HUNTER-GATHERING: wild & fresh food

The Hunter-gatherer gets a little press action...

Its not every day you get to see yourself, something about you or something you’ve written on the pages of a magazine. In my relatively short time on this planet I have had a few appearances that I have been pleased with…others not so much- Shipwrecked coverage in the likes of More/Heat magazine were amusing to say the least, I even once made the press board outside the village shop in my early 20’s (not for the right reasons I can assure you…), So here are a few of the clips for your perusal, just click on the picture of the scanned in pages and you can zoom in and have a read.

My latest appearance in this months Reader’s Digest is one I am proud of and represents something I feel more of us should be doing, especially considering the present state of the economy. This Summer I might be doing a little survival/foraging/cooking bits at Safari Britain, a wonderful yurt and bell tent setup deep in the Sussex downs. They run weekends and various country-style activities, well worth booking yourself into for a brief stint.

Eloquently titled “Extreme Camping”, the RD article involved me taking a writer- Rebecca Tyrell, her 11 year-old son, one of his friends and a photographer on a survival packed weekend of wild camping on Dartmoor. We had amazing weather on the first day, the fickle Devon weather took a turn for the worse and we had two days of torrential rain...nice. 

I have since learnt, I somehow turned Louis, the writer’s son, into something resembling the love child of Ray Mears and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. Foraging has become one of his favourite activities as well as dealing with his finds back in the kitchen. I wonder whether his father, Matthew Norman- the food critic for the Gaurdian, may have less enthusiasm for the sway of his son’s palate?

After a brief stint working at Olive magazine, I had a handy bit of publicity for the blog in the magazine and was shocked by the difference it made and has made since in daily hits. Despite their unhinged admiration for everything “foodie”, I can’t thank them enough.  

Enough of this self-absorbed twaddle, the next post will be much more informative I promise! This last picture has little to do with this post at all, I did notice a fellow blogger Alex-the author of just cook it, recently got some Kittens- this ones for you mate, our cat did something stupid, make sure they don't jump off anything too high....

Twitter me this Batman...

After reading a rubbish article in the equally rubbish London Paper (what else can you do on public transport if you forget a book?), I found myself eager to try out this new twitter craze that is sweeping the world. I'm not to sure about all the 'tw' that is added to the start of sentances but, hey ho. I heard about some one called the twitchhiker who plans to travel as far as possible in 30 days relying on the goodwill of twitter users, well good luck to him.

It appears I am becoming teched up with neo-Mac geekery, I have just had a free upgrade in the shape of a 3G I-Phone (thank you 02...).  So I can now tell the world what I am doing, even if I'm not actually doing it (may have to put in a few whoppers). With 140 words at my disposal and as many updates as I like, I have the opportunity to be a bore or make you want more. 

So please feel free to follow me: http://twitter.com/HuntGathercook

Thanks!

21st Century Hunter-gathering: The fully foraged meal.

It amazes me how quickly one can go from standing on a crowded platform at Clapham Junction to wandering through Sussex countryside, armed with a 12-bore on the lookout for something for supper- it was exactly 1hr and 10 minutes to be precise.

I wouldn’t say it is the best time of year to be grubbing through the hedgerows with the hope of creating a meal solely upon what Mother Nature can provide, but there are, thankfully, a few signs that spring is slowly emerging from hibernation. Wondering about the woods, I noticed on the trees that the buds are slowly fattening up ready to burst and the wild garlic is peeking through the soil down by the river- finally winter is drawing to a close. In fact, according to the diary, British Summertime begins on the 29^th March-just over a month away!

At the moment I am waiting to hear some good news (finger’s crossed) from a certain publishing company, so what I saw next I took for a good omen. On emerging from a patch of woodland I noticed a herd of deer sauntering across the field to meet me. In the thick of the herd, standing tall and proud was the Stag, not any ordinary stag mind, he was as white as snow and looked completely out of place amongst his band of merry wenches. I’m sure I’ve heard white stags are good luck… well, we will just have to wait and see.

In the next field, I wandered along tight up against the hedgerow, behind this was a thick wood of birch saplings. The wood is well known for it’s muntjac, who wander about is if they own the place, which (by law-though I don’t know if it applies to wildlife) they probably do, having been there for well over seven years without being jogged on…or shot. As usual they were in the wood minding their own business, so I stood and watched them for a bit, trying to work out whether you could take one down with a shotgun (humanely of course!). Whilst contemplating the nose-to-tail abilities of the humble Muntjac, an extremely foolish woodpigeon clapped its wings as it flew over the oak tree to my right. Up went the gun and down came the pigeon…meat course done.

For some time now I have been very selective with my shooting, I will not shoot anything that I am not prepared to eat. This also includes taking more than I need, so with a pigeon in the bag, most of the remaining edible creatures that came across my path were relatively safe-I even raised my gun to a woodcock only to realise the season was over.

Tracking down some wild greens was not so easy, I had to strike out for certain places I new would have some early spring greens, the river banks for wild garlic and stinging nettles from impenetrable tangles of brambles. Nettles are just coming through and in another month will be at their best, at no more than a few inches high a fair bit of gathering needs to be done as they wilt down to almost nothing. It is really just the nettle tops you want- packed full of formic acid, antihistamines and iron, it remains a mystery to me why they are not consumed more; they are clearly one of the wild superfoods. Reaching through brambles wearing a pair of marigolds will raise a few eyebrows from unsuspecting dog walkers…even in the country (they were bright pink- but when it comes to forager fashion, they are all the rage).

The remaining greens came from within 10 metres of the house: sorrel from the bank beside the road and florets of bittercress from the garden. I had hoped to find something in the way of carbohydrates, but sadly the burdock root is way passed its best. So all was set for the fully foraged meal…I say fully foraged, apart from the addition of a little butter, a potato, beef stock, some of last years elderberry wine and a little seasoning; it was.

I cant say I have ever heard of anyone enjoying plucking anything, yet I find the woodpigeon a joy- they are fairly small and their feathers virtually fall off. It is one of the few birds that can be dealt with easily and quickly, as long as you don’t have a load to do. Granted they don’t have a huge amount of meat for the hungry hunter-gatherer, by roasting them whole and not getting your fingers too dirty trying to extract every ounce of flesh, the remains are the start of a damn fine stock. 

The Pigeon.

Once I had plucked, gutted and stuffed the pigeon with a knob of butter, and a few bulbs of wild garlic, it was placed in a pre-heated oven at 180C for 20-30 minutes of roasting. With smaller birds it is always best to roast them for half the cooking time breast side down to prevent the best part of the bird drying out.

The Nettles.

The stinging nettles simply refused to stop giving the odd bite until they were in the pan (all they need is a good wash in a colander and then steamed in a closed saucepan with whatever water still adheres to them), once steamed for five minutes, add a little butter and some seasoning and cook for a further 5 minutes, stirring regularly.

What of the other greens? The rogue potato was destined for mash (ok, I used a little milk too…) with some finely chopped sorrel to be stirred in at the last minute. The bittercress was washed, and served as a peppery side salad with just a drizzle of olive oil.

Gravy or is that Jus?

With the pigeon ready and the greens 5 minutes off, it was time for one final flourish, the Gravy! I say gravy, it was really more of a Jus, but I find this word a little too pretentious for my liking- I am also English, not French, so to me its gravy. I had begun warming a little beef stock and elderberry wine in a saucepan, once I had deglazed the roasting tin, all the juices from my pigeon went in the saucepan and it was set on a furious, bubbling reduction ready for service.

Once plated up, I was fairly content with how I had put together my fully foraged meal and the fact that I had only used only a potato from the larder gave me great satisfaction. If I was living in the countryside, I would certainly try to eat like this at least once, perhaps 2-3 times a week- it certainly didn’t take up much of my time. 

As mentioned in Marshall Sahlin’s “The Original Affluent Society”, during his studies into the Dobe Bushman way of life, he noted that they only did between 15-20 hours of work per week (7 days), but, whether hunting was considered recreation or work remains dubious! Perhaps a hunter-gatherer lifestyle is more practical for those who wish for more leisure time? Although with the amount of laws and by-laws in this country (and the fact its illegal to use the most basic of hunting equipment; the bow & arrow) would make this sort of existence a lot harder than it used to be. 

Still, something worth thinking about...

Squirrel fishing: a new sport for London?

It can be said that winter in the city is more enjoyable than in the country, really? Perhaps museums see a few new faces, pubs and coffee shops are busier than usual, but for London’s few open spaces- the parks- business is slow. Granted it is more acceptable to wander around the countryside with a shotgun than it is on Hampstead Heath, out in the sticks the opportunity to get some fresh air generally holds more appeal.

Although there are many things you can get away with in the countryside, some activities that sound like a jaunty country pursuit that your average flat-capped, grass-chewing farmer might do on their day off, just cannot be done anywhere else but the city. I am of course referring to the pastime favoured by many an urban junkie; squirrel fishing.

At first it sounds like a rather dark activity that would have the RSPCA knocking on your door, brandishing baseball bats in the hope of giving you a good kicking. But in reality it is no worse than playing with a kitten and a ball of string. No hooks are involved and it turns the rather mundane activity of feeding squirrels into the best fun you’ve had with your clothes on. Few people live to tell the tale of doing face-to-face battle with a wild creature (depending on its size of course), although I am not sure that park squirrels are the most ‘wild’ of animals, but they are certainly the wildest animals around here.

The disturbing truth is, I have been living here for 4 years and this was my first experience of squirrel fishing…shocking. This was something I could never do in Sussex, getting close enough to even pop of a few rounds at a country dwelling squirrel is hard enough let alone trying to fish for one of the furry little critters.

Those of you who do wish to point a finger and say “that’s so cruel,” or “I can’t believe you did that, it’s so wrong”, please, hear me out. We are in the depths of a cold winter, rather than Battersea park’s squirrel population having to burrow through the beds in order to find a tasty morsel, they get an easy meal (and a somewhat bewildering experience) from the avid squirrel fisher and his/her bag of monkey nuts. You walk away with the feeling of having a good tug from a squirrel and some cheap entertainment and squirrel goes away with a full tummy thinking thats the hardest it has ever had to work for a handful of nuts. Everyone’s a winner!

The tacklebox for squirrel fishing is a relatively small one. All that is required is a bag of monkey nuts and a ball of string. For true stealth it is better to use some sturdy fishing line to avoid instant detection by the quarry, but that is advanced squirrel fishing neo-geekery. Lets just stick to the basics. The reason for using monkey nuts is twofold; firstly, squirrels are big fans of them. Secondly, the shape of the nut, the dip in the middle, is perfect for tying a piece of string to.

Dried fruit is also a tried and tested bait and offers our furry little friend a variation in diet, but it also means having to thread the string through the fruit every time you need to rebait.

 

Despite the frigid temparature, the day seemed fine for a stroll in the park and my first experience of this wonderful sport.  Myself and two friends (who had been intent on a game of tennis, but curiosity got the better of them) went into the shop to equip ourselves with the necessary tackle used in this bizarre form of fishing.

As we walked through the winding paths of the park and put out some free offerings to see if we could tempt some squirrels close enough for a cast, we had a little casting practice, turns out the most effective method is to swing the nut windmill style as if it was some medieval bola and once you have the desired speed; release. Or you can just flick it, as cool as the first feels, it does have the potential to scare off any curious squirrels.

As we came upon our first squirrel, a fat, chunky rodent who had obviously been well fed so far this winter, I dipped my hand into my coat pocket to throw out a little ground bait. As soon as my fingers began to rustle the package the squirrel ran straight towards me…clever. I had to do little more than drop my baited string to the floor and he was all over it like a fat kid on a cup cake. I had to put in this little video of one of the first encounters:-

Download Video 

At first he simply picked it up the nut and examined it in his paws, I was half expecting him to shake it next to his ear to check there was something inside. Realising it was a good’un, he turned to try and make off with his find; things were about to get exciting! Feeling the string tighten, the squirrel began to wrestle for sole ownership of this tasty morsel. It was both hilarious and made me feel slightly remorseful about eating them in the past. According to squirrel fishing’s limited code of skill, the aim is to see how high you can lift the squirrel off the ground while it refuses to give up on the nut. I managed to just get his feet off the ground before he realised that something peculiar was going on and question why this particular monkey nut had the ability to lift him off the ground. He released his death-grip and retreated to take stock of the situation. He then moved in again and we battled for a good 30 seconds before he decided to give up and I gave him payment for his efforts, off he went, happy as larry, to a quiet spot to gnaw through his winnings (I realise I have just referred to this squirrel as male, he was…you cant miss a squirrel’s balls, their enormous).

 

As we fished on, and there were plenty of squirrels hovering around in the bushes which had heard the familiar rustling of plastic bags, we began to notice that no two squirrels were the same, they all had different tactics; some would roll around on the ground, others would fight wildly a couple of feet up a tree and some (who were obviously old hands at this game) would just chew straight through the string, stick up two fingers and smugly wander off.

 

Generally, the larger older squirrels had more balls than most and would boldly take a swipe at your nuts (they didn’t get that size for being shy), the smaller younger squirrels were a lot more cautious and at the first sign of resistance, high tailed it up the nearest tree. After a while they just get bored and cant be bothered with the effort, at which point it is seen as a sign of good sportsmanship to offer up some bait as a token gesture. This way you know your fishing hole won’t be dry next time you decide to cast your line.

By far the most enjoyable thing I have done in London (other than going to the natural history museum when I was a dinosaur obsessed five-year old), squirrel fishing is a sport which can not only feed some hard up animals and provide some serious entertainment, it gives you the chance to survey the enemy at close quarters and observe his tactics. Clever creatures they certainly are, the Gerald Durell within will bounce to the surface and provoke one of those awe-inspiring scenes so often narrated by David Attenborough.

So, next time you are in a London park, take along some string and a bag of nuts for a little harmless fun. A word of warning; I don’t know what the park keepers view is on squirrel fishing, but it’s probably not encouraged! I would also like to add that no squirrels were harmed in the production of this entry...

 

 

Bittercress: a wild version of rocket.

It has been sometime since I delved into the wild larder for something to write about. Having a blog that publicizes the notion that I am a hunter-gatherer and I write mostly about wild food, I have begun to feel like a bit of a fraud. Obviously there has been the odd bit of game on the chopping board, but as far as greens go- zilch. I could blame it on the seasons and say that winter is the cause for all the lack of wild food (a fair statement- there isn’t much), but that is simply not the case.

Over the last few months the cracks in the pavement around Battersea are consistently stuffed with bunches of chickweed. Dandelions sit on the edge of pathways and in those random patches of grass or waste ground that just happen to be there. Although many of these plants are not in their prime in terms of consumption, they are everywhere, patiently waiting to become some of the finest spring greens.

Whilst browsing through ‘huntergathercook’ I became aware that some quite important wild foods had yet to be addressed, rabbit for one! I tend to leave my subjects to chance and fit them in with how my day-to-day life pans out. Work is the root of all evil when it comes to ambling through life trying to write about things that are ‘wild’ whilst living in a sprawling conurbation like London.

 

One thing that did catch my eye was the entry I did about Rocket that grew extremely well in my Clapham raised bed system, 2 years ago. Rocket is the star of the salad bowl, it’s peppery tang adds brilliant flavour to virtually anything, be it a simple combination of Carpaccio, rocket, parmesan with a glug of olive oil or a few leaves scattered over a fish dish. The point is that in the same way bacon adds salt, sorrel adds lemon: rocket adds pepper. It also made me think why the Americans like to call it Arugala? Perhaps they think it sounds a little more polished and spiffing, but then they call spring onions ‘scallions’- weird.

As with most of our favourite vegetables found in shops and markets across the country, we are lucky to have a few substitutes in the wild, Mother Nature didn’t suddenly go “Right, celery, bosh there you go,” or “wild parsnips are a bit shit, you can have big fat ones instead.” The point is that all our vegetables today must have come from somewhere, and in many cases the domesticated lunkers we hand over pounds and pennies for all have a slightly smaller and perhaps slightly different looking cousin growing in some hedgerow somewhere in the country.

If I were to give rocket an abundant ‘wild’ distant relative (other than wall-rocket or sea rocket!) it would have to be hairy bittercress, a plant so common and so invasive it is the bane of nearly every gardener in the country. Wild foods are not always easy to find, the aim with this blog is to extract the good ones that are plentiful and showcase them for you guys. 

Hairy bittercress is available throughout the year and is so easy to find. When it flowers between February and September, small delicate white flowers appear in clusters and the leaves look very similar to watercress, the best thing is that if you so wish, you can eat the whole thing, but I tend to stick to just the mustardy/ peppery leaves. Again like most wild greens, any wild food book will say the same- good in salads- Ray Mears ‘Wild Food’ lends itself to this in a big way, but then Ray Ray is a survivalist, not a chef. 

The best place to start looking for Bittercress (and it shouldn’t take long) is your own back yard, my mother’s flower beds are absolutely teeming with the stuff and she is more than happy for me to do a little ‘weeding’. Out in the country moist, shady places near streams or field verges are your best bet. The bittercress seen here came from the pavement directly outside my front door.

I decided to go for a stroll around Battersea Park to see if I could get a more substantial haul, so as to do a little experimentation in the kitchen. As I passed the big stone gates, clutching a plastic bag, I began mulling over possible plans for the bittercress, perhaps I could try pickling some or make a pesto. First stop was the park’s herb garden, I was hoping that due to the adverse weather conditions of late, weeding and other garden maintenance may have fallen by the wayside. It appeared the park keepers had been more anal than ever and recently scoured the beds of anything that was not a vegetable and carted it off to the compost heap. 

Battersea Park is a little disappointing in terms of gathering at any other time than spring when the elderflower starts to flourish. According to the park’s head keeper, the park is unable to support fungi because of the type of soil that was brought in from further down the Thames. Despite this, I have found the odd field mushroom and a few others, but they seem to be confined to one area. 

There is one resource that is in great abundance and can always be seen scurrying through the undergrowth. One day the plan to eat a Battersea Park squirrel will come to fruition, I am not ready to abandon that dream just yet. As much as the park keepers admit that they would love to whittle down the squirrel population for the sake of the trees, culling the adorable, fluffy rodent-like lumberjacks remains a sensitive PR issue. The problem I have is how to get one off a fence post and onto my plate…perhaps I could try squirrel fishing (don’t worry it doesn’t involve hooks!) 

With the sky getting darker by the minute and the prospect of having to go to the wilderness area on the other side of the park, my bittercress plans for the day were abandoned with the first few icy drops of rain. The brisk walk home yielded enough to use as a garnish for my impending brunch and I was even lucky enough to catch a few ‘what-the-hell-is-he-doing’ stares from fellow Batterseans as I photographed bunches of bittercress poking through the pavement, there really is nothing quite like the look of a bewildered Londoner, I have tried many a time to replicate it in the mirror, but I just can’t do it yet (maybe a few more years here and I’ll have it).

Back home with my minimal hoard, I whipped up a quick hollandaise, poached some eggs, toasted some muffins and sprinkled on the washed bittercress (pavements and walls around here are notorious for attracting the cocked leg of most dogs). Brunch and Egg’s Benedict are the perfect pairing and it could have been made no better than by adding a sprinkling of hairy bittercress: quite often the most simple of garnishes makes the dish.

Oh and I thought I had to shove in a picture of Sunday’s roast…in a giant Yorkshire pudding. Made in a cake tin, make up a batter mix for 12 normal ones and when ready stick in the beef, veg and tatties and drown in gravy. Awesome!

 

The Italian Job- getting down with the Venetians.

It can be said, that there are few places on this planet that harbour the ability to induce serious inspirational thought and feeling. I would rank Venice as one of the top three that certainly can. Simply wandering about the place makes you feel like you could paint the next masterpiece, write some verse that could score you the position of the next poet laureate or even produce some other form of artistic impression that will be etched into the tablets of historical genius. Perhaps this is it…or is this just a tale of a young Englishman enjoying good food, fantastic wine and the company of a particularly fine young lady in the heart of one of the world’s grandest architectural wonders?

Although I have stumbled around various quarters of the world from Fiji to Botswana, I have not really flexed my desire to travel to closer European destinations. Italy was somewhere I had never been until the weekend, I believe I may have brushed across the border on a pair of skis when I was not quite as big as I am now, but I can barely remember it. And so it came to pass that Clare and I hopped onto a plane out of the dreaded Gatwick South terminal, with all it’s England shirts, velour tracksuits and other disappointing additions to British fashion, and after the stunning vistas of the Alps from 30,000 feet, arrived at Marco Polo airport at 9am on a Friday morning.

The first surprise was finding out we had to go on a 1hr 20minute white-knuckle boat ride to get to Venice. I mean, I know it’s a series of islands in a lagoon but I thought it was a bit closer…what a shag! I wonder how many poor bastards have to do that commute every day?

The buildings around Venice look like a they have had a makeover from a team of top Hollywood set designers, either that or when the tourists go to sleep the Venetians come out with hammer and chisel and begin tinkering away, exposing various patches of brickwork and splashing different coloured dye on certain buildings- it cannot be this authentic surely?

Before visiting Venice I had to do a little reading to find out what this place was all about. I had heard that a combination of rising sea levels, volume of tourists and weight of buildings is steadily compressing the mud flats on which Venice sits, meaning city is slowly sinking at a rate of 7cm/100 years, however some reports claim it has sunk 24cm in the last century! So I was glad to be visiting the place before it is swallowed up by the surrounding Lagoon, it already floods about 40 times a year, to the point where people have begun to wakeboard there (you must see this video for yourself!).

We arrived at our lodgings, an amazing little boutique hotel called Ca’ dei Dogi, dumped the bags and headed out into the town. It is clear as soon as you walk through St.Marks Square or across the Rialto Bridge, that the Venice of today is one big tourist trap. Men in white jackets and bow ties lurk outside restaurants desperately trying to usher you inside using a menu, avoid these places like the plague, they will serve overpriced pap that they will claim is authentic Italian cuisine. Not.

The gondola is the first thing that springs to mind when thinking about Venice, were we tempted as a loved up couple? No. The price wasn’t right, would you get a taxi to the end of your road for 25 quid? Probably not. Gondolas aside, I have to say I was quite surprised (and felt extremely safe) to see Buzz Lightyear had also chosen to take a mini break in Venice.

The great thing about Venice is that it constantly makes you feel you are in one enormous labyrinth. One minute you can be on a tightly packed street shoulder to shoulder, the next you can be in a deserted square or some dodgy looking back alley that looks home to jack the ripper. At any given moment you can find yourself at a dead end faced with a small canal. It is quite often that these small streets offer the best in food and drink: look for the locals outside.

 

I thoroughly enjoyed drifting through this giant maze in search of the bacoro’s (wine bars) were they would throw a glass of wine in your hand and point you to their menu of cicheti (small plates of antipasti). It was pleasant to find that if we tried our best broken Italian, the Venetians (despite blatantly knowing our grasp of the Italian Language was poor and that we were English) would speak back to us in their native tongue. Nothing annoys me more when you make an effort to speak in a foreign language and they reply to you in English.

 

The best of the bacari was without a doubt Enoiteca Mascareta run by the Mauro, a sort of youthful Italian version of Einstein with a bigger nose. The place was fairly small and had posters of depicting different Venetian themes, one wall was dedicated to row after row of all sorts of bottles. The bar stretched out into the room and the gentle comforting hum of Italian wafted around the room in much the same way as the smell from the kitchen did. This is what Italians do: they eat, they drink and they talk- a lot.

The barman was awesome, he would constantly bring over new bottles of vino rosso and pour us each a glass and one for himself, raise his glass to good health and neck it. By our second evening we had developed a good rappor and I noticed some Brits in the corner from our hotel looking a bit disappointed they were not on the same level of banter. How could I forget, on that same evening in walked a Northern couple, Obviously in Venice for the Romanticism of the place, they certainly didn’t look like culture vultures and there conversation confirmed it.

“It’s just a fookin’ wine bar, ah don’t want fookin’ wine!” said the male.

“Well ask for a beer then loov,” said the female.

“Ah want a fookin’ pint.” 

I would love to carry on the conversation, but other than coarse language and a total disdain of anything that wasn’t remotely like home, it didn’t get much more intelligent than that.

A classic Venetian cicheti is sardines marinated in white wine vinegar and onion, but I was fairly unimpressed, it looked and tasted a bit like school food. With the Adriatic surrounding it, it is no surprise that fish is big in Venice. Cuttlefish, Prawns, Octopus, squid and anchovies are all very popular and are on virtually every menu in the city. With all this fish flying about it would have been a cardinal sin not to try and find the source: The Pescharia.

On Saturday morning we wandered through the Rialto Market, which had some of the most cheerful looking vegetables I have ever seen. Bold vibrant colours were everywhere you looked, the tomatoes looked as if they had been air brushed and there were more greens than you could poke a stick at. All the food was reasonable priced by the looks of things; big trays of water held freshly prepared artichoke hearts and fur-clad ‘mamas’ dictated their shopping list to the animated store holders. I knew the fish market was close- I could smell it.

The Pescharia easily puts Billingsgate to shame. Not because of the volume of ocean produce on offer, but because of the feel of the place- the hand gestures, the Neo-gothic fish hall and the fishy displays. The day was quite chilly and I was impressed by the burley Venetian Fishmongers ability to fillet fish with their bare hands in such cold conditions whilst still maintaining a cheerful attitude to their work. As Clare so eloquently put it “I would hate to be married to one of them…they must always smell of fish”, well it is a good thing she isn’t.

A long weekend is all you really need to see Venice. As much as I enjoy soaking up culture, wine and food, I think any longer and I would have started to get a little bored. I thoroughly enjoyed the trip- it is always great to visit somewhere new, but I do wonder how Venice copes with such a vast amount of tourists every year that only contribute to sinking their glorious city, it turns out that it is a bit of a catch-22, because I doubt Venice could survive without the tourists.

To give you one bit of advice from this recently de-flowered Italian traveller- go there before it sinks!