A road trip around Britain. Six cities in six days. 2,000 kilometres; four great old pubs; two-award winning Asian restaurants; fish-and-chips in Brighton; seaweed, served soggy with faggots on a wild Welsh cliff-top, or fried crisp with prawn and sesame in the heart of Manchester's Chinatown. The original Bakewell tart and possibly the best ice-cream on the plan
et.England is always a new experience for me. When I left it, Margaret Thatcher was prime minister, pub food was scampi in the basket and the choice of wine was likely to be was Blue Nun or pink Mateus. Now reinvigorated northern cities have arisen out of decades of industrial blight. Chic couples sip Chardonnay and nibble dim sum among boutiques built into impeccably restored Victorian warehouses; coffee comes in a baffling variety from ristretto to double hazelnut latte; and Lithuanian sales girls serve butternut squash with chili and roasted pumpkin seeds as an alternative to the all-day, full English at motorway service stations.
Some things never change though, when we chugged into Dover a near gale howled though the Channel, horizontal rain pound the White Cliffs and temperatures were more February than May.
The downpour chased us across the salt march of Romney, past the medieval charms of Rye and continued as we took succour from a shoulder of lamb slow roasted with mint and cranberry in the genteel back room restaurant of the Denbigh pub in Bexhill-on-Sea, a city with the highest proportion of retirees in the UK.
We hit our first overnight stop as a hundreds of brave Mini enthusiasts sought to protect their Union Jack draped, Italian Job-themed vehicles from the tempest at the end of a London to Brighton rally.
Shivering for shelter on Brighton's one surviving pier, we watched the waves batter the burnt out skeleton of its sister down the coast. There's candy floss and boxes of fudge, Brighton rock in three dozen glossy hues. The helter-skelter is closed by the inclement weather, but more modern contraptions swing and jolt screaming fair-goers up and over the raging sea.
When we finally get some respite from the deluge it's to take a quick buzz through the Lanes _ the old fishing village at the heart of the city _ now filled with fashionable stores and trendy fusion food halls. The Hindu fantasy of the Royal Pavilion, Prince George's Regency pleasure dome is a must-see attraction, despite the current ugly scaffolding. Eschewing the exotic eateries down Western Road, we march on to Bankers, which competes with Bardsleys up by the station for the title of purveyor of Brighton's finest fish and chips.
Like so many of these bastions of traditional British grub, the owners of this chippy are actually Cypriot, their origins revealed by the Mediterranean seascape hung over the takeaway counter. Tucked away in the non-smokers' dining room the murals are all Brighton belle époque, Edwardian ladies with parasols parading down the prom. The menu provides all the necessary huss, haddock, cod, skate and plaice. Batter is suitably crisp, the fish in shark-sized portions is firm and fleshy fresh, the chips thick cut and soft in the British taste - none of that fancy, double-French-fried crunch here. A break with tradition takes us away from tea to a bottle of the house white, an acidic vin du pays that left me thinking that a nice cup of cha might have been a better deal after all.
Temporary sunshine brightend a walk back along the seafront, past the Grand Hotel where the IRA tried to blow up Thatcher's government in 1984. We loose some money to the pier's one-armed bandits, then stop for espresso and amaretto cheesecake in the Terrace Bar and Grill, a modern, cafe with comfy leather sofas and a circular glass front offering a front row seat for of all the black clouds scudding in from the West.
The delights of an old-fashioned B&B ... in the Lanes Hotel overlooking the sea, we get Weetabix followed by bacon and eggs freshly cooked to order (crispy and sunny side up), sausage, beans and grilled tomato, a big pot of good strong tea, lashings of toast with marmalade and Marmite for those inclined. All served with a smile by our sweat Continental waitress. A round 100 pounds for a room for four.
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We set off for out next stop over the soft slopes of the South Downs, skirt London and strike out west getting a break from the rain as the Seven suspension bridge grants us a spectacular watery vista over the great estuary leading into the dark, Celtic green hills of Wales.
Swansea's town centre was ruined by three days of Luftwaffe bombing in 1941. The post-war reconstruction was not successful, leaving a soulless heart of shabby shopping malls and concrete precincts. More recent efforts have given it a new maritime quarter complete with marina, the National Waterfront museum and some swank new hotels and bars. But, at least on this chill spring evening, it was lifeless.
Instead the heart of the city was beating down Wind Street which is home to back-to-back bars and restaurants. Many are brash modern places aimed at the under-20s, but tucked in among them is the No Sign Bar, a legendary literary hangout where the Welsh bard Dylan Thomas began his life of booze that would end with death at 39 after a heavy night in the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village. Renamed the Wine Vaults in Thomas' story "The Followers," this old place oozes atmosphere, particularly in the front section around the bar. You half expect to see blind Capt. Cat from Thomas' "Under Milk Wood" sipping on a pint of Brains SA served by the hand of Mrs. Ogmore-Pritchard. Food wise it's moved on a bit from Thomas' times and now serves serviceable tapas to compete with the renowned Spanish bodega, La Braseria, a reported favourite of Catherine Zeta-Jones, just down the road. We were disappointed that they'd run out of Welsh cawl - a local lamb stew - and the salmon fish cakes. However, the salmon steak with honey and mustard glaze on butter bean and rocket mash was excellent. The leak and pork sausages with Celtic champ mash were copiously tasty and the bar was loyal to its old wine merchant's link by serving some fine white Rioja. Iechyd da !(as they say around here). Dinner for four: 50 pounds.
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Tucked away behind banks and high street fashion stores is Swansea's covered market, an idiosyncratic slice of local colour that has survived the blitzing of its original home the competition from all the Tescos and Asdas. It's a big rambling place with stalls selling everything from knitwear and love spoons to vacuum cleaner attachments and second-hand Barbara Cartland paperbacks. It is the food vendors that steal the show though. Butchers with spring lamb and black beef, trays of faggots and sliced black pudding; cheese merchants displaying crumbly white Caerphilly, or ale-and-mustard flavoured Y Fenni; bakers flipping pancakes and trading savoury patties, raisin-rich Welsh cakes, but no bara brith - it seems this fruit-rich traditional loaf is too expensive to make!
The heart of the market is the seafood stands where fishwives tout their pungent pots of cockles and muscles from the nearby Gower shores, chewy whelks, lobster tails and crabs claws. Among all the shellfish are pots of slimy laverbread seaweed _ traditionally rolled in oatmeal then fried with bacon and cockles for breakfast! With the weather looking promising, we stock up with provisions for a picnic and head out for the wonders of the Gower Peninsula.
This jagged oblong jutting out into the Bristol Channel is a place of wonder from childhood holidays 30 years ago. The first part of Britain to be declared an area of outstanding natural beauty is reached by the coast road that sweeps round around the vast tidal curve of Swansea's Bay, surely one of Britain's best urban beaches. The Gower's roads are mostly narrow, shady lanes twisting through the valleys and offering tantalising glimpses of the forget-me-not blue sea. On Pennard Common, cars park in a line just back from the sheer cliffs with the vague line of Devon's coast on the horizon.
Although the sun is shining we keep the doors shut against the biting wind and eat our Welsh goodies from the market. Faggots - compact meat balls made with pork, liver and sage; Swansea pies of soft pastry filled with sloppy mince and onion; laverbread that tastes of spinach boiled in sea water; the little flat scones known as Welsh cakes. Across the cliff tops is a bracing mile-long walk to Three Cliffs Bay, recently voted one of the top five views in Britain, a perfect beach of honey-toned sand surrounded by rocky outcrops and bounded by a little river sneaking through to the sea. Beyond loom gorse-covered hills speckled with white cottages.
Next up is Rhossili, a truly breathtaking sight, where the grassy hills plunge down from almost 200 meters to a three-mile arc of sand battered by rollers which make the beach a favourite with surfers. At the southern end is the mysterious Worm's Head rock poking out into the sea and a target for adventurous ramblers at low tide.
There's a hotel, pub and National Trust shop. And, at the head of the path running down to the beach, a fine tea room offering great views and a wicked Victoria sponge. A bigger variety of pubs and restaurants can be found in the picturesque nearby fishing village of Port Enyon.Back towards Swansea, the bay-side resort of Mumbles was a bit short on the promised Victorian charm. Looking for a place for dinner, the choice seemed to be string of unappealing Asian restaurants and some sad looking pubs. We ended up in Verdi's, a cafe founded by a family from South Wales' large Italian community. A modern glass place on the harbour side, it has strange licensing arrangements that mean you can only drink wine with a meal, last orders are at 9 pm and there's a complex, semi-self service arrangement for getting the meal. The pizza and pasta were only average. Dinner 60 pounds for four. Verdi's also has an ice-cream rivalry with Joe's another Italian place along the seafront. Both have a penchant for some exotic flavours but neither Joe's Turkish delight, or Verdi's apple crumble flavour really convinced.
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Back to England through the pasture and forest lands along the Monmouthshire marches, then cut through the Midland sprawl to Coventry. Another city centre destroyed in the Second World War, but Coventry seems have done better in modernising its post-war reconstruction. An inner ring road leaves the compact city centre largely car free. There's a succession of shopping centres linked by broad pedestrian streets with fountains and carts selling baked potatoes and pork roast. It's mostly 1950's brick work containing all the familiar high street acronyms BHS M&S, C&A, etc., but somehow it seems to work. There's a proud statue of Lady Godiva riding bare back and a soaring chrome archway leading to the new transport museum which recalls the city's car-making past.
Ruins of an old priory have been incorporated into a garden and square with lined with trendy new bars like Dogma, Prague and Flamingo.
Enough half-timbered or stone buildings survived the Nazi fire bombs to give a taste of the old medieval town. And then of course there is the Cathedral. The vast, vaulted modernist building was a symbol of Britain's recovery from the war. It is very much a work of its time, and not to everybody's taste, but it forms an undoubtedly impressive whole with the gothic ruins of the 14th century old church alongside.
The vast stain-glassed windows flood the nave with blue light, especially when viewed from the altar looking down to the angel-etched west screen. Britain's top artists of the day were recruited to decorate leaving Graham Sutherland's giant tapestry of Christ, Jacob Epstein's statue of St. Michael vanquishing the Devil and the cross made from medieval nails collected from the old ruins which has become the city's peace symbol.The Polish and Ghanian produce stalls in the market show the extent of Coventry's multicultural mix, but the city's south Asian community has left a more enduring mark on the city's cuisine and the Turmeric Gold restaurant has won a host of local awards as the best Indian eatery. Housed in a 400-year-old house in medieval Spon Street, the interior is a disconcerting mixture of olde English inn and maharajah's boudoir. The service was friendly and attentive handing out hot towels and welcoming glasses of mango lassi. The rest of the meal wasn't really up to the mark though, like a seventies throw back, prawn tikka marsala featured a few of the poor creatures drowned in a vivid red, cloyingly rich sauce, the gold shashlik special was a rather bland kebab. The best bit was the side vegetables - lemony chick peas, okra with mango power. With a couple of Cobra beers the dinner for four was 82 pounds.
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Manchester, elevated as post-industrial capital of the North in the decade since the city centre was devastated by an IRA bomb is now little less mad, a lot more cool and looking seriously laid back on the sunny, traffic-free streets around St. Ann's Square, where well-heeled shoppers slip from designer boutique to pavement cave. The in-crowd head to the Lotus a blend of Chinese tea house with wine bar that offers cuttlefish cake with lime leaves and ostrich in lemongrass sauce for those seeking some adventurous mid-shop refuelling.
Red brick temples to the Victorian workshop of the world have been stripped of soot and now gleam with civic pride alongside the towering monuments of new steel and glass.
Among glittering new urban landscape of Exchange Square, between the world's biggest Marks and Spencer's and the trendy new Triangle shopping centre is a giant wheel to rival the London Eye. From the summit you can see the Pennine hills, Old Trafford stadium and the white glass slab of the Beetham Tower, freshly declared Britain's tallest building outside London. Down below, the Millennium quarter has relocated half-timbered pubs, the Old Wellington and Sinclair's Oyster Bar next to the 14th Cathedral in the medieval heart of the city. Round the corner is the bobo Northern Quarter with off beat stores and pop art cafes. There's a thriving gay scene round Canal street, a vibrant China Town, neon-lit Indian eating on Rusholme's "curry mile", canal-side nightlife around Castlefields and Deansgate locks. All set to a local soundtrack that ranges from the Halle Orchestra to Joy Division, the Smiths, Oasis, the Buzzcocks ....
Manchester has world class museums featuring pre-Raphaelite painting in the Manchester Art Gallery, trains and planes in the Museum of Science and Industry and the ultramodern celebration of city life, Urbis. The Manchester Museum down in the university houses an eclectic mix of T-Rex skeletons, live tree frogs and Egyptian mummies, while The Lowery arts centre is dedicated to the matchstick men of the city's favourite painter.
The Briton's Protection has been serving ale to Mancunians for 200 years, its name apparently linked to Peterloo Massacre of 1819 which happened up the road. Local lore has it that the landlord of the time favoured the Lancashire militia rather than the radical reformers who fell victim that day. The massacre is portrayed on tile panels that line the labyrinth interior beyond the standing-room only front bar. It's popular with Halle musicians from the next-door Bridgewater Hall who pop in for pint or two of Robinson's beer brewed in nearby Stockport.
A couple of other 19th century pubs in the city centre Mr. Thomas Chop House and Sam's Chop House have become renowned bastions of traditional English food, but the intricacies of English licensing laws made it difficult to dine with kids, so we headed down to Chinatown.
Yang Sing on Princess Street has long been touted as the best Cantonese restaurant in Europe, but its reputation has recently taken a battering with some aggressive reviews. It's newly redecorated, and the refined interior aims to create the atmosphere of 1930s Shanghai. A small army of waiters and waitresses in red and black buzz among the packed tables. Chief chef Harry Yeung is a master from Guangzhou who's been giving Mancs a taste of his local cuisine for 30 years. The menu is vast and wonderfully exotic, featuring the likes of suckling pig with jelly fish, and steamed chicken feet. Tempting to be sure, but the kids were demanding something more familiar, who we order a set menu for three _ which was 66 pounds and more than enough for four.
Starting with spring roll and deep fried shrimp dumpling, then great dim sum, spare ribs in thick, smoky, nutty sauce, sesame and prawn toast on crispy fried seaweed, chicken and sweetcorn soup. All of this was wonderful, familiar Chinese restaurant standards taken to a whole new level of sophistication, perfectly accompanied by the fruity Argentine Torontes house wine. The trio of main courses included delicious prawn and mangetout, fine peppery beef and onion stir fry and sweat-and-sour chicken with pineapple _ now, the kids loved that last one, but it was a sticky step too far toward the takeaways of old for me. All in all a great meal.
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A short drive south east through the Mancunian suburbs is the Peak District, some of the wildest countryside in England. Plunging valleys, wind-swept plateaux, rough-hewn stone villages. Wedged between the country's biggest industrial cities the peaks are a rugged haven of calm. Amid all the natural grandeur are fine stately homes like Chatsworth - the palace of the Peaks, recently the backdrop for the movie of "Pride and Prejudice."
Jane Austin stayed in the Rutland Arms hotel in the market town of Bakewell which also features in the novel. Shortly after her stay, a cook there invented the jam and almond filled Bakewell tart which has become a nationwide favourite. Also known locally as Bakewell Pudding this delicacy is now sold in several bakeries and cafes around the village. The Bakewell Tart Shop and Coffee House on Matlock street sells wickedly huge wedges of tart with steaming hot custard, and offers lemon, cherry or coconut variations on the theme, as well as a selection of savoury pies which would be just the thing for picnics in the Peaks.
Nottingham has a bad reputation as Britain's capital of crime. Perhaps that's what you get from spending centuries vaunting the virtues of the world's best-known outlaw. Whether the hoodlums who have given Robin Hood's hometown the UK's highest crime and murder rates are aiming to give to the poor is unlikely, and the city is struggling to revamp its fearsome image. Wandering the centre on a balmy Friday night, it was boisterous but not threatening around Market Square as revellers staggered between the city's famous pubs.
Urban renewal is centred the old Lace Market area and the streets running up to Sheriff's castle, which are lined with boutiques and cocktail bars. The chic Lace Market Hotel is here, alongside the Cock and Hoop pub. Delilah's grocery store has a taste festival of local beers and cheeses alongside a great selection of olive oils, smoked hams and wines. Down the road is elegant Paul Smith store. The designer is a local boy who started his career in Nottingham following those other great British trademarks, Boots and Raleigh bikes. Nearby Castle Gate is the site of the stocking factory where D.H. Lawrence once worked and featured in his Nottingham-set novel "Sons and Lovers."
Nottingham claims to have more pubs per head than any other city in England and three of them dispute the title of Britain's oldest.
Best known is Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem which is built into the limestone caves beneath the Sheriff's castle. No evidence that Robin and Little John stopped by for a pint and bag of pork scratchings, but the pub's name is supposed to date from the crusades when local knights would meet up here before setting off to plunder the Holy Land. It's an intriguing place with a succession of little rooms linked by stairs and corridors extending deeper and deeper into the rock with cozy alcoves and cavernous ceilings reaching up toward the castle above. A big range of beers features Old Trip bitter made by local brewer Hardys & Hansons.
Disputing the title is the nearby Ye Olde Salutation inn which claims 13th-century roots and The Bell, in the heart of the city just off the old Market Square. Originally the refectory of a monastery, the Bell has been an alehouse since the days of Henry VIII and its cosy low-beamed front rooms still carry the Tudor interior behind the pub's Georgian facade.
There's a bigger, noisier bar out the back popular with students and a quiet family restaurant upstairs. The friendly staff explain that the small square opening cut into the wall downstairs was once used to check the hands of incoming customers. Those with missing fingers were judged to be lepers and refused entry.The restaurant serves old-fashioned pub food such as Kimberly pie made with beef and H&H beer or sausage and Old Trip beer-flavoured sausages floating on a mountain of mash. Excellent blackberry and apple crumble to follow. A window seat gives a great view over the city centre and increasingly inebriated crowds of pumped up chaps and scantily clad chappettes.
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Driving from Nottingham to Norwich takes in the flat lands of Lincolnshire and the even flatter Fens of Cambridgeshire and Norfolk, criss-crossed with canals and dikes through the flower fields and market gardens. En route is the fine old stone town of Stamford and the stately Burghley House two other places where Keira Knightley strutted her stuff in "Pride and Prejudice."
"Norwich, a fine city," says the sign as you arrive. Dominated by its hilltop Norman Castle and spectacular 11th century cathedral, Norfolk's capital has medieval streets like Elm Hill and Tombland, a colourful market in front of the 1930's town hall and a new ultramodern library and arts centre, The Forum. A major city in the Middle Ages it has dozens of churches and even more pubs, like the Adam and Eve and the Fat Cat which regularly wins awards from real ale connoisseurs. Unfortunately it was raining fat cats and fat dogs the whole time we were there, so we were forced to shopping shelter in the landmark Jarrold's department store which dates back to 1823; the art nouveau Royal Arcade _ home of Coleman's Mustard Store; and the vast Castle Mall and Chapelfield shopping centres.
There's an ice cream vendor on the market which makes a honeycomb flavour which tastes of crunchie bars. But for a ice-cream nirvana you have to move further south into Suffolk and Alder Carr Farm in Needham Market. Here you can pick-your-own fruit, buy Suffolk cured bacon, or home-made chutneys and smoked fish in the farm shop. But the real attraction is the ice-cream. I've tired Giolitti's in Rome and Paolin in Venice, but have never had gelati as good as these from Suffolk. There is nothing but fresh fruit, sugar and cream in each of the 14 varieties, no flavouring or artificial preservatives. The fruit is plucked fresh from the farm. There's gooseberry and elderflower, stem ginger and rhubarb, blackberry and apple, as well as single fruits like strawberry, tayberry and damson. Hard to pick a favourite, but the sinfully spiced Christmas flavour is awesome.
