Fed up by having intimate moments ruined by Pete's insistence at looking at eBay 'bike porn' - I finally reached boiling point and blurted "Why don't you just buy one and get it over with!"
He responded with an absolute bargain Giant with 19 inch wheels and ridiculous suspension - in Halifax, a good 200 miles away.
Given that my brother has stolen my occasional use car in lieu of blowing his up, we hire a modest motor, book a B&B and speed off towards the Peak District en route. We stop at various service stations and look at multicoloured camping chairs and animal shaped travel pillows in the overpriced WH Smiths'. Buy giant Costa coffees. I look depressedly at the snacks in the teeny Waitrose; all opportunistically expensive.
We stop off at the beautiful yellow-bricked Chatsworth house for a cup of tea, but dodge the extortionate entry fees in light of the fact that "the grounds are lovely" and "I bet the outside is the bit that's worth seeing really..." then zoom onward through lush heather-clad green and purple hills and Bakewell, home of the tart.
Or not, as it happens, the famous thing is apparently Bakewell pudding. After doing a lap of the teeny cobbled town and turning my nose up at annoying chain pubs with expensive touristy menus, we squeeze into the 18th century Parlour Rooms at the promise of homemade pies and cakes.
I've got a hearty slab of cheese and onion quiche with a summery strawberry salad, and Pete is moaning at his pie as though he wants to have full sex with it.
It's a sizable flaky pastry beast stuffed to the brim with a slovenly gravy meat medley. It belches puffs of steam as he cuts into the crust with his knife. Sided by about six potatoes' worth of fat cut chips and the obligatory peas the plate is completed by a generous jug of gravy.
Being a semi-vegetarian, this dish is mostly wasted on me, though I can't deny it is trying to lure me into its meaty depths. I however, am holding out for the infamous Bakewell pudding.
It looks depressingly squashed and underdone when it arrives, like a rather depressing mince pie. When we cut it open it's full of squidgy jam and an almondy fudgy filling. It's like a deliciously underdone cake (I'm with Eddie Izzard on this one - the cake always tastes better before it's baked) and I proceed to drown it with cream and wolf it down. The top could do with a bit of a crisp up, but actually I like the soggy, homely, artery-clogging taste of the North.
Rolling back to the car, we speed off towards Glossop for a fun packed evening of drinking and inactivity induced indigestion.
I've got a hearty slab of cheese and onion quiche with a summery strawberry salad, and Pete is moaning at his pie as though he wants to have full sex with it.
It's a sizable flaky pastry beast stuffed to the brim with a slovenly gravy meat medley. It belches puffs of steam as he cuts into the crust with his knife. Sided by about six potatoes' worth of fat cut chips and the obligatory peas the plate is completed by a generous jug of gravy.
Being a semi-vegetarian, this dish is mostly wasted on me, though I can't deny it is trying to lure me into its meaty depths. I however, am holding out for the infamous Bakewell pudding.
It looks depressingly squashed and underdone when it arrives, like a rather depressing mince pie. When we cut it open it's full of squidgy jam and an almondy fudgy filling. It's like a deliciously underdone cake (I'm with Eddie Izzard on this one - the cake always tastes better before it's baked) and I proceed to drown it with cream and wolf it down. The top could do with a bit of a crisp up, but actually I like the soggy, homely, artery-clogging taste of the North.
Rolling back to the car, we speed off towards Glossop for a fun packed evening of drinking and inactivity induced indigestion.
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