In many ways the countryside is like a car boot sale. Although rather than expecting to find Botticelli sketches padding Shakespeare 1st Folios, one is continually surprised that not every restaurant is a Michelin starred fish gaff tended by friendly buxom yokels, pissed on scrumpy and proffering bunches of their home-grown asparagus for you to try back in that London.
We’ve walked about 12 miles today along the sheerest and rockiest of cliff faces. The dichotomous prayer of the cliff walker: Please Lord, don’t let me be flung off this cliff, I’m gasping for a scrumpy vs. Please Lord, hurl me into the tarry black below and permanently halt this awful rainy nonsense.
Back in London tomorrow. We’re going to go straight to Selfridges Food Hall where the countryside comes nicely branded, packaged and delivered.