Ragtag Tuesday: Wet walking

Near the Ripon Canal.

It was my turn to lead our walking group on a hike on Saturday.  When I was planning what to put in the programme a few months ago, I had an idea of taking the group on a pleasant wintry walk along frost-rimed canal paths with delicate fine sheets of ice coating any puddles we met.  A weak sun would glimpse through downy dove-grey cloud, and we’d walk briskly in the cold clear air.

Well, that didn’t work.  Last week,  we’d had four days of largely non-stop rain.  And Saturday was no different.  Anybody with any sense would have rolled over in bed that morning and gone back to sleep.  I got up, and took myself off to our rendezvous, completely confident that nobody would be there waiting for me.  I’d come home and toast my toes by the fire.

Five would-be walkers greeted me.  Yes, they did want to walk.  No, they didn’t think it was too wet.  We’re here now.  Let’s get on with it.

The Ripon Canal was still looking inviting as we began our walk.

So we did.  We’re an amiable bunch who like one another so the conversation flowed.  We got in our several-thousand-steps for the day.  But we also couldn’t see much as our glasses got wetter and wetter.  Our rain gear kept the rain out and the sweat in.  Our over trousers dripped and sulked.  Our boots got damper and damper. The canal tow path, normally a fine surface for a winter’s walk, slipped and oozed.  The trees dumped giant water drops on our heads to add to the rain’s constant spillage

Those umbrellas were a mighty fine idea.

We got to our half-way point in record time.  We got back to base in an even more record time.

‘Now honestly,’  I said to my fellow-martyrs as the end drew nigh.’If you had your time over again, knowing what you know now, would you have come?”Of course!’ they all said.  And they meant it.  Not me. I scuttled off home to my fireside, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

This bridge by the River Skell provided much needed shelter as we said our goodbyes at the edge of Ripon.

Today’s Ragtag Challenge is ‘Rain’.

Marmalade in the rain

We’ve just had a typically British weekend.

Rain.

Coffee stop at Tebay.

 

And lots of marmalade.

Marmalade shop at Dalemain.

 

Surely it’s only in England that you would find an annual festival dedicated to marmalade in all its forms?  And it’s no surprise to find it hosted in a delightful country house, Dalemain, the family home of the Hasell-McCosh family.

Delmain, Cumbria

Eleven years ago, Jane Hasell-McCosh devised this very British festival, and now in March every year, some 2,000 marmalade makers submit their entries to be judged .

The day kicked off in a rare rain-free moment with local schoolchildren belting out a jolly song about the delights of marmalade.  In this ballad, they rejected any treat they were offered, preferring instead a slice of toast, well slathered with this bitter orange preserve.  As if.

MC was one of my baking heroes, Dan Lepard.  He introduced everyone, and announced the winners.  And then we went into the house, to visit room after room stuffed with pots of marmalade.  Each jar is awarded a series of marks, and is given an individual critical commentary.  I was quite cross that I hadn’t in the end made the effort to enter any of my own efforts.

The entrants though are not only true Brits, eccentric or otherwise.  In our B&B we had met Chris Brown, a baker from Vancouver, who had come for this one weekend only to enter his marmalade.  He’d already won gold medals in previous years.  So many Japanese have done well that the Japanese Ambassador himself came to the opening ceremony and made a gracious and witty speech.  There were Australians there, and Kiwis, South Africans, Americans, someone from the Czech Republic ….

18 is a decent score: worth a silver medal, I believe.

The competition has categories for Seville orange marmalade of course, for marmalade with a twist, for any citrus marmalade, for dark and chunky marmalade ….. all this could be predicted.  But a category for marmalade makers who are also campanologists?  Octogenarians?  ‘The Establishment’: those redoubtable and upstanding members of society, such as bishops, MPs and judges who used to be the only people who could verify your likeness for a passport application?

This is entirely in keeping with the professional-but-with-a strong-hint-of-the-amateur feel of the festival.

 

I paid extra to go to Question Time.  Baker Dan Lepard, food historian Ivan Day, marmalade guru Pam ‘the jam’ Corbin, and  Martin Grant,  MD of Mackay’s Marmalade made the hour whizz past.  One conversation stood in my mind. ‘If we sent each of you home with a basket of raspberries, or blackcurrants and asked you to make jam, you’d all come back with much the same product.  If we sent you home with a bag of oranges, you’d each come back with something quite different.’ And it’s true.  They’d range from dense, dark and treacly with big chunky chewy peel to bright jewelled orange jellies with a delicate filigree of fine strands of zest suspended within.  And all stops in between.  This immense variety to be had from a product made simply with oranges, a bag of sugar, a lemon, and perhaps a little secret something is what gives marmalade its continuing appeal.

Who knew that squirrels like marmalade?

After lunch, we popped into Penrith.  The town had gone orange for the weekend.  The face of the town clock was orange: the shop windows were dressed in orange, and there was an orange-themed market in the town square.  Marmalade anyone?  It was all good fun, despite the unremitting rain.

Next morning, we headed home.  The rain was so intense that newly established rivers and waterfalls cascaded from the hills.  Older-established rivers burst their banks and flooded across roads.  Fields developed impromptu lakes.  It reminded us of a remark that Malcolm had overheard at the festival: ‘I come every year.  But it always rains’

Of course.  This is Britain.  This is Cumbria.

But this was our welcome home to Yorkshire.