Where There’s Smoke

I fought the fire and the fire won.

I smell as smoky as a slab of Texas brisket, smudged and sooty as a chimney sweep. Nothing is more important to me than airflow, fuel and the all-encompassing flame. If I was left alone in a wintery forest with a box of matches I’d freeze to death. It’s just as well I’m a 21st Century boy and other methods of getting warm are available.

Let’s set the scene. Greetings from Allowenshay, a tiny village in Somerset halfway between Bridgwater and Bridport. To finesse the location—a shepherd’s hut on a sheep farm set in beautiful rolling countryside. We’re not roughing it, naturally. C and I like our creature comforts too much. The hut has a big bed, underfloor heating and wi-fi. All the essentials.

The big attraction, though, are the wood-fired accoutrements on offer—a barbecue, a chiminea and a stove. A pizza oven. A hot tub. Luxury with a slightly rough edge. I could do the manly stuff while C relaxed and enjoyed a pampering on her birthday weekend.

Afternoon activities

Now, I can light a fire. The stove in the cottage at Coniston practically starts itself these days. A hot tub and pizza oven were a step up from my usual skillset. But hey, how hard can it be? The visitor book at the hut is full of glowing testimonials to both items. I go in, bright-eyed and excited, with a cliplock box full of 48-hour fermented pizza dough and a dream of hot-tubbing under the stars.

Ah, Readership. You know what’s coming, right? Fermented pizza dough is incredibly fragile. You really need to build it on a very heavily floured peel, and go easy with the toppings. It also takes a lot of experience, a confident hand and maaaaaybe one less negroni than the brace I had in me when I started to get the whole delicate construct cleanly in and out of the oven.

Preeeezenting pizza a la Allowenshay.

YUMMY.

I couldn’t get the darn thing off the peel, and the oven was nowhere near hot enough when I did manage to scrape it into place. It was half-raw, half-burnt, although the flavour of the dough on the tiny bits that were properly cooked was good.

We had a baked potato for dinner instead.

Regarding wood-fired hot tubs. They are wonderful things. On the first afternoon, as we’d politely asked for it to be lit on our arrival, a deeply pleasurable hour was spent lolling about with a beer, all the stresses of the journey ebbing away as we bobbed in the warm water.

Following Pizzagate, I’d been able to get the tub warm enough to sit in for a while—not the soup-making temperature C was after but fine for me. That was as good as it got. On our last night, after nearly three hours of burn, the tub still wasn’t at blood temperature. Oh well, learning curve.

This is starting to sound as if we had a complete disaster of a break, which couldn’t be further from the truth. We were perfectly content, warm and cosy in our little hut. We were on a working sheep farm which gave us the opportunity to watch our hosts cajole a stubborn flock down into pasture—ultimately bullying them off the hillside before the nose of the family HiLux.

Base camp was perfectly positioned for adventures. We forayed into Devon, Dorset and Wiltshire, enjoying seafood in Lyme Regis (sadly slightly too early to eat at the newest Rockfish, which opens there on April 1st) and an amble round three National Trust places—Montecute House, Lytes Cary Manor and the magnificent gardens and house at Stourhead. The latter, if nowhere else, is well worth the visit if you’re in the area, a wild confection of mythological fictions in grounds you could spend all day wandering through. And of course, there’s a great plant shop and secondhand book nook if you have any questions about why C and I are such NT enthusiasts. The whole organisation has laser-focussed itself onto our interests.

In conclusion, we had a thoroughly indulgent time, as befits C’s birthday excursions.

It was our last night, after we’d finally given up on the hot tub. We were sitting instead around the chiminea, watching the spent gases from a SpaceX launch form a glowing halo in a night sky blazing with stars. We weren’t really talking. We didn’t need to. The moment, broken only by the occasional chirp of a night-bird or baa from a sheep, was near to perfect.

Would it have been better in wood-warmed water? Perhaps. But we had wine, the moment and each other. And you know what? That’s enough.

To conclude, a track from Marc Ribot’s new album. Don’t depend on me if you want to set the world on fire.

See you next Saturday.