out with his Regimental Sergeant Major but he acknowledges that a great deal of his National Service was ‘on the sunny side of tolerable’ and he received an education which was not only the best he had (even in the light of going up to Cambridge shortly after) but imbued him with a pride which has not faded as the years have passed. This is clearly apparent when I asked him about what audiences might expect when they come to see him at the Theatre Royal:

“I wrote this book about my time with the Suffolk Regiment at the very end of their tour,” he says.

” I had the idea to perhaps raise money for the theatre itself and to talk about the book and when I said “can I bring my band?”…They said, ‘band?’ and I replied, ‘of course I’ve got a band.’ I’m the president of the Suffolk’s concert band which inherits the traditions of the music of the Suffolk Regiment,” he added. “It’s going to be a mixture; I’m going to talk a bit and play some music, mainly military stuff and we’re going to recall the glory days of one of the finest regiments in the British Army.”

Bell is the son of ruralist writer Adrian Bell who lived and farmed in various locations in the county from Hundon and Bradfield St George to Beccles and he sent his son to school in Cambridge. The Suffolk’s were his local regiment when it came to the obligatory period of National Service that all healthy young men were required to submit to.

“In those days we had an army of 400,00 thousand strong and when I was eighteen years of age, a draft letter arrived requiring me to report to the Gibraltar Barracks in Bury St Edmunds on a certain day in June 1957 and serve two years with the Suffolk Regiment,”he said.

After his demob, he went up to Kings College, Cambridge where he read English, gaining a first class degree, and then joined the BBC as a reporter in Norwich in 1962, following his graduation at the age of twenty four. Three years later Bell transferred to London and covered his first foreign assignment in Ghana. The next thirty years saw him covering eleven conflicts globally, from Angola and Rwanda to the Middle East, a career that many might say was usefully underpinned by a peripatetic period of National Service.

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The Cyprus conflict seems to be a forgotten conflict, I say. So much of what happened there sounds pretty horrific and it also sounds familiar, reminiscent of the conflicts we face today. What can we learn from it?

“I think we have some lessons to learn from it. It’s a forgotten episode of our history, towards the end of empire.  We had 35,000 soldiers deployed in Cyprus, it was on rather a large scale and in and around Nicosia, the capital, we had four or five battalions. There were lots of us,” Bell replied.

“I was very fortunate that when I got to write the book I went through the National Archives and all the top secret documents of the time- exchanges between the governor and the colonial office- had been recently declassified and now we can tell the whole story. It’ s not something of which we can be especially proud although I think we soldiers did pretty well.”

That’s often the case isn’t it? The actions of those who execute the decisions of those in power tend to be ‘better’ than those of the decision makers

“That’s very true. I wouldn’t say that in the end we were successful. We held the line against the rebels of this organisation called EOKA, the National Association of Cypriot Fighters, until a constitutional compromise could be arranged and Cyprus could become independent but of course the independence didn’t hold and 14 years on the Turks invaded and Cyprus has been conflicted and divided ever since. So I don’t think we can put it down as one of Britain’s success stories.”

Is it true that some of the EOKA fighters are sueing the British government?

“Yes there are veterans who are, some were EOKA fighters , others were detained by the British under emergency powers and others, they are threatening legal action. They’ve been in contact with me but I said that I was was never more than a low grade operative: I was never more than an acting sargeant and what they were complaining about were interrogation techniques, especially, but these were usually done not by the army but by Special Branch.”

What was it like going up to Cambridge after doing your national service?

“I think that what happened, those two years, were the best education I’ve ever had. Better than three years at Kings College Cambridge. Of course, I couldn’t wait to get out of the army and my views were very much like those of the late great Peter Ustinov who served as a private  soldier and said that he hated the army like poison but he wouldn’t have missed it for the world. So I felt much the same.”

From time to time we hear calls for National Service to be brought back and championed as some kind of cure for crime and youthful miscreancy. One imagines that there was no crime at all during the period of history that it was in force, if we listen to the extravagant claims made for its return. Should we bring back National Service?

“I deal with this in my closing chapter of my book and I say there might some be a case for some form of civic or voluntary service but it could not be brought back in the form in which we experienced it because todays generation just would not stand for it,” Bell counters.

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Image: Suffolk Regiment Museum

“We were much more deferential, that generation. When our Sergeant Major said jump, we jumped. I think today they would say ‘why?’. I think even my Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) who is still alive at the age of 97 would not not be able to tear young people away from their Ipads. We did what we were told. It did us a lot of good but I don’t think its realistic to dream about bringing it back.”

Would you say that our sentimentality about the army risks masks the reality of an underfunded service where the mental health of veterans and serving soldiers is neglected?

“I am a supporter of Combat Stress and I think the armed services have turned a corner on this. I think they know it is out there and they are trying to erase any stigma attached to it. But we know that between the original bruising of the mind, usually in active service, and a soldier coming forward for treatment, there’s an average gap of twelve years. It’s no longer viewed as it used to be and it is viewed now as a hazard of service. Of course there have been many obviously life changing injuries in Iraq and Afghanistan but a soldier who has PTSD may not necessairly know it at that time,”said Bell.

You must have seen and been involved in events that many would find traumatising? What psychological support have you received from the BBC, I ask.

“None at all” he says emphatically. “But they did summon me to see the doctor now and again to see if I was okay but I have just been relatively lucky in that all my nightmares have not been about the wars I have been in but about losing my bags at Heathrow – much more mundane,” he laughs. Bell seems to come from a time when it was not done to seek counselling or expect it although he is not that much older than I am.

Martin Bell stood for election in 1997 as an Independent candidate on an anti-sleaze ticket against the sitting MP, Neil Hamilton. I ask him about his subsequent election and time as an Independent MP. I can imagine him taking a keen interest in the recent election of Jeremy Corbyn as Labour party leader and the problems that arise when the party rhetoric is defied by Labour party members and some of its own MPs.

“It’s still unrealistic to be elected as an Independent. There was only two of us, three of us in the last 15 years but what is happening now, I have noticed, is that there are many more independent minded MPs being elected and I welcome that, although it would be imposssible for the new Labour leader to insist on blind loyalty since he was a serial rebel himself. And no Labour leader has ever been elected to rebel against his own party so things are changing fast.”

Do you think we’ll ever have a crusading government, a government properly concerned with raising standards in their own house?

“I think it is important that the regulation of the House of Commons should be taken out of the hands of the House of Commons,” Bell is firm about this.

“And by the way, this [issue of expenses and MPs self regulation]  has been going on nearly 20 years now. They are incapable of regulating themselves and lessons have to be learned. Another thing, in the interests of MPs if they are accused of some wrongdoing, we seem to have a Gentleman’s Club looking after itself. If they had a proper regime of external regulation, that would be better for them and better for us,” he said.

Returning to the subject of his recent book, The End of Empire, I ask Bell about the writing itself and the research involved which appears extensive.

How long did the book take?

“It was a fun book to write and I got a lot of pleasure out of it. I discovered the letters in my attic at the beginning of last January (2014) and it was in the hands of the publishers by December.”

I’m intrigued by Bell’s account of another book about the Cyprus conflict called The Flaming Cassock. In End of Empire, Bell describes its author as “the most remarkable soldier I served under…who should have commanded the Battalion but did not” and a soldier whose command enhanced the Suffolk’s reputation for steadiness under the direst of circumstances.

“It was written by one of our officers, a wonderful man called Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Campbell who had already written a bestseller about the Malayan emergency of 1950 titled Jungle Green,” Bell told me.

“He was commissioned by Field Marshal Sir John Harding to write a book  about what Harding thought was a winning campaign and it very nearly was. Then in December 57, Harding was succeeded by Sir Hugh Foot who was not a soldier but a conciliator and he thought that this book which by then was finished would be an impediment to a settlement so he ordered it to be suppressed.”

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Foot’s reputation was as a liberal administrator and it was certainly hoped that he could play an important part in setting Cyprus on the road to self government within the Commonwealth. This in itself was very important because according to the Sandy’s Defence White Paper, Britain would no longer be able to maintain a large enough presence on the island to retain it by force. Foots attempts to conciliate a settlement that pleased both Athens and Ankara resulted in Cyprus descending into a downwards spiral of violence as the two communities railed against each other. It is clear, in retrospect, why the decision to redact Flaming Cassocks was made, regardless of the rightness of such a decision.

Bell is convinced of the importance of the book to future narratives of Cyprus and its bloody history.

“It [the book] has been resting under lock and key until I got it under the Freedom of Information in July 2014. It’s a marvellous story of the campaign against EOKA by a soldier with a real flair for language. And I think that if we can get it published it will be as important a contribution to the literature of Cyprus as Lawrence Durrell’s Bitter Lemons.”

Three copies are believed to have survived according to Bell’s book. Two are held in the National Archives at Kew whilst the third is an unedited text subjected to a sixty year gagging order meaning that it will be available to read after 2022. There is also an earlier draft which has been redacted under an eighty year restriction. The reasons for their suppression aren’t strikingly obvious considering the book was a commission from the governor, intended for publication as opposed to a sensitive government document, according to Bell. The file of documents relating to its suppression is over an inch thick apparently.

Are publishers interested in the book, I ask?

“We have only just started finding out because for a start we couldn’t find the family of Campbell because of course the copyright lies with them.

“Arthur Campbell died in about 1992/3 and we’re looking for the family now” Bell replies.

It is to be hoped that Campbell’s descendants are swiftly traced and agree to the books re-issuing. What seems to be clear is that between its pages lie a considerable contribution to not only the history of Cyprus but of British military engagement too.


 

Friends of the Suffolk Regiment.

St Edmundsbury Chronicle

A Home away from home: Anna Hope’s novel ‘The Ballroom’ has links with our own Suffolk history

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Picture: Mark Davis / Guzelian Picture shows the ballroom at West Riding Pauper Lunatic Asylum at High Royds Hospital, Menston, West Yorkshire. A photographic book entitled `Asylum’ has just been published and shows the work of photographer Mark Davis who has photographed derelict asylum’s round Britain and Ireland.
This feature was first published by The Bury Free Press in their print edition only and is reprinted here by kind permission.

Grand ballrooms are not the first thing that come to mind when we imagine the Victorian asylums of our recent past but a newly published novel by Anna HopeThe Ballroom, was inspired by her discovery old photographs of an ornate ballroom in a northern asylum, now fallen into disrepair. And whilst her story is set many miles away, in the Yorkshire Ridings, it has intriguing parallels with the old county asylum, once known as St Audry’s near Ipswich and the exhibition dedicated to it in Stowmarket’s Museum of East Anglian Life. After reading Anna’s novel and interviewing her for this feature, I realised that it was time to re-visit this local museum which has an exhibit about the old St Audry’s asylum and talk to Lisa Harris who is employed there as Collections and Interpretation Manager.

The St Audry’s Project tells the tale of the old St Audry’s Hospital in Melton, which began life as the Suffolk County Asylum in 1832, on the site of an old workhouse. When St Audry’s closed in 1993, its museum collection and archive were divided between various regional establishments. Since then, the Museum of East Anglian Life has been collating oral testimonies and working with local people to ensure that such an important and fascinating part of Suffolk history is not lost. Lisa explains the history of the collection and her involvement in it.

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Abbots Hall at Museum of East Anglian Life. Image: Museum of East Anglian Life

“The Museum of East Anglian Life was re-developing Abbots Hall and we wanted to look at the concept of home and belonging: home as in the people who themselves once lived in Abbots Hall; home as in being a proud Stowmarket girl, or a Suffolk person or even an East Anglian. We also wanted to look at different types of home, of which an asylum is one, and we knew we had the St Audrys collection which hadn’t actually been on public display before, to my knowledge,” she says

“All the archives that survived are based at Ipswich Records Office so this gave us a chance to talk about this whole element of life in Suffolk but also to link into the bigger picture and we were able to get funding from Comic Relief for this.

It is interesting that the collection came into being via the informal efforts of the staff who once worked at the hospital and I ask Lisa about this.

“The collection came here originally because it was in the teaching section of St Audry’s, housed in the attic. When they became a teaching hospital in the 1950s different staff gradually gathered items such as clothing, farm equipment and patients belongings and created a museum on site. But when the asylum closed in 1953, there was concerns as to where all of this might go. Some of the more medical items went to the Science Museum in London, a lot of it went to Felixstowe Museum and the rest came here”, she explains, sweeping her arm around the room lined with glass vitrines containing the tokens used as part of a patient-goods exchange system, the books and records, carefully inked in black fountain pen, pairs of spectacles, thick hard-to-rip nightgowns and decks of cards.

There’s staged vignettes too: a hospital screen has become an art installation where people have attached labels inscribed with the stigmatising language used to describe mental illness and the people who experience it. ‘Mental’, ‘schizoid’, ‘mental enfeeblement’ are starkly stamped on paper luggage tags and there’s a bed and bath with restraints in one corner plus the recorded voices of former staff who talk of their own lives there, often in a pronounced Suffolk burr. As visitors move slowly around the room, these voices fill the air, bringing the room to life.

Conducting research such as this can be made challenging by the stringent rules which control access to patient records: By law, a 30 year closure period is applied to administrative and committee papers, 80 years for student and staff records, and 100 years for personal medical records. This means the most important voices of all – that of the patients- are missing. Both Lisa Harris and Anna Hope emphasise the importance of that patient voice and the ways in which they sought it out for their respective endeavours.

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Anna Hope: author of The Ballroom

The voice of the patients in The Ballroom are vivid, born in part from the many hours of research its author put in, as Anna Hope explains. “Their [the patients] voices do break through too, particularly in the casebooks. I read extensively in the casebooks of High Royds for the period in which the book is set, and the patients jumped vividly from their pages; even the act of holding the casebook in my hands was powerful: the marbled covers, the smell of age, the photographs of the patients, and their own words, erupting into the present, making themselves heard.” Anna skilfully combines her research with the imagination of a fiction author, managing to avoid the trap that many authors fall into, of circumventing the objectivity of historical data to such a degree that accuracy suffers.

“We decided our exhibition would only go up to the 1920s because we can’t access any of the records after that date so why try to tell a story that isn’t out there yet in purely historical terms?” Lisa points out. “Our concern was telling that historical story in the hope that people can learn from it. And that maybe we don’t make the same mistakes in the future that we made in the past…or in the case of something has worked well, we’ll take that and work out how we can take that forward now. We’re trying to do sessions with medical professionals because in order to tell the story you’ve got to have some understanding of the terminology and the treatments. I’m not a medical expert, my understanding  is of curating and preservation: woodworm and rust!” She laughs. “I need to be able to point people in the right direction to get greater understanding, and to properly explain the context”, something which served her well when later on in our chat,  Lisa tells me about her encounters with some artefacts which appear to have a sinister purpose.
In 1832, when St Audry’s was called  The Suffolk County Asylum for Pauper Lunatics, Dr John Kirkman was appointed Medical Superintendent  and his reports and those of the doctors following him show a mind remarkably in tune with some of today’s philosophies of what constitutes good mental health care. The concept of an asylum as a home from home was central to his management: “Drugs are of course necessary in some cases, but moral treatment is essential to all and this is obtained chiefly by means of employment, amusement, pleasing associations and cheerful surroundings which act as medicine to the deceased mind” said the 50th Annual Report, back in 1888″  and the hospital became a self-sufficient community which nonetheless had strong ties to the village of Melton. Dr Kirkman couldn’t be more different to Dr Fuller, one of the narrators in Hope’s book.

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High Royds Hospital, Menston, West Yorkshire.

The Ballroom is Anna Hope’s second novel and it begins with the arrival of Ella Fay at the Sharston asylum in 1911. She is sent there because, after railing against the lack of light in the textiles mill where she works, she snaps and breaks one of the windows- a socially transgressive act in the eyes of her employers and her colleagues, albeit perfectly understandable and rational to us. John Mulligan is already a patient at Sharston, an Irishman suffering from depression provoked by the death of his daughter and his wife’s subsequent abandonment of him. When Ella and John meet at a Friday night dance in the asylum’s beautiful ballroom, they embark upon a slow-burn of a relationship, marked by surreptitious meetings outdoors and smuggled letters and encounters in the wild, expansive Yorkshire moors.

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The Ballroom by Anna Hope

Overseeing their care and to a certain extent, their fate, is Dr Charles Fuller, an ambitious yet inadequate medic who becomes slowly obsessed by the growing eugenics movement which advocated the social control and compulsory sterilisation of the poor and anyone with a mental illness or learning disability. In 1908, the newly appointed home secretary, Winston Churchill, was determined to solve the problem of what he referred to as  the“feeble-minded” – anyone who was deemed unable to self-determine. Churchill’s views on compulsory sterilisation crystallised and he began to circulate pamphlets on the subject among the cabinet. The Eugenics Society grew increasingly influential and in 1913 the Mental Deficiency Act established powers to incarcerate the “feeble-minded” in specially-built asylums. As we see in John and Ella’s story, the sexes lived separately and only met in strictly monitored meetings, in their case, the weekly dance and these impending laws threaten their relationship and very existence, in John’s case.

I asked Anna Hope about the clear parallels with todays social and political situation, not just in the UK but across Europe too, where cuts to health and social care have disproportionately impacted upon the poor and the mentally unwell and the language used to justify government policy has become ugly. “The welfare state; universal healthcare, access to education and greater social mobility are being eroded daily. Not just that, but I feel something even more insidious taking place; poverty has shifted in my lifetime from being something that should be ameliorated by a healthy government and society, to something that is perceived as the fault of those who find themselves poor. I think this is deeply dangerous and beneath the cuts to child benefits for instance, amongst many other cuts, there’s a disturbing echo, as you say, of eugenic policy,” she says.

As for the long view, Anna emphasises the importance of re-visiting the recent past in order to learn from it. We must guard against rose-tinted historiography too. “I think it’s a good time to look a little into our past and see what we were capable of” she says. “Churchill, for example, has been very well served by history, and for good reason, but if you look at his language as home secretary in 1911, in its insistence on ‘racial purity’ and the threat to the race from social degeneration it’s really not so very far from Hitler’s a few decades later.”

Do you think we lost as much as we gained from the abolition of the asylum system with regard to the purest meaning of the word? Have we forgotten that sometimes, some people do need a place of asylum while they recover, I ask Anna.

“That’s a really great question. Before I started researching I think my preconception, from reading lots of novels, about the Victorian and Edwardian asylum system was that once you were there you were there for life and the key was thrown away. Reading the casebooks gave me a different picture; there were many women for instance who were suffering from exhaustion or what sounded like post-natal depression, and who must have been working all hours in the mills or similar places, who simply needed a place to rest” she says.
“Following their stories in the casebooks I was really surprised and happy to read how many of them improved steadily over time with decent food, and rest and time away from work and families”, Anna adds. “So the asylum began to be a more nuanced, complex environment, not just this bleak, monolithic place from which no one ever emerged.”
Lisa Harris concurs with this and addresses some of the common stereotypes and misconceptions people held and still hold about an admission to an asylum. “A lot of people come to us and say “I’ve been tracing my family tree and I think I’ve found someone who was in an asylum and they get worried about this” she states, then looks back at her own initial reactions when she began looking through the St Audrys collection in the early days of developing the exhibit at the museum.
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The ‘Home From Home’ exhibition at Museum of East Anglian Life
“When I started this, I didn’t know very much about asylums at all and the first thing I found was this set of branding irons,” she says, pointing to a set of narrow branding irons displayed in a glass case. “Now the first thing that went through my head and our Learning Officers head was ‘Oh no, they branded the patients,  that is awful!’, but as we went on, we thought this cannot possibly be true. We had an over-active imagination and I do give a talk about the implications of this [for historical research]. But, in the light of the restraints we also found it was an understandable assumption and we were really pleased when we discovered the hospital had its own farm!”, she laughs wryly.
How many of us have assumed patients never left once admitted and lived in social seclusion, isolated from local villages, a source of fear, prejudice and trepidation to the locals? Not necessarily so, according to both Lisa and Anna although it would be naive to assume that the patients lived free from this. People with mental illness still have to negotiate the impact of stigma, whether this be socially, occupationally or politically [usually all three] and this prejudice is deeply rooted in the past. Lisa tells me more about St Audry’s and its position in the local community.
“The hospital was like a little city and the whole village of Melton relied on St Audrys. There was an overseeing of the patients as they went into the village and people were protective of them. That’s what humans do, what they should do. Look at the Second World War and how we cared for people. Would we still do that today? I hope so…” she says, quietly and goes on to touch upon the misconceptions many of us have about asylums whilst also warning against adopting a rose-tinted view of life in one.
” My concern was always that I would look at this with rose tinted glasses because its really easy to do that but the more you talk to people and the more stories you hear, you think actually, I’m not rose tinting it.And I spent months reading the medical records, and they are obviously written to sound good but as you read them you realise that on the whole, these people really did care and they wanted the patients to get better.”
You hear a lot of stories” Lisa smiles, warming to her theme. “St Audrys was a home for unmarried mothers- which was not necessarily true-and it was likely a misunderstanding of postnatal depression. People say ‘they went in and never came out.’ Well, the research I did showed that unless there was an issue with other illnesses like dementia or epilepsy for example, which weren’t really understood back then, people were admitted and usually came out within two years.”
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This bath was used for psychiatric treatments: from the ‘Home From Home’ exhibition

 

Anna tells me, that same lack of medical knowledge meant that “it certainly wasn’t a great time for mental health-care” and expands upon this. “I’d argue that it was perhaps a little better than the age of lobotomy and experimentation that came not so long after the First World War. When you look at the records for the pre-World War One asylums there were very few drugs used on the patients, which meant that many suffered without remission but also that they were awake and alive in a way that later patients perhaps weren’t allowed to be.” Certainly the discovery of Chlorpromazine in the fifties led to its being described as a chemical cosh and many people suffered from its terrible sedating side-effects.

And what of the ballroom which first inspired Anna Hope to write her novel? Well, interestingly I also discovered that St Audry’s had a ballroom too which is, for me,  one of the most unexpected counterpoints to the stereotype of an asylum as a dour and crepuscular place- all worthy, joyless therapies and rigid monitoring. I also discovered that ballrooms were common in Victorian mansions from the 1880s until around 1920, and these mansions were, after all, family homes which links beautifully to Dr Kirkman’s belief that St Audry’s should replicate the home as much as possible and be filled with activities and things that were not merely useful but also stimulated the patient aesthetically.

“The more we looked into it, the more we discovered that St Audrys acted as a home away from home and this was all of the principles that Dr Kirkman put into place about being able to step out of your day to day life and the drudgery and issues that worried you,” Lisa says.

“If you had a mental illness, [although obviously these illnesses were understood in a different way to how we interpret them today], you then could be taken somewhere that was safe. You could be kept warm, you could be fed and given the chance to keep yourself clean but also, be given something that would keep your mind active. So being involved in day to day running- making clothes, helping with washing, on the farm,. It kept you busy and gave you the time to heal, I suppose”, she adds, and her words very much reflect the  St Audry’s 28th annual report of 1865 which reports, in the purple prose of the Victorian age,”the admission is in dark insanity, the discharge in bright reason and  light.”

Interestingly, in The Ballroom, Dr Charles Fuller, is initially keen to encourage his patients to enjoy dance and music, playing the piano for them in the dayroom and when he is introduced to the new Ragtime music emanating from New Orleans by a local music-shop employee he attempts and fails, to embody its joyful and less boundaried spirit. I held my breath as I read this because Charles is as imprisoned, in his own way, as some of the patients but fails to recognise this and I really hoped he might break free. The psychic struggle he becomes embroiled in is something I asked Anna about, especially with regards to his lessening empathy for his patients and increased ‘othering’ of them in line with his belief that eugenics is the way forward. “I thought it was dramatically more interesting if he was deeply in denial about his own demons and desires. I think perhaps it’s impossible to become the sort of character Charles does without deep suppression of one’s empathy,” she says, something which chimes with Dr Kirkman’s own beliefs about how to care for the mentally unwell, some of which are inscribed on the walls of the exhibit in the Museum of East Anglian Life. “No restraint can be employed which is so powerful as tenderness. Watchfullness, activity, gentleness and that peculiar tact acquired by long training to replace contests of strength between patient and keeper.

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Vitrine containing nurses uniforms from St Audry’s hospital
Lisa is privy to the reactions of visitors to the St Audry’s exhibit.” I’ve come in and there have been groups of people in here and they start a conversation along the lines of ‘Oh, we worked at St Audrys and it was really like family, with everyone looking out for each other. Generations of the same families worked there” she explains. “Dr Kirkman started the hospital in the 1800s but his ideas and principles carried right on through.”
“We did a survey a couple of years ago” she adds, “and since we’ve opened, the St Audry’s exhibit has seemed like a room where people feel the need to come in and be quiet and we’re not that kind of museum, not a quiet museum really! But the survey said that people felt they needed to talk to each other about it and our work has opened up ways for them to do this.
“It has encouraged adults and children to talk about mental health.”
Sadly, it has been more challenging to encourage patients to come forward, the latter more understandably. “We struggle to get in touch with people who once were hospitalised” says Lisa. “We’ve done appeals but they don’t necessarily want to talk about it.”
There is pain here, I comment. Lisa nods. “This  exhibit has made our team more aware of mental health  issues, and more aware of how we each have our own needs. I think its one of the most exciting projects I’ve ever worked on.”

The Ballroom is out now. 

The Museum of East Anglian Life website.

Related links: an oral history of a Suffolk psychiatric hospital

Museum images courtesy of The Museum of East Anglian Life, except where indicated.

Image of The Ballroom book cover, Anna Hope, the High Royds hospital, courtesy of Anna Hope/Transworld publishers.

The header image of West Riding Pauper Lunatic Asylum is courtesy Mark Davis / Guzelian

 

Spring books: reviewed

There’s some really good book releases this spring, rippling with themes universal to us all from parenting and childhood discoveries to the impact of seismic news events and difficult personal choices. Landscape, travel and nature writing is particularly strong this spring and I have chosen books by writers who transcend this genre, weaving together fact and the psychology of place, time and person, creating a conscious form of historiography.

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A few of my favourites are set in the American south, and some of you will know that I have a particular yen for the darkness, quirk and rich history of this part of the world. Chandler Alexander’s The Makings of a Fatherless Child is one such story, a compelling coming-of-age tale of a young boy, Amel River who lives in the Mississippi Delta. He contends with a broken home, poverty, a lack of a father and a voice in his head that won’t go away. Whilst stretching his neck towards adulthood, he is aided by a variety of interesting characters which include a two year old child and a drunken stranger. And where would a story set in the Delta be without a drunken stranger? Out now. 

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My second novel is  GodPretty in the Tobacco Field by Kim Michelle Richardson, a story which laces beauty, love and sweetness with the hardscrabble existence of tobacco farming in Kentucky during the dying days of the sixties. Ruby Lyn Bishop was orphaned at five years of age but has lived since then with her God-fearing uncle Gunnar. As she passes her sixteenth birthday, she is beset with dreams and wishful thinking about her own fortunes after years of making intricate paper fortune-tellers for the townsfolk.If you are a lover of intricate plots set over a small period of time and adore the southern sense of place, this book is for you. Out April 26th.

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Fans of Helen Simonson’s first novel, Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand, have been eagerly awaiting her next novel and in The Summer Before The War, we can once again enjoy the quietly moving and capable storytelling that made her first book so enjoyable. It’s 1914 and the last days of a beautiful Edwardian British summer in East Sussex but a stranger is about to arrive in the village. When Agatha seeks to engage a woman as the new Latin teacher, Beatrice Nash is the result, and she is far more free of thinking – and attractive – than anyone believes a Latin teacher should be. As the village prepares for the Great War, other conflicts rise to the fore as some very British traditions are tested. Out March 24th.

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All families have their myths and legends and when your family is well-known, sorting out the truth from hyperbole and hagiography can be very challenging. The Nicholson family are well-versed in telling their own story and now it is Juliet Nicholson’s turn in her book,  A House Full Of Daughters. She converts her previous acceptance of her complicated family history to intricate, questioning research and in the process, tells a vivid story which roams from Malaga in Spain to the salons of fin-de-siècle Washington DC; from an English boarding school during the Second World War and sexy Chelsea in the 1960s to the bankrupt, and decrepit New York City in the eighties. Then there’s the Nicholson women: her flamenco dancing great-great-grandmother Pepita, the flirty manipulation of her great-grandmother Victoria, the infamous eccentricity of her grandmother Vita and her mother’s Tory-conventional background. This is a delicious book. Out March 24th.

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Onto a different house and two different families in The Two Family House by Lynda Cohen Loigman, where, on a snowy Brooklyn night in 1947, two women, sister by marriage and friends by choice, give birth. Helen and Rose are married to brothers Abe and Mort and the two families share a brownstone. Tightly wound around an explosive secret and with complex family dynamics which become known to us over a long period of time, the multiple perspectives can at times feel a little unbalanced but on the whole, this is a highly readable and deft exploration of family life. Out March 8th.

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This new anthology of previously published writing by Pulitzer Prize-winner Annie Dillard is the sum total of a woman who is relentlessly and forensically alive and in The Abundance, Dillard shines a beautiful light on the everyday, asking us to drop our casual acceptance and re-engage anew with the world around us. She makes us notice through the application of her poets soul, philosophers mind and artists pen and enchants via words which pin down a series of images onto the page: lunar eclipses, leaves, moths to flames and the magnificent sight of birds in flight all catch her eye, and, in turn, ours. As we read, she tasks us to ask ourselves why, how, where and what does the minutiae of my own place in the natural world mean to me? If you’ve never read her, this is the perfect introduction to a writer who is admired by landscape and nature writers everywhere. Out April 7th.

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In Rain, Melissa Harrison explores the relationship we have with the weather as she follows the course of four rain showers, over four seasons, across Wicken Fen, Shropshire, the Darent Valley and Dartmoor. Particularly pertinent to the British who enjoy a good conversation about the weather, Harrison weaves a meditative pathway through all manner of ologies and disciplines: botany and biology; literature and philosophy; geography and psychology to gently encourage us to engage with rain instead of merely grumbling about it. Also included is a meteorological glossary with common terminology such as cloudburst (“sudden, intense rainfall of short duration”) and the esoteric regional words for all things watery from the skies, similar to that employed by Robert MacFarlane in his recent book, Landmarks. Her level-headed gaze ranges from the earthly: germinating seeds and rain-sodden earth, to the sensory [and scientific] delights such weather causes. Her contemplation of petrichor- the particular aroma after a rain shower is particularly delightful. Coined in 1964 by Australian scientists studying the smells of wet weather, petrichor is derived from two chemical reaction when oils secreted by plants during dry periods are released into the air because of rain. Chemicals produced by soil-dwelling bacteria known as actinomycetes are also released and these two aromatic compounds combine to create petrichor. If you aren’t thoroughly charmed and intrigued by this, then I can’t help you.

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I adored The Language of Baklava, Diana Abu Jaber’s previous memoir and in her new memoir, Life Without a Recipe, I am re-acquainted with her funny, warm and poignant writing about creating a family on one’s own terms. As Diana honestly acknowledges, building confidence in one’s own path sometimes takes a mistaken marriage or two—or in her case, three and there are many rows between Bud, her flamboyant, spice-obsessed Arab father and Grace, her sugar-fiend of a German grandmother. Bud and Grace could not agree on anything to do with Diana and her life choices, whether they be food, family, who to love and how to love. Caught between cultures and lavished with contradictory “advice” from both sides of her family, Diana spent years learning how to ignore the well-intentioned prescriptions of others and forging her own, at times imperfect, path. Out April 18th. 

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Going to NYC soon and want to find out more than the best place to shop? The Chronicles series takes a look at the history behind some of the most fascinating cities in the world and now they have published an edition about this most famous of cities. Each book introduces the major characters that shaped the city, then offers comprehensive walking tours to bring its words to life. In Chronicles of Old New York: Exploring Manhattans Landmark Neighborhoods, author James Roman,  a native New Yorker, walks us around the many neighbourhoods and amuses us with anecdotes about those quirks of history that have helped shape the city such as which park lies over a sea of unmarked graves. The inclusion of historical maps and photographs helps bring visionaries, risk-takers, dreamers, and schemers such as John Jacob Astor and Gertrude Whitney to life, showing how they left their mark on a city and continue to shape its development after their deaths. Out April 1st.

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Helen Stevenson’s memoir Love Like Salt is a poignantly beautiful account of what it is like to be the mother of Clara, a child with a chronic illness. Despite the sadness of her daughters diagnosis of cystic fibrosis, this is an uplifting book which describes how Helen and her family are able to triumph over adversity in many forms. Helen is a translator and she uses her own profession to reinterpret the strange landscape of biology and illness. The story is set against a backdrop of music and art and literature which soars over and beyond the confines of the CF diagnosis and the bullying her daughter experiences at school in France. The family moves back to the UK which is where we leave them, all of us cautiously optimistic that Clara will continue to prevail over this awful disease which, as of yet, remains incurable. Out now.

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Remaining with the mother and daughter theme but fictional this time, Jennifer S Brown’s debut novel, called Modern Girls, takes us to New York City in the thirties, at a time when national socialism is on the rise in Europe and women of all ages are starting to define themselves outside of the home. It’s 1935 and Dottie Krasinsky is the epitome of a modern woman, employed as a bookkeeper, a boyfriend in tow, but living still with her Yiddish parents. When she becomes pregnant, she has to face the fact that her options are still very limited. Then there’s Dottie’s mother who is dying to get back some of the fire in her belly, lost to years of childrearing. Her own situation bears uncomfortable parallels with her daughters when she too faces an unwanted pregnancy. Brown has written an eminently readable ages-and-stages story, set in a time when greater freedom and choice loomed tantalisingly close for women. Out April 5th.

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Learning about experiences far removed from my own particularly appealed in Anju Joseph’s The Living, although its themes of discipline through work, the pleasures and rewards of long-term friendship and the tension between the joy and tedium of family life are universal. Claire is a young single mother working in one of England’s last surviving shoe factories, her adult life formed by a teenage relationship. Arun, an older man in a western Indian town, makes hand-sewn chappals at home. A recovered alcoholic, now a grandfather, he negotiates the new-found indignities of old age while returning in thought to the extramarital affair he had years earlier. This is a novel which rewards you for looking closer until you can clearly see the eddies and currents that lie beneath waters that seem, upon first glance, to flow seamlessly. Out now.

I have linked to the authors own page, or to the publishers because I will not link to Amazon. Please order these books through your local booksellers, where at all possible. They need our support and our love. All reviews are honest and have not been solicited.

Coming soon: the best food writing and cook books this spring. 

 

 

 

 

Pierced

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To pierce or not to pierce?

Is it wrong to pierce a babies ears? In this piece, I write about my experience of having my ears as a small child and the impact this had. 

As a small child,  I emigrated to Mexico and I lived there for a number of years, masquerading as a proper little Catholic school girl, attending nursery and then moving up into the school proper. I stood out like a English sore thumb when I arrived: I was pale and subdued with bone-blonde hair, blue eyes and un-pierced ears and wore a Ladybird dress and neat patent Mary Janes, neither of which coped very well with the dust and sand of the Chihuahuan Desert. My naked earlobes caused the local people the most concern though: they marked me out as a gringa far more than my blonde ringlets did.

The culture in Mexico both then and now is to pierce the ears of newborn girl babies, performed as soon as possible after birth because presumably it is easier than trying to catch and pin down an older, more mobile, and less compliant child. In most cases, babies actually leave the maternity clinic with pierced ears, the procedure carried out just days after their birth because a newborn will not tug at her sore ears nor interfere with the earrings. Once done and with screams quietened- sometimes after sucking on a honey-dipped finger- these baby girl children received their first gold in the form of tiny sleepers or gold studs and the giving of these in the months leading up to the birth is a common gift.

I was four when my parents decided to pierce my lobes, roping in a nun from my school to do it and I was understandably reluctant to have this nun grab me by the tender flesh of my ear and pin me face-down onto her black serge lap so she might push an ice-cold needle through my lobes. A cork from the freezer was held against the back of my ear, providing the necessary resistance for the needle to push against. The nun then threaded each hole with a length of black cotton and tied the ends of the threads into two small loops to keep them open. A few days later, the threads were replaced by plain gold studs because my parents probably  thought that earrings engraved with an image of the Virgin de Guadalupe were a bit too ‘Catholic’,  although these were a popular choice among my friends who called upon the saints to see them through the most unremarkable of life events.

This dour nun was far removed from the gentle Brides of Christ you might have watched in The Sound of Music and she demonstrated a firm grip and an even firmer countenance as she trapped me deftly between her knees to examine the shape of my ears whilst my parents held onto my thrashing arms. I briefly contemplated biting her plump little kneecap as she bent my head forwards then decided that the risk of Hell On Earth- as opposed to going to the real hell afterwards- was too much of a risk. I had already spent too much time locked in the dark and chalky art supplies cupboard for various minor classroom insubordinations (like being, um, four) and I wasn’t planning on spending more time in there with sore throbbing ears to boot.

Post-piercing, all I was allowed to wear was a tiny, uptight gold stud whilst my Mexican friends wore dramatic, passionate, ear jewelry that afforded them a bigger and more decorative space in the world. I was envious of my friend Susie’s black curls, brown skin and the chunky pair of carved gold arracadas hoops that danced in her ears: standing alongside her, I felt like a half-erased drawing. My discreet British-style studs rendered me a half-hearted participant in a rite much bigger than me and as a child, I squirmed over my competing cultural definition. My envy confused me, wrapped up as it was with resentment at my parents. I had failed to separate my feelings about the frightening method used to pierce my ears from the longer-term consequences and cultural significance of remaining the only un-pierced girl in my school. At times I hated my parents for forcing me to go through such an ordeal, I disliked the hassle of caring for my pierced ears yet I longed too, for something a little less waspy. Alone in my room at night, I would remove the studs and ‘lose’ the small gold ball that screwed onto the sharp post which threaded through my ear. The next morning, my mother, or Maria our housekeeper, would triumphantly produce one of many ‘spares’ and reinsert the earring, accompanied by scolding slaps and harsh words. It became a daily and unpleasant ritual until Maria sat me down and explained that when I was older it would be up to me but for now, I had to submit. She was sure that an extra cup of atole might be in line for little girls who weren’t put on earth to turn her waist-length black hair prematurely grey. Maria was just eighteen. 

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Arracadas do “Tesouro Bedoya”, expostas no Museo de Pontevedra.

My early teenage years were marked by a nascent feminism and I began to consider the psychological implications of having ones pain rewarded by jewelry and a sugary finger.  I thought about the fact that I underwent the same procedure without ‘enjoying’ the benefit of being too young to consciously recall it: it was very hard to forget my feelings of terror at being held down without real explanation of what was to happen. I found it hard to shake off the fear I felt when I realised that I had absolutely no say in it. The fact that ear piercing was performed by a nun made it even odder.

I lost interest in my earrings in adulthood, refusing to wear them as I started to regain jurisdiction over my body and began to reject everything that reminded me of my powerlessness in the face of my parents’ actions. It was in defiance of all that came after the parental neglect and abuse; the ongoing disregard of me as a person separate from themselves which was heralded by their turning a deaf ear against my pleas to leave my own ears alone. Eventually, I let the holes close up until all that remained was a thickened piece of tissue, a minute bulls-eye in the centre of my lobes. Slightly darker in colour than the rest of my ear, these were a reminder of things done and it became apparent that they would not fade and the damage would never be completely invisible. I had my own daughter and left her ears alone although when she was twelve she went through her own push-me pull -me as she tried to decide of her own accord whether to pierce. Six years later I had my son and left his ears alone too.

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Decades later, I’m attracted by the thought of the flash-trash clink of Creole gilt hoops as I shake my head. I imagine white-gold stars thickly clustered along the outer and upper part of my ear or Halston-fabulous slim needles made from silver and platinum which I imagine swinging and catching the light. The mysterious language of the ear piercer intrigues me too. There are piercings called the tragus and the anti-tragus which sound like a Greek myth on the scale of Perseus versus the Gorgon. The conch and the rook are embedded into the shell-like curves of the inner ear lobe whilst the daith sounds like something a nun might whisper in the stillness of her cell-like bedroom. I’m drawn to what some call the Chola style, from first- and second-generation Mexican and Mexican-American girls who wear gold chains, large hoops and stop-the-traffic red lipstick with an attitude that both reclaims and flips this formerly abusive term on its head. I like the Chola blend of strong femininity and toughness which spits in the face of the fact that these girls probably had little choice as to whether their ears were pierced or not. But I’m not Mexican or Mexican-American, no matter that I once lived there for a while and despite the fact that the Chola has evolved from a culture I am familiar with. There’s a line of authenticity to be drawn in the sand somewhere, probably starting with the fact that Chola abuelas (grandmothers) seem to be quite thin on the ground and I am nearer the abuela than I am her daughter or granddaughter.

I’m ready now. I am eyeing up the anatomy of my little ears and wondering what they can take. As I get older, I can see that a jeweled ear (or nose!) can defy time in unexpected ways, allowing me to retrace old paths with bigger, more sure-footed steps. This time it will be my decision.

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Suffolk’s bookish heritage

 

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An old  postcard, sent in 1914,of the Butt & Oyster at Pin Mill, where Arthur Ransome sailed and set two of his novels.

The countryside and small scale urban landscapes of Suffolk have long seduced those of a creative bent with artists and writers taking inspiration from this county, situated as it is on the edge of the English landmass, punctuated by towns and miles of rolling fields and quilted by waterways. We take a look at some well known and others, less so. 

Arthur Ransome has a long and renowned association with Suffolk, using it as both backdrop and inspiration for his children’s books. The Ransome family moved to Suffolk in 1936, and they lived at Broke Farm on the banks of the River Orwell where Pin Mill harbour could be seen from his window. Ransome moored his sailing boat, the Nancy Blackett here. Made famous in his novel, ‘We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea’, the Butt & Oyster Inn on the banks of the Orwell and downriver from the mighty Orwell Bridge, overlooks the smugglers haven of Pin Mill, one of Suffolk’s most romantic landscapes where time and tide meet twice daily on a spit of land between the rivers Orwell (which inspired a pen name for George Orwell) and Stour. The waters infiltrate this strangely porous landscape with its fimbrels of mud-flats and saltings. The breeze carries a salty brackish-tang of mud that mingles with the honey scent of the gorse-covered headlands and their ridge-line stands of pine and oak. This pub serves local, seasonal food, good ales and provides a resting place for walkers, tourists and locals who still earn their living off the river. The landscape appears little changed from Ransome’s time and thank goodness for that- we all need to feel we can go back to a less complicated time even if beer prices are a sharp reminder that we are no longer in 40’s England.

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The Butt & Oyster Inn

The young adventurous protagonists of Ransome’s book were staying at Alma Cottage; located right by the Butt & Oyster pub and he had his own boats built at Harry King’s yard although his home was actually high up on the opposite side of the Orwell, at Levington.

Ransome’s first Suffolk based story, We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea, tells of an unintended voyage across the sea. The Swallow children have promised their mother they will play in the safe confines of the harbour, but their boat, the Goblin, loses its anchor and drifts away in a fog. The children end up sailing across the North Sea to Holland. In tribute, an annual sailing race now takes place from the sailing club at Pin Mill. In the second book, Secret Water, the Swallow children are once again in a pickle, marooned on an island with a small boat and end up charting the area of islands and marshes which, in reality, are south of Pin Mill at Hamford Water.

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There are plenty of folks who live on the river at Pin Mill and quite a few houseboats tilting on the mudflats when the river runs low, slowly righting themselves as the tide turns and refloats them: the red sailed Thames sailing barges are also a common sight at Pin Mill too as they were once built here. Last summer (June 2014), Julia Jones, the owner of Ransome’s boat ‘Peter Duck’ brought it to Suffolk for the Felixstowe Book Festival and I had the great pleasure of seeing up close, the craft that bravely sails the pages of Ransome’s books. Keep an eye out for future visits next year, hopefully.

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The boatyards of Pin Mill

The Stour and Orwell Walk at Pin Mill is a well-known (and signposted) trail that loops around Woolverstone Hall and the Park that surrounds it, essentially in the shape of a figure of eight, taking walkers over sleeper bridges and past those mud flats and saltings; through spinneys, woodlands, meadows and scrub, rising up to the Pin Mill cliff plantation and skirting the tiny village of Chelmondiston, before returning you to your start point- The Butt & Oyster Inn. The pub overlooks the boatyards which edge Pin Mill Common on both sides and makes a logical and scenic place to start or finish at although if you like a drink, it might be best to wait until after that walk- the fireside seats and sunny warmth streaming through the picture windows overlooking the water makes it hard to get up and get going. If the weather is inclement, sit by the window with your book and watch the wheeling gulls, sent upriver by rough seas as they set down, then take off again from the maram grass covered islands and shores of this beautiful part of Suffolk.

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Jane Taylor

The west and south of the county boast many fine examples of buildings and churches built by wealthy wool merchants of which Lavenham is probably the most famous of all, but how many of you also know that the village has a direct connection with the nursery rhyme Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and its composer Jane Taylor (1783–1824),  an English poet and novelist?  Jane and her family made their home at Shilling Grange in Lavenham’s Shilling Street and Twinkle, Twinkle was originally published under the title The Star in Rhymes for the Nursery, a collection of poems by Taylor and her older sister Ann. The poems were a special commission by the publishers Darton and Harvey and Twinkle’s simple verse belies the skill required to capture the tender relationship between a mother and her child as she introduces it to a universe beyond the nursery walls. In her autobiography, Ann, Jane’s sister, alludes to this skill as she reminisces about Jane describing her own writing process: ‘I try to conjure some child into my presence, address her suitably, as well as I am able and when I begin to flag, I say to her, “There love, now you may go”’.

It is not known if the poem was actually written in Lavenham or indeed, inspired by its West Suffolk night skies and many scholars claim that the poem was written in Colchester, where the family moved to. Jane did have an interest in astronomy though and would have had fine views of the Lavenham skies from the attic windows which her brother noted:

“The window commanded a view of the country and a tract of sky as a field for that nightly soaring of the fancy of which she was so fond,”  Isaac wrote in 1825.

The two little girls attended dance lessons at the Swan Inn (now the Swan Hotel) tutored by an 18-stone dancing master from Bury St Edmunds and their father, a noted engraver, painted both children against the bucolic backdrop of their garden back in 1792. This portrait is now owned by the National Portrait Gallery although it is on long-term loan to the Bath Preservation Trust and is hung in the Georgian setting of the drawing room at 1, Royal Crescent, Bath.

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Shilling Grange : wikipedia commons

The Taylor sisters were fairly prolific, publishing several volumes of tales and rhymes for infants but Jane died early aged forty of breast cancer on April 13, 1824 although her work continues to attract visitors to the village and particularly Japanese tourists who are especially entranced by this magical little poem and like to see the house its author lived in, now owned by the National Trust who have staged exhibitions at the nearby Guildhall. And one more star-related Lavenham fact for you: Molet House on Barn Street is a handsome black and white Tudor building and if you look closely, you’ll see that its doorway boasts an engraved star. This is the badge of the De Veres, the local lords of the manor, and is it known as a ‘molet’ or ‘mullet’ and is said to refer to a reappearance of the Star of Bethlehem high in the skies, as witnessed by a member of the family called Aubrey the First during the Crusades. He  went on to victory.

Here, he tells of this event, speaking of himself in the most self-important of tones: “God willing the safety of the Christians showed a white star ……. on the Christian host, which to every man’s sight did light and arrest upon the standard of Aubrey de Vere, there shining excessively.” It was subsequently claimed that an angel actually leaned down and threw the star onto De Vere’s standard himself, thus further legitimising Aubrey’s war efforts in his opinion.

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Face-helmet, unearthed at Sutton Hoo and now in the British Museum

Many places near to Ipswich are atmospheric enough to require little by way of embellishment and their stories tell themselves -stories so fantastical and magical that they defy belief. Sutton Hoo is one such place, where, in 1939 a Mrs Edith Pretty asked archaeologist Basil Brown to come down and investigate the many Anglo Saxon burial mounds on her property near Woodbridge in Suffolk. He went on to make one of the most spectacular discoveries of all time- the imprint of a 27-metre-long ship. At its centre lay a ruined burial chamber packed with treasures: sumptuous gold and burnished jewellery, Byzantine silverware, a lavish and completely intact feasting set, and most famously, the ornate iron helmet which is now the iconic symbol for the burial site and museum, although the original now resides at the British Museum.

Intensive archaeological excavations gave us wonderful insights into the lives of these Anglo Saxons: tiny fragments showed that rich textiles, dyed using plant matter, once adorned the walls and floor, along with piles of clothes ranging from fine linen over-shirts to shaggy woollen cloaks woven to keep out the searing winds blown straight here from Siberia and caps luxuriantly trimmed with fur. The dead man’s body had dissolved in the boggy acidic peat which was composed of soil enriched by centuries of decaying bracken, but he was clearly a person of great standing in the kingdom of East Anglia. He may even have been a king, ruling over the hardy souls that once carved out a living from this harsh and inhospitable land.

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The Sutton Hoo ship burial provides remarkable insights into early Anglo-Saxon England. It reveals a place of exquisite craftsmanship adhering to the highest of standards and benefiting from far-reaching international connections which spanned Europe and beyond. It also shows that the world of glittery treasures, cavernous reception halls and strong, formidable warriors described in the poetry of the Anglo-Saxons was not a myth. This story forms the inspiration for the children’s book, Gravenhunger by Harriet Goodwin, a sinister tale of a house inherited by Phoenix after the death of his Mother. The house and grounds hint at the secret buried within and the reason why their existence was kept secret from the boy and his Father. This idea of things not being what they seem and of small secrets growing into huge, life changing ones have clear parallels with the amazing Sutton Hoo discoveries-a Suffolk treasure visited by thousands of school children from all over the world who love the interactive displays and the chance to dress up. Take a copy of ‘Beowulf’ and recite it aloud to the kids: this dramatic piece of prose perfectly suits dark and stormy East Anglian winter days where you can declaim loudly into the wind in a kingly (or queenly) manner.

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Suffolk wealth from wool: Lavenham’s architecture.

Suffolk has always been a place for migration. We began as the indigenous ‘South Folk’ whose toughness and shy self-reliance became hard-wired through centuries of fighting off challenges by land-grabbing invaders such as the Danes, Angles and Norman nobility. You can see why our county sea-borders are home to such a compelling mix of people and the county town of Ipswich, with its history as a busy working port and status as county seat, has always attracted economic migrant workers from all over the world. The Orwell River was once a prime trading route between Ipswich, the European mainland and the rest of the country and in the Middle Ages, the wool produced by wealthy East Anglian merchants and farmers was exported via Ipswich whilst hemp, coal, iron and timber was brought in. The once bustling docks area is now slowly being restored although the waters bob with yachts and houseboats now instead of the merchants ships that once plied their trade there.

Themes of migration, strangeness and change lie at the heart of 22 Britannia Road’ by Amanda Hodgkinson, set in Suffolk because the writer loves the area, having spent much of her life here as she said in an interview with a regional newspaper:

“Living in France and writing it, I had a kind of mythical Ipswich in my head. I’ve never actually been to Britannia Road but the title, with its sense of place and pomp and circumstance for a foreign family, has a level of irony I really liked. It’s a poignant address.”  

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With a well-established Polish community, Suffolk (and the county town, Ipswich) provides a backdrop to the story of Silvana and eight-year-old Aurek who board a ship to England, where her husband Janusz is waiting in Ipswich. However, after years living wild in the forests – simply surviving, and also nursing a dreadful secret, Silvana is no longer sure quite who she is inside. Suffolk saw large influxes of immigrants and Londoners after the war, displaced by bombing and bad economics and the promise of a bucolic life in the countryside. The reality was rather more complex though as Amanda says;

“I’ve always felt a real empathy with that generation, and seeing how people coped. What you do when you’re suddenly told you can go back to ‘normal’ – how you pick up the pieces – has interested me.”

Ipswich docks are undergoing regeneration and now bustle with a different kind of economic activity from their earliest incarnation (they first took shape in Anglo Saxon times). In a place where merchants once traded and dock workers hefted cargo onto the rust encrusted decks of the great ships that sailed between Britain, Europe and the rest of the world, the docks are now populated by sailors working on sleek pleasure craft. There are some fishing fleets still, sturdy and stout hearted as they putter in and out of their berths but the biggest change is in the crowds of locals, here to eat and drink and to live in flats on the redeveloped warehouses and wharves. At night, lights blaze not from the returning fishing boats but from the bars, restaurants, hotels and businesses that have migrated here. It is beautiful and has yet to reach its full potential, a very different one to its original purpose.

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Ipswich marina, partly renovated

With its long and noble maritime history, one of our choices for a great place to eat and drink here was always going to be afloat and Mariners Restaurant is situated on a beautiful craft berthed on the newly redeveloped Ipswich marina, surrounded by sympathetically restored brick built warehouses and some maritime related businesses. The Mariner was built and launched in 1899 as the gunboat SS Argus for the department of the Belgian State. Recommissioned in 1940 by the Belgian navy, it was sunk, raised and subsequently re-repaired by the Germans who returned it to the Antwerp based owners in 1945 and then rechristened as Flandria VII.

Sri Lanka, Dunwich, Orford and Ipswich all appear in Rona Tearne’s book, ‘The Swimmer,’ a tale of a relationship between a woman and a young male immigrant and, appropriately for such a watery region, swimming and immersion in water forms theme, metaphor and subject for a dreamy story of 43-year-old Ria (who lives alone in the cottage she loved as a child) who spots a young man swimming in the river at the bottom of her garden in the moonlight. Ben is a Sri Lankan doctor seeking asylum in Britain and while he awaits news from the Home Office, he works illegally on a local farm in return for food and lodging. Despite an 18-year age gap and their cultural differences, the friendship swiftly blossoms into a passionate affair and when tragedy strikes, the repercussions are felt far beyond this small corner of East Anglia.

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Bailey Bridge, over Stony Ditch at Orford Ness, crossing a tidal creek between the Ness itself and the River Ore estuary. Copyright Ian Taylor> attribution: share-alike 2.0 generic(CC by -SA 2.0)

The delicate tensions that exist between her characters reflect the currents and eddies of the marshlands and tidal brackish waters around the region: a crepuscular and brooding backdrop. Shaped by conflict and affected by political forces in lands far beyond their surroundings, the characters learn that loss, love and regret can eddy, ebb and flow and that no actions exist in a vacuum, least not in such a mutable part of the world, shaped by immigration, where the human landscape is so very much, more than a sum of its parts. The fictional story of Ben, swimming in the stream, feeds into the rivulets of migration that in real life forms the fascinating story of Ipswich. From the Frisian potters originally from the part of Europe we now call The Netherlands who settled the Quay area in the 7th century and established the first large scale potteries since the time of the Romans, to the people arriving here from the Caribbean in the 50’s, stepping off boats like the Windrush at Tilbury before setting off downstream to Ipswich, their contribution is woven into the very fabric of the town.

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In Something Might Happen, her murder-mystery novel from 2003, novelist Julie Myerson barely disguises the Enid Blyton-esque seaside town of Southwold, where she has a second home. Myerson’s storytelling again walks the line between humanity and the dark, jangling terror of what we are capable of, all set in the most domestic and cosy of surroundings,  a place of aspiration and longing for the land-locked suburbanite. Yes, this coastal landscape could be anywhere in Britain, which is important for a nation of people heavily invested still in the Victorian idyll of a seaside holiday, but I see it as unmistakably East Suffolk, where miles of marshland act as buffer between land and sea. Myerson’s most recent book, The Stopped Heart, is also set in an unidentified rural part of England but again, to a Suffolk dweller the sights and sounds say unmistakably ‘home’: there’s the ‘bright, raw smell’ of a freshly skinned rabbit and the ‘smashed’ sensation one of the characters feels upon seeing the sea. There’s a move to an isolated cottage in the country and ghosts and past crimes returning to haunt us as Myerson expertly weaves together the story of bereaved Mary, newly moved to the country and Eliza,  a 13-year-old farmer’s daughter, living in the same house a century earlier and addressing us directly from the grave.

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Charles Dickens was a frequent traveller to Suffolk and toured the county giving recitals of his work and was also invited to open the lecture hall for the Ipswich Mechanics Institute in 1851. Sources have claimed that the Bosmere and Claydon Union Workhouses in nearby Barham may have inspired the workhouse setting and tale of Olive Twist. We know that Dickens visited and read the records of a ten year old apprentice who lived there; the sordid and inhuman conditions which triggered a riot in protest must surely have made an impression upon him?

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Charles Dickens in 1858 / wikipedia commons

In 1835 he stayed in Ipswich and subsequently set some of the scenes in his novel ‘The Pickwick Papers’ there- it is believed that an Ipswich woman, a Mrs Elizabeth Cobbold was the inspiration for the character of Mrs Leo Hunter in the book, depicted as a woman with pretensions for the performing of charitable works and the writing of poetry. Opened in 1518, the Ipswich hotel he was a guest at was known then as The Tavern, later being renamed the Great White Horse Hotel with meandering stairs and corridors depicted in chapter XXII. The hotel is no longer in its original incarnation and is now home to a chain coffee shop and one other store. Dickens also stayed at the Angel Hotel in nearby Bury St Edmunds (a short drive along the A14) and this ivy clad hotel, which fronts onto Angel Hill, still stands and you can stay in the very room in which Dickens slept and wrote. In Ipswich, there are plenty of good coffee shops in which to sit and read your copy of Pickwick Papers (which also mentions the Angel Hotel). Try Jacey’s Coffee House, Arlington Brasserie, Bakers & Barista or appropriately enough, Pickwicks Tearooms on Dial Lane. They all serve a decent cup of joe, plus food and other drinks.

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The Angel Hotel entrance, Bury St Edmunds

Children may be interested to hear that the well-known nursery rhymes ‘Little Boy Blue’ and‘Humpty Dumpty’ may be satirical references to the life and fate of Cardinal Wolsey who himself was born and schooled in the town and whose bronze statue can be found at the junctions of St Nicholas, St Peters and Silent Street. These rhymes (and many others like them) served as a useful way of criticising, teasing or satirising figures of power and influence at a time when these behaviours, conducted openly would likely earn you a deadly fate, or imprisonment at the very least. Children love gory and dramatic history, as evidenced by the success of Horrible Histories and the pretty gruesome events behind seemingly innocent rhymes make perfect examples of how people living under oppression will always find a way of expressing dissent.Tell your children how the arrogance of this powerful man (who would not listen to any voice other than his own) is referred to in the line ‘Come blow your horn’ whilst ‘where’s the little boy that looks after the sheep?’ strongly implies that his ‘sheep like’ people are suffering at the hands of a self-serving and neglectful man. Humpty Dumpty references an interesting event in history, the loss by Wolsey, of his power, and by the time that this rhyme became popular, he had been charged with high treason, accused of delaying the annulment of Catharine of Aragon and Henry the Eight’s marriage. Humpty’s ‘great fall’ symbolises Wolsey’s own fall from grace. Indeed, Ipswich School lays claim to being the only school that warrants a real life mention in the works of William Shakespeare where, in ‘Henry VIII, Griffith has this to say about Cardinal Wolsey: “Those twins of learning that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford! One of which fell with him.” Further Wolsey related commemoration can also be found at 47 Nicholas Street where the Ipswich Society has mounted a blue plaque at Curson Lodge, to mark the birthplace of Wolsey on the opposite side of this street.

 

Best breakfast and brunches in my corner of Suffolk

The last year has seen a plethora of new places serving great breakfast and brunch within driving distance of Bury St Edmunds, where I live. Most of my favourites are in North and West Suffolk, admittedly, but I’ve hopped over the border to Norfolk too.

In this round-up of my favourites, I’ve only include establishments that I (or people whose judgement I trust) have regularly visited and found to be excellent as opposed to regurgitating press releases about establishments that I’m unfamiliar with. I hope this offers readers some guarantee that these places are reliably good and deserving of your hard-earned money. I realise that I have appeared to ignore great swathes of East Anglia but I will get to them in time, so please be patient if I’ve left off your chosen one [s].

Some of my choices don’t serve what you might think of as traditional brunch platefuls either but I don’t really think it really matters whether we eat an Indian inspired mid-morning meal or a typical English breakfast. I don’t think brunch is the time for concrete thinking.  All that’s important is that the food is delicious and the surroundings, convivial. You can decide what kind of morning menu you prefer but these all serve food that I enjoy eating at any time of the day.

Gastro-No-Me

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Lola granola from Gastro-No-Me

Situated in the pretty and winding St John’s Street in Bury St Edmunds, Gastro-no-me is a tiny and cosy little deli/café with a nicely edited menu of brunch classics and some more unusual meals. You get a vibrant plate of food here: the pancakes are basically Disney on a plate, loaded as they are with berries and the French Rascal croissants are similarly colourful and well stuffed with ham, cheddar, rocket and tomato jam. The newly updated menu includes Lola Granola [photo above], a plate full of fruit, flowers and toasted cereals and a platter of sweetcorn fritters. These sunny little mouthfuls come with wilted spinach, bacon, plum tomatoes halloumi and a pot of lime & chipotle butter. There’s plenty of veggie options and the cafe is very family friendly with a regular clientele that includes Americans from the local base who know a thing or two about what makes a great brunch. You can buy cheeses, meats , breads and pastries from their deli counter to take home too, after your meal. Win win. Gastro-no-me

Guat’s Up

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A brand new coffee shop recently opened in Guildhall Street, Guat’s Up has a carefully designed interior [fab cushions made from coffee-sacks] but great design hasn’t come at the expense of comfort or your tastebuds. It’s open from 7 am which is handy for that pre-work cup of Joe and this is definitely the place to breakfast at if you prefer something lighter to accompany your morning coffee. They are serious about their coffee [but not pompous] and they are equally serious about their doughnuts which are brought in, freshly handmade, from Doughnut Lab. Guat’s Up is a multi-purpose place: they create fabulous cocktails and stay open until late in the evening, providing customers with a calm and sophisticated atmosphere in which to enjoy a drink. Coffee-wise, choose from pour-over Ethiopian Guititi natural, Peruvian Tunki and Colombia Huila among many others.  Even their cocktails contain coffee: try ‘The Bruce Wayne’ made with bourbon, espresso coffee and maple syrup or the all-day single shot Irish coffee made with Ethiopian Derikocha filter coffee, whisky, sugar syrup and double cream. There’s also a great tea menu [the Rooibos Relief is a perfect winter tea with eucalyptus and orange] alongside pastries and savouries for a light European breakfast. And they sell all the kit a serious coffee drinker needs at home too, accompanied with friendly advice and guidance. Guat’s Up

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Paddy & Scotts

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Another Bury St Edmunds coffee-shop, this relatively recent addition to historic Abbeygate St is a tiny gem with an interior like the inside of a coffee cup, all chocolates and creams and warm dark wood. Their coffees are slow roasted and small-batch using hand-built machines and they sell particularly good cold drip coffee according to local journos [who know a thing or two about this]. There’s a morning coffee, “Wakey Wakey” , and a “Pure Shot” whole bean coffee which makes a smooth espresso for those of you struggling to stay awake. You can buy bags to take out and they are Rainforest Alliance Certified. Food-wise, customers can choose from a range of pastries, cakes (all homely and freshly made) and sandwiches. The serving and seating area is small and double buggies would struggle to be accommodated but its a lovely spot to lounge in and the large picture windows offer ample opportunities to people-watch. I also covet their armchairs made out of leather and brushed metal which are seriously comfortable. Paddy & Scotts

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Images courtesy of Paddy & Scotts

 

Bury St Edmunds Market

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Held every Wednesday and Saturday, this large market offers a wide range of foods both hot and cold for munching on as you wander around or to take and eat in the Abbey Gardens and other open spaces. In warmer weather, a mini-brunch safari is a great thing to do, and particularly popular with the kids. A favourite breakfast of mine comes from the  Yakitori Suzuki stall, owned by Kaori Dawson who serves breakfast until 11:30am. The Japanese breakfast centres upon a folded omelette (called tamagoyaki) made by rolling together thin layers of seasoned egg in a frying pan.This is served with triangles of rice, a miso broth and pickles made from mooli, a member of the radish family with a gentle peppery taste. For something rather different, try a Caribbean veggie pasty baked by Thomas Benjamin who has a large stall near Croasdales Chemist. Thomas sells handmade Caribbean pasties, wraps, cakes and pies from his well established stall: particular favourites are a crab filled pasty and cakes made with banana, coconut, ginger and rum. There’s also wheat-free versions and egg-free options for vegans. Mummery Brothers fish and Paul’s FishBox sell little pots of brown shrimps, pints of prawns and dressed crab, all ready for eating and Henry’s Hogroast is perfect for soft floury rolls stuffed with roast pig and topped with a perfect piece of crackling. If you fancy some pickles with it, drop by CourtYard Chutney Co for their ‘Berry St Edmunds chutney’ or even a pot of honey to sweeten that roast pork. For hot foods, try Spicey Sausages‘ authentic grilled Slaska and Torunska sausage. Run by two Polish friends. Beata Kalinska and Anita Okoniewska, they griddle them to order- just follow your nose and you’ll locate them. Thai Taste has a set-up up near the Buttermarket war memorial where they cook dishes such as noodle-based Pad Thai to order, adding chicken for non-vegetarians. They offer a mild coconut-infused Massaman beef curry which is popular with kids and is slow-cooked all day. Run by  local baker Mark Proctor, The Friendly Loaf Company stall can usually  be found near Waterstones and sells fresh bread, pastries and cakes made with flour from nearby Pakenham Mill. Mark trained in some of the most prestigious establishments and it shows in his food which is the best bread in Suffolk, in my opinion. Here’s the place to get a pain-au-chocolat, pastries loaded with fruits in season, bread pudding, very adult brownies and breads spiked with cheese, hazelnut and walnut, seeds, peppers and whatever else takes his fancy. Finally, we must not ignore the fruit and veg sellers who can sell you brown paper bags of cherries and perfect tomatoes in the summer. and blood-oranges to eat on the hoof in the winter. Add a baguette and some cheese, you have the perfect brunch.  Bury St Edmunds Market stall PDF can be downloaded here.

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Bread from The Friendly Loaf Co

Lavenham Farmers Market

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Fresh breakfast muffins at the farmers market: image by Ransom & West photography

Established by Justine Paul of Suffolk Farmers Market Events, these award-winning markets offer plenty of brunch opportunities from stalls selling produce made or sourced within a thirty mile radius. So you can eat with the knowledge that you are supporting some of our best artisanal local businesses. Recently recognised by February’s edition of Olive Magazine as one of the top food events nationally, the Lavenham farmers market thoughtfully provides a child-friendly Farmers’ Cafe where you can sit and eat a farmers breakfast or a bowl of soup, locally made cakes and freshly brewed hot drinks. If you want to eat on the hoof, the stalls are piled high with breads, pies, sausage rolls and cakes and you can buy chutneys, cheeses,honey and charcuterie to stuff into bread rolls. Afterwards, burn off the calories by walking round one of the most picturesque and historic villages in the UK, where plenty of other tearooms, food shops, pubs and restaurants compete to offer you the chance to eat lunch, high tea and supper without leaving the village. The village has well-organised websites rammed with information to help you plan a whole day in this justifiably famous village. Lavenham Farmers Market

The Suffolk Carver

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Image courtesy of OurBuryStEdmunds

Another recommendation via Twitter (thank you Barry Peters), The Suffolk Carver is located on Brentgovel Street, around the corner from the Buttermarket and is very popular for both sit-down customers and local workers in search of a swift take-out service. On market days (Weds/Sat) it gets very busy but a swift turnover means you’ll find a seat in this split-level café, so worry not. Want a substantial brunch? Choose the roast pork baguette with stuffing and apple sauce, the sausage and bacon granary baguette made with meat from local butchers or one of the grilled sandwiches from the large menu. ” A cracking breakfast and possibly the most pleasant staff I’ve ever come across” is the verdict on Facebook although customers do warn you to get there early if you want their roast pork because it is scarfed so swiftly by locals who know a good thing when they see it. Portions are large, the breakfasts come with good coffee and there’s outdoor seating on warmer days with a view of the venerable Moyses Hall museum which is well worth a visit after your meal. The Suffolk Carver

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Tuddenham Mill

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Image courtesy of Tuddenham Mill

If you are looking to book a special occasion breakfast or brunch, this converted water mill is a stellar choice with a kitchen overseen by an award-winning chef and Bury Free Press columnist, Lee Bye. The surroundings are historic, subtly lit and gentle on tired eyes of-a-morning. There’s a lighter menu featuring Goosnargh yoghurt, almond granola or honey-glazed pink grapefruit or the Full English: a plate of Dingley Dell pork sausage, mushroom, bacon, baked beans, plum tomato, baby black pudding and eggs of your choice will fill you up. Or choose locally smoked kippers with a lemon beurre-noisette. For sweet-toothed breakfasters, the brioche French toast, caramelised banana and maple syrup is the logical meal to order. Non-residents pay 17,50 [at time of writing, Feb 2016] which is not inexpensive but reflects the expertise of the team, the lovely surroundings and the quality and effort put into the sourcing of ingredients. There has been a mill at Tuddenham for around 1,000 years  with the earliest records being documented in the Doomsday book of 1086 and the surrounding countryside offers some of the loveliest walking in East Anglia. Tuddenham Mill

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Rockers Cafe at Krazy Horse

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Image courtesy Krazy horse

The Rockers Cafe was established in collaboration with the world famous Ace Café and can be found upstairs, on a balcony overlooking Krazy Horses custom-bike operation. You’re on the Mildenhall Road industrial estate so the general location is nothing to write home about but the Rockers Cafe is. You’ll find a Wurlitzer and an industrial cum Americana vibe with a diner counter, silver pull-up stools and about eight or so tables arranged in semi circle. Behind the tables are shelves full of clothing and windows look out onto the business forecourt and the coming and goings of the bikes. They serve huge breakfasts with black pudding, hash-browns, sausages and eggs any way you want them, breakfast baguettes stuffed with any combination of the above, pancakes or waffles. Bottles of Salubrious Breakfast Sauce are a great alternative to the ubiquitous Heinz. Crabbies ginger beer, root beer and vanilla coke are served and the ice-cream, syrup and milk thick shakes taste pretty authentic. Coffees are flavoured with syrups and Belvoir mandarin and orange pressés are available alongside beer and ciders. It’s a great, fun place for well-behaved older kids and teenagers alongside anyone else who is bike-mad. Krazy Horse

 The Coffee House

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Tucked away on Moreton Hall, the Coffee House nonetheless attracts customers from all over the town because of its friendly and welcoming surroundings and lovely staff who don’t cluck at you if you make that cup of coffee last an hour or more. This is definitely the place to come if you like to spread out over a comfy sofa in front of large light-filled windows, eat slowly and read your paper. There’s a shelf of books to borrow, buy and swap and the Coffee House is regularly used by local community groups. Perfect for a huge brunch or a swift Suffolk Roasted breakfast coffee and Danish, the menu includes classics such as poached eggs on whole-wheat, fish-finger sandwiches, full English breakfasts, sausage stuffed baps and plenty of diner style layer cakes, tarts, pies and smaller hand-sized baked goodies. Regulars speak highly of the bowls of porridge with honey and banana, the excellent Americano coffee, the cheese scones and bacon butties. The Coffee House also has a branch in Ixworth too, ensuring villagers have their own community hub too. Great stuff! The Coffee House

Amandines Cafe- Restaurant

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Although it’s not technically a brunch place, I had to include the delightful Amandines whose owners have been cooking vegan and vegetarian food in the little town of Diss for over 28 years. Their premises is prettily situated in the courtyard of a converted Victorian red-brick warehouse, opposite Fredericks, one of the best delicatessens around. Amadines is bright and airy and in warmer months the climbing jasmine and roses scent the air although a Godin wood-burning stove and internal glass-covered courtyard keep it snug year round- dogs are allowed in the courtyard too. Open Tues – Sat between 10am – 3pm, food is freshly prepared by the staff and the menu easily navigates the brunch-lunch interface, offering sandwiches and toasties; a mature cheddar panini with lime pickle dressing is very good; hearty bowl-food plus quiches, cakes- Tunisian orange cake and a date tart were gorgeous- and pastries.Pudding-wise they excel and an apricot and pine-nut pudding with butterscotch brittle and mascarpone cream was a recent offering which went down very well. Their drinks are well spoken of by their customers with the Italian coffee and hot chocolate prepared properly. If you are looking for something heartier, meals such as dosa, pea and beetroot chutney, coconut rice and curry are just one example of what they do exceedingly well and in the summer months, customers can enjoy creative salads such as feta and nectarine with home-made goats cheese and olive bread. Although they don’t serve meat products, I’ve never heard a customer complain about this and you really won’t miss them. Amandines

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The Copper Kettle & Tearoom at Kersey

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Owned by Rosie Waller and located in the adorable village of Kersey with its famous ford, the Copper Kettle cooks bake every day, providing customers with a wealth of fresh cakes, pastries, scones and bread and their passion for seasonal, local ingredients shines through. As well as lovely breakfasts and brunches served from an early bird opening time of 8:30am, (excellent bacon rolls and endless cups of tea plus Rosie’s Suffolk Huffers), they serve a classic English afternoon tea with sandwiches and speciality teas. The surroundings are as lovely as the food with a more formal café tea room overlooking the Mediterranean Gardens and a conservatory with club chair seating which opens onto a pretty courtyard. The mill itself is worth a look around as are the other shops and amenities in the grounds. Walk it all off by strolling up the hill to Kersey’s church with scenic views over this tiny village. Copper Kettle Tearoom

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The Pantry, Newmarket

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Since their opening, The Pantry’s ethos has been based upon using and selling the very best East Anglian foods in their deli and the restaurant. There’s an open kitchen and lively, bright eating area, deservedly popular with locals and visitors alike. Meat comes from Eric Tennant’s butchers and all things fishy from Fish! of Burwell, both near-neighbours trading just off Newmarket High Street. Brunch is served until midday and is high quality at a very reasonable price. There’s croissants stuffed with local cheese and ham or a veggie version with Hawkston cheese and mushrooms. My favourite is the black pudding, fried egg and potato hash which comes with toast. If you order *just* toast, it’ll come with East Anglian jams and marmalades . Very hungry? Go for the pantry breakfast: Suffolk bacon, Musks sausages (from Newmarket), black pudding, tomato, mushrooms, fried egg and toast is £7 and there’s a vegetarian breakfast with roast beetroot, mushrooms, tomatoes, potatoes and scrambled egg for a fiver. Paddy & Scotts supply their coffee, by the way and I also recommend the lemon posset with Swedish toffee biscuit and a dark chocolate rice pudding with pistachio brittle which is not ‘breakfast’ per se but I really don’t care for such restrictions. Afterwards, a walk to the Harley Davidson dealers in the town to drool over the bikes is recommended.  The Pantry.

Brown’s Kitchen

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Bubble n Squeak: photo courtesy of Browns

Just over the border in Norfolk and close to Thetford Forest and only a thirty minute drive from Bury St Eds, Browns of Mundford is an absolute gem, serving top-notch food made from local ingredients. They are hugely supportive of local farmers and their bacon and sausage is some of the best we’ve had. Sausage and bacon is Scotts Field large black pigs, the eggs are free-range and from Andy Gapp and the scrambled eggs that result are buttery, soft and delicate. A large bacon roll is 3,95 at time of writing and from noon, they start serving bubble and squeak with Scotts Field ham, those eggs again and a basil dressing. Cakes, tarts and scones are made on the premises and alongside the old favourites there are more unusual choices such as Tosca cake, walnut tart and chocolate and peach layer cake, all made by a pastry chef. Seating is comfy, spacious and plentiful, both indoor and outdoor, WiFi is provided and you’ll not be shoved out of the door if you want to slump on the sofa and read the papers afterwards.

Brown’s Kitchen, Mundford (Facebook)

Earsham Street Café

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Nestling in historic Bungay, 37 miles from Bury St Edmunds, Earsham Street Café is a wonderful pit-stop on the way to the beaches of North-East Suffolk, located as it is on the borders of Norfolk. Sited inside a lovely historic (17th century, to be precise) building which used to be a former cock-fighting pit, among its many incarnations, the cafe is now a happy well-regarded tea-room and cafe. The opening hours are 10am – 4.30pm (last orders at 4pm) 7 days a week and they offer full English and vegetarian breakfasts and lighter meals on a Saturday & Sunday between 10am – noon. Kids are made welcome with a selection of toys, crayons & books and dogs are allowed in the covered courtyard garden (free dog biscuits given!) whilst cyclists can store their bikes securely in the garden. Teas and coffees are Fair Trade and accompany the lovely weekend brunch menu which also features American style pancakes with Greek yoghurt, banana, and maple syrup, beans on toast or a bacon sandwich. The Earsham Street vegetarian breakfast is fabulous value at £7,00, serving up fried egg, tomatoes, mushrooms, home made baked beans, griddled polenta & a slice of toast. They try to source locally too: organic vegetables are from Peter at Kitchen Gardens; cheeses come from Jonny at Fen Farm and Rodwell Farm in deepest Suffolk. Their eggs are from Mr & Mrs Blackmore near Halesworth whilst Cundy’s of Bungay deliver super-fresh Suffolk Marybelle milk and cream.  Earsham Street Cafe.

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Cafe Clare

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The Cafe Clare ‘minor’ breakfast

Located in a fourteenth century building at the heart of Clare, one of Suffolk’s loveliest little towns, Cafe Clare caters to locals and visitors alike across two floors and a tiny courtyard garden with views of the castle ruins and motte. Gluten, dairy free and vegetarian diets are also catered for along with smaller portions for children and well behaved dogs are made welcome. Cafe Clare serves breakfast all day, conveniently opening from 8:30am although breakfast can be served from 7am (24 hours notice) and they are open Tuesday to Sunday inclusive. (Closed on Mondays.) Owners Sue and Chris Curtin pride themselves on their locally sourced ingredients which include free-range eggs from Rymer Farm Barnham and sausages and bacon from Hubbards Pork butchers in Bury St Edmunds: the sausages and black pudding are actually made on Hubbards premises. All breakfasts are cooked to order and customers preferences are happily catered to alongside a choice of a major or minor full English, hot-smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, breakfast bacon burgers and other menu choices. The village shops and antiques centres, pubs, museum and country park provide ample entertainment for a day out after your breakfast with the surrounding countryside criss-crossed by a range of cycling and walking routes. Cafe Clare

The Barn Cafe at Alder Carr

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Photo from Alder Carr website

Located near Needham Market, off the A14, at the heart of a working farm in a converted barn, The Barn Cafe sources as many ingredients as they can from local suppliers and this includes seasonal produce grown on the farm: all dishes are made from scratch too. Full cooked breakfasts are available between 9:30 – 11:30am (11:15 Sundays) and include a full breakfast for 7,95 (sausage, smoked Suffolk bacon, grilled tomato, field mushroom, black pudding, bubble and squeak cake and a free range egg served poached or fried plus toast) and a vegetarian version with veggie sausages. Egg lovers can choose from several options: Royale, Benedict or dippy eggs accompanied by chunky toast soldiers. Children are made welcome in the spacious and light dining area and post-breakfast, visitors can browse the farm shop and crafts stores or eat some of the superb Alder Carr ice-cream which is some of the best you’ll eat anywhere in the UK. The cafe is set in Mid-Suffolk’s Gipping Valley surrounded by miles of beautiful walks and cycle routes and the nearby town of Stowmarket is home to the Museum of East Anglian Life. The museum is deservedly popular with families because of its child-friendly and engaging activities and exhibits. The Barn Cafe.

Hollow Trees Farm Shop and Woodlands Cafe

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Photo courtesy of Hollow Trees Farm

This is a bit of a drive from Bury St Edmunds for us, but the glorious countryside along the way and fantastic breakfast and brunch at the end makes it absolutely worthwhile. And of course, for you, it may be a shorter drive. Hollow Trees Farm is a 140 acre mixed farm, growing vegetables and producing pork beef and lamb and its breakfasts have been previously nominated in The Best Breakfast Awards. Combining their own produce with the best available locally, their full English is rightly popular (sausages and bacon sourced from the farm, local free range egg, hash brown, grilled tomato, mushrooms and toast) as is the granola from Crush Foods of Norfolk, made using local borage honey and apple juice. Served with yoghurt made with milk supplied by local dairies, it is a lovely light alternative. Coffee is freshly ground and the orange juice pressed to order. There are children’s menus and highchairs; menu-wise the café offers daily specials and gluten-free options and there’s good wheelchair access. After you’ve eaten, stock up at the Farm Shop where a wide range of regional and seasonal foods are stocked and take the kids on the farm trail to see the many animals that live on the farm and burn off energy on the rope swings and other outdoor equipment. (There’s a small charge for the trail.) Hollow Trees Farm and Cafe

 

 

I liked Giraffe and I didn’t expect to

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I didn’t drink all of these.

*I was asked to visit my local Giraffe and write a feature about it by their PR team. I received financial compensation for this post.*

I don’t usually eat at chain restaurants, not having a young family-a demographic for whom a lot of them seem to cater for-and chain places seem a bit too ‘maison de la casa house’ as Calvin Trillin once said with their mixing of dishes from all over the world, many of them anglicised out of all recognition.

Unfortunately located on Parkway next to the stop-start traffic of Bury’s inner thoroughfare and therefore not the most attractive site, Giraffe is nonetheless convenient for the pre and post-cinema crowd who park nearby and mill about restlessly outside the doors of the various food outlets here. There’s a lot of competition and not a lot of opportunity to distinguish yourselves from the others when your restaurant is housed in a generic built-for-purpose retail block but they have kept the exterior pleasingly stripped back.

Giraffe doesn’t take reservations for weekend brunch, having decided that first come-first served is the fairest way and it also means walk-ins can be accommodated. It can get busy because their brunches are pretty good examples of when chains get it right, menu-wise. Once inside, you’ll notice that Giraffe has had a recent refurbishment if you are a regular, resulting in a clearer and more adult vibe although it retains its family friendly atmosphere. I saw a lot of families dining here, they seemed happy with their lot. I asked head office about customer reaction to the refurbishment which comes in the light of increased competition at mid-market level: “We’ve had a really positive response here. Guests especially comment that it feels lighter and welcoming- a great atmosphere,” a spokesperson told me. “We re-opened on November 13th 2015,” they added, “and Emily, Giraffe’s Bury St Edmunds’ General Manager describes the design as “fresh, colourful and fun.” 

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That lethal cocktail/pudding

The coffee is pretty good for a chain and Giraffe say they are passionate about their blend, and use Union Roasted coffees. I don’t know enough about coffee to comment on this brand but our server told us about the training he had recently completed and rattled off impressive statistics about cups served and the lengths Giraffe went to in sourcing good coffee and investing in decent machines and barista training. We drank Bright Note, a blend of Guatemalan and Brazilian coffee with a fruity cocoa finish. They serve it English style in a mug with no frills if that’s what you want as well as all the cortados, americanos and expressos you could ask for. We didn’t order a capuccino because only philistines order them after eleven a.m.

Across two visits including brunch, I tried the huevos rancheros Mexican breakfast, a large plate covered with a tortilla topped with either scrambled or fried eggs, chorizo and a pile of black beans topped with cheese, adobe sauce and an avocado & tomato salsa; the falafel burger with red pepper & harissa hummus, and the miso & lime grilled salmon with wasabi fried rice, teriyaki greens, lime and sesame crunch. We shared fries and some garlic bread, good and large portions of these staple sides. I liked the look of the bowls packed with lively salads too: the ‘Penang Bang’ with shredded chicken, peanuts, bok-choi and nappa cabbage with a lime-chilli-ginger dressing and another one made with quinoa, edamame, fresh herbs & elderflower dressing. Ideal light lunches, really.

The miso and lime salmon was great, looked and felt healthy, with a pile of really well flavoured rice with a wasabi-like heat [although probably not the real wasabi as the margins on that would be too low for a chain restaurant] and some citrus crunch from the lime and sesame. I steamed through this and would happily order it again. Husband ordered the falafel burger as a kind of test as he tends to find most places serve a vile, shrivelled little ball with not enough juice in the accompaniments to get it down his gullet but Giraffe’s version was better than most and the harissa-hummus pushed away any tedious chickpea blandness.

We also tried out one of their ‘dessert cocktails’ which, on paper, sound totally OTT but was less sickly than it sounded and quite fun to drink because, um, alcoholic pudding.  The Banoffee Martini came in a large cocktail coupe with crumbled cookie crumbs on the top. The combination of butterscotch, brandy & banana liqueur with cream nearly put me under the table [lightweight] and its definitely not one to order if you plan on doing anything other than lying flat on a sofa afterwards with a smug ‘I’m not at work and you are’ grin on your face.

I did think there was potential to develop their appeal to the post-work drink crowd: the bar looks good for a chain, the bar staff are knowledgeable about their product and keen to try out new cocktails and guide you towards something new. There’s already a Bar Buddies offer, which provides 50% off cocktails after 5pm from Sunday-Thursday and the possibility of more offers to come.

This is the best of all the chains, a business that pays more than lip service to healthier menus and doesn’t think that all parents want to eat with their children in gaudy, noisy and infantile surroundings. I also prefer it to fake trattorias and fake French bistros which make me want to hurl. It’s also a place to bring the morning papers or your tablet and sit with a coffee and breakfast in one of the booths away from the busier and more open seating areas. There’s room to attract business clientele and the evening crowd looking for somewhere to have that first drink. I liked Giraffe and I didn’t expect to.

Find Giraffe online.

Images by Giraffe.

 

Tom Hagen’s risotto

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Speck and cabbage awaiting the carnaroli rice

I first read The Godfather by Mario Puzo when I was about eleven after I found a tatty copy of it on my fathers bookshelf, keeping company with his yellow and black-liveried Dennis Wheatley paperbacks. As a man who spent half his life on a plane, he had amassed a fine collection of airport novels and at the time The Godfather and Arthur Hailey’s Hotel ruled supreme. I loved Puzo’s descriptions of sloppy red-pepper and steak sandwiches eaten as the Corleone brothers arranged to go to the mattresses after war broke out between the ruling mobster families of New York City and New Jersey. Life and death came together in these glorious kitchen feasts as Sonny Corleone charged round like a raging bull and the family consigliere, a man called Tom Hagen, attempted to calm him down.

Tom Hagen’s name is a wonderful genealogical collision, the result of the characters German-Irish ancestry which made him an unusual choice of lawyer/advisor for these Italian-American gangsters. So unusual a choice was he that the Corleones were referred to as ‘The Irish Gang’ by the other families who struggled to understand why the Corleones did not choose an Italian to be their counsel.

My son spent last Christmas at his uncles in a little village a few miles from Frankfurt: the towers and skyscrapers of the financial district were close enough to be seen in the distance from the roads around their house. He brought home a hamper filled with German foodstuff and all that speck, headcheese, pumpernickel, pflaumenmus (prune jam) and several kinds of wurst have kept us fed ever since. I love the muscular texture of speck, the sturdy way it stands up to all manner of boisterous kinds of cooking and to the Irish-inflected cabbage. It is this resilience which makes it perfect in my risotto, an Irish-Italian-German melange which earns it the moniker: Tom Hagen Risotto.

The flavours are wintry and bold and the Savoy cabbage perfectly melds with the cheese as it melts into the rice. The speck is sliced lengthways then cut into bouncy little dice, some with an edging of fat, some not and fried. The cabbage is julienned and then fried in butter too which causes it to develop lovely caught edges with a browned-butter flavour. There’s flexibility regarding what cheese you use too: fontina or taleggio all work well and I have also used a munster-géromé from Alsace-Lorraine. You do need a cheese that yields though as opposed to one that just sits on top of the risotto because those soft cheesy trails from mouth to plate as you fork up heaps of cabbage, rice and bacon bring the best pleasure.

The important thing to remember about risotto is that it loves your company. Stand close by with a wooden spoon and a pan full of warming stock on the next hob. Risotto doesn’t appreciate infusions of cold stock which cause it to lose heat and the steadier the temperature and more metronomic the stirring, the creamer your risotto will be. And you will feel calm and warm and well-disposed towards your fellow humans. It’s a shame Mama Corleone didn’t make this calming meal for her warring children because she might have spent less time at church praying for the repose of their souls.

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Ingredients

4-5 tbsp unsalted butter / 1.5L Chicken stock / 400g Carnaroli risotto rice / 1 med finely diced onion/ 80 ml white wine / 400g Savoy cabbage, cut into fine ribbons (julienne) / 150g speck cut into lardons / 100g grated fontina or taleggio /

Method

Place the chicken stock into a saucepan and bring it to a gentle boil. Once it starts to boil, lower the heat and keep it simmering and covered on the back of the hob. You may need to top it up with more stock if you run out but this should be enough. I have used ready-made fresh stock for this risotto and I have also used stock made from the carcass of a chicken with a few leeks, carrots, a stem of celery and some onion too. It’s your call. Here’s a good stock recipe if you want to make your own.

Melt two tablespoons of butter in a wide and shallow pan, add the finely-diced onion and start to sweat until softened which will take around four to five minutes. Keep the heat nice and low, you don’t want burned onions. Put another tablespoon of butter into a small fry-pan and add the ribbons of Savoy cabbage and let them start to soften. This should take a couple of minutes, then switch the heat off under the cabbage and let it rest.

Now you need to add the diced speck into the pan of softened onion and fry over a low to medium heat until the fat runs and the speck starts to colour. Those fat little cubes will start to pop and jump around in the pan like miniature Brown Betty bombs so don’t worry, this is normal but stand back a bit. When it has started to brown, stir in the risotto rice and swirl them around the pan, ensuring the grains acquire a glossy brown-butter coat. If you need more butter, now’s the time to add it. This stage is a very important moment known as the brillatura, or “sparkling,” which describes the translucent look of the rice kernels as they appear to toast in the browned butter.

Now pour in the wine over the rice mixture and stir over a low to medium heat until most of the wine has been absorbed by the rice. Now add in the set-aside cabbage ribbons and stir again.  You want to maintain it at the all’onda e al dente stage where the risotto moves across the pan in a wave-like motion as your spoon travels round and round the pan, stirring and stirring. You don’t need to stir constantly, but you do need to stir often because this is what encourages the rice to give up its starch.

Ladle in a cup of the hot chicken stock and continue to stir over a low-medium heat until all of this stock has been absorbed. Keep it company, make sure you have a little taste now and again and add a little salt if you think it requires it- let it cool slightly on the spoon so the flavour isn’t masked by the heat. The speck is naturally salty so you will need to allow for that.

Continue to ladle in the stock until it has pretty much been used up or the rice is done: you will know if it is because it will possess a creamy texture and the centre will retain a small bite. You don’t want mush, you aren’t making congee. This process should take about twenty to twenty-five minutes and don’t rush it as what you are aiming to do is slowly integrate the rice with the other ingredients, allowing each grain to be permeated by the flavour of the stock. The time you spend will be amply rewarded, I promise you.

When you think it is ready, turn off the heat and stir through another teaspoon or so of cold butter and then add in the pecorino, taleggio or fontina or whatever cheese you have chosen and stir it in. This stage is not an after-thought nor a casual finishing-off of your dish: it is far more important than that. You are completing the mantecatura where diced cold butter is vigorously stirred in to make the texture as smooth and creamy as possible. This completes what happened during the cooking when your stirring freed the starch molecules from the outside of the rice grains into the stock. The released starch helps create that unctuous texture and you are looking for a risotto which Italians describe as all’onda, ( wavy, or flowing in waves”) so that when you tip the plate slightly, the risotto ripples across its top. Don’t hang around either, it needs eating immediately because it will continue to gently cook- part of the reason why it is so comforting to eat as its steam and creaminess warms you from the outside in.

 

 

blood-orange and honey curd

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This curd will give you a Turner sky in a jar…………

Blood-orange season offers a licence to gorge, a short period of time to enjoy the brightest of fruits in the depths of winter. Yesterday I realised that I have eaten nearly a crate-full of Taroccos in just three days, bought from my local market and most of them eaten as they are, split into quarters or sprinkled with either salt, celery-salt or a little chipotle dust to enhance their natural sweet-savoriness. I’m not alone in my love of salted blood-oranges either; read Rachel Roddy’s sensory evocation of oranges, eaten closer to their olive-grove home. Some of my oranges went into a blood-orange and pomelo sticky crunch cake and I re-visited last years fennel and blood-orange salad. Yet more were sliced and sprinkled with chipotle, achiote and salt then chucked into a roasting dish full of chicken thighs. The sturdy dark-meat of this part of the bird stands up to the most boisterous of flavours and my hands have taken on a semi-permanent orange hue.

Waitrose has re-branded them ‘blush oranges’, which sounds like something Hyacinth Bouquet might dream up and I hate it. Their blurb makes no mention of the dreaded B word and although they specify Sicily as country of origin, no more information is offered but they are Taroccos as many imported bloods seems to be. That red-stained flesh contains shed-loads of anthocyanin antidioxidants and one of the highest Vitamin C levels, compared to their peers. It’s an easy fruit to handle too, with thin and easy to peel skin, very little pith and what pith there is lacks the tongue-drying bitterness of other citrus fruits.

I already have a jar of Scarlett & Mustards orange curd in the fridge alongside their blackcurrant and star anise but after reading Melissa Clark’s recipe for blood orange olive-oil cake from her book In the Kitchen With a Good Appetite, where she mentions making a compote of blood-orange and honey to accompany it, I thought why not make some blood-orange and honey curd?

This recipe gives you a mellifluous curd, and ‘mellifluous’ couldn’t be more apt a description with its late Middle English and Latin root, [mel= honey and flu= to flow]. The honey adds a dulcet tone to the citrus-salt of the fruit, rounding it out through the labours of the bee, a creature defined by the first Spanish dictionary, back in 1611, as “the symbol of the curious, who gather sentences as the bee gathers flowers, making a work smooth and sweet.”

Clark’s little compote is simple: she takes three oranges and supremes them then drizzles in 1-2 teaspoons of honey and leaves the mixture to infuse but my curd involves a little more work- you will need to stand and cosset it a little as it cooks. It will reward you by keeping for a week in the fridge although my batch went in two days: I stirred the curd into ice-cream, used it to sandwich bitter-chocolate cookies and made a French toast hybrid by cutting brioche into fingers, frying them in a pan until golden and slightly caught on the edges then spreading them with a thin layer of curd. Or go Sicilian-luxe by sandwiching gelato in a brioche bun whose cut sides have been spread with curd first. You might choose to use it as a rich filling for a Pav which is also a useful way to use up the left-over egg-whites, (to make the meringues, here’s Nigella’s meringue recipe) give  cannelles a lovely citrus-sauced heart or sandwich together a sponge layer-cake. I imagine it’d be great dolloped onto your breakfast yoghurt or oatmeal too. It makes a good sauce to add interest to tiny friands and plain madeleines- thin it down a little with another squeeze of juice first. Stirred into cheesecake batter it not only adds tartness and depth, but also a beautifully rosy pink-red colour. So so versatile, like all curds are.

When a recipe is this simple, it really helps if you can try to find the very best ingredients you can: free-range eggs with golden-orange yolks, good unsalted butter of palest cream and honey with a light floral scent will all give your curd a superlative flavour and looks. However, it will still be a joyous thing to eat even if you use supermarket basic ingredients, so don’t worry if that’s all you have. This curd will give you a Turner sky in a jar.

Recipe for blood-orange and honey curd. 

You will need:

4 tablespoons of unsalted butter, sliced into little pieces / 60ml of honey (I use the set kind and I’d encourage you to avoid the very strong flavours: the chestnut, lavender, rosemary varieties are not what you want here) / 4 large egg yolks / 2 large whole eggs / 240ml of fresh blood-orange juice from unwaxed and then zested fruits (around 4-6 oranges) / 1 tablespoon of very finely grated blood-orange zest

Method

Take a medium bowl and cream the butter and honey inside it until it is fluffy and the butter is pale and creamy then marvel at the gorgeous colour,smell and texture. Break the whole egg and egg yolks into a jug and beat until foamy then stir the eggs into the honey/butter mixture slowly until they are incorporated. Take your time over this: add them slowly and ensure they are fully incorporated before pouring in more egg. You don’t want it to go all grainy. Now add the fresh blood-orange juice (again, very carefully) and when you have folded this in, pour the mixture into a medium-sized and non-reactive saucepan.

You will need to cook this over a low-medium heat on the stove-top and stir constantly with a broad wooden spoon as you do so. What you are looking for is the point at which the mixture becomes thickened, creamy and almost jelly-like: watch for when it clots and then pulls away from the sides of the pan as you cut through from one side of the pan to the other with your wooden spoon. The mixture will arrive at this point quite suddenly so now is not the time to check your phone or glance at the newspaper. It’s a culinary high-wire act because you don’t want it to boil, you need to keep it on the edge of doing so and it will want to boil so stay close. Just before it breaks into that boil, when it is beginning to splutter and putter at you, remove the pan from the stove-top heat. You will know it is done because the curd will leave a clear trail on the back of the wooden spoon. It will be volcanically hot and it WILL stick to your skin if you splash it on you so be careful.

Now you’ve removed it from the heat, stir in the citrus zest. As you do so, lean over and breathe in the dizzying scent of oranges that will rise from the pan. Take a moment to enjoy this. Your curd is done. Now all you have to do is pour it into whatever pretty jar or pot you have set aside. That pot will have already been washed in boiling water and left to air-dry, or whatever method you choose to sterilise them. (If you decide to omit this stage and just wash those jars, the curd will keep for around 5 days in the fridge.) When you have decanted all your curd, let it cool in the jars until it is stone cold and then you can screw on the lids. Store it in the fridge and eat it swiftly. This is not a long-life food once that jar is opened, just as the blood-orange is with us for a few short weeks.