This is Part 2. You might want to read Part 1 first.

There are three kinds of Little Old Ladies in England; there are some who are made of tweed and oak, and others who are made of silver and mother-of-pearl, and some who are made of finest paper-thin porcelain, and the one sat across from me at dinner, with someone whom I presume was her son, was definitely of the latter type.

I’d arrived at ICE at around 1030h and departed around 1400h, ravenous and desiring a shower. Stopping briefly in central Falmouth I called my brother-in-law to ask how long it might take to make a significant dent in The Eden Project – the answer: too long for someone hoicking their bike gear around with them – so I decided to head for the port/town of Padstow, home base of notorious celebrity chef, Rick Stein.

With the GPS programmed the miles just flew away, and barely 90 pootling minutes later I was rolling into the town on the northern coast of Cornwall; I was in the mood for a little luxury and seeing a sign Best Western / Hotel Metropole – * * * made a snap decision to park-up immediately. This was a good choice, as the Metropole has easy stairway access to the Harbour, and a pleasant sea view. I set the bike down next to a K1200LT so that it would have a stablemate for the evening, and checked-in.

The single room was reasonable, with a sumptuous bathroom in white tiles, let down only by the sign which correctly noted that the tiles get slippery in the wet. Also, the TV remote-control batteries were dead, and the alarm-clock likewise, but neither of those were a great problem for me, given that I was not intending to impact the hotel facilities too much. Showered, scrubbed, shaved, and changing into light-cas and deck shoes I departed for the harbour, all of 5 minutes walk away.

Why the town is apparently now labelled Padstein is instantly obvious – I encountered at least 7 Stein-owned enterprises, four of them within the first 20 minutes. I’ve no great opinion about the man one way or t’other, although I do appreciate any person who takes food that seriously, and actively encourages support for quality producers. Eavesdropping on conversations in the pub – starting in the “Big Food And Lots Of It” Shipwrights; not fancying the menu I had a pint of St. Austell’s “Tribute”, which I found rather anaemic – Rick was certainly the central topic of conversation. I did wonder whether his having such “gravity” in a ton might not eventually turn it into something like a foodie’s Portmerion.

I shifted to the Old Custom House, moved to St. Austell’s “HSD” – much, much nicer – and relaxed in a comfy chair, letting the Britpop wash over me. It was pleasant to unwind.

“So,” said I to the barman, “What’s the best chippie around here?” He considered for a moment, and replied “Well, actually, it’s probably Rick Stein’s. It really is pretty good.”

“That’s almost a surprise.” I responded, and asked for directions.

Stein’s Fish & Chips is at the rightmost (easternmost?) end of the docks, in an industrial-looking unit next to the “Seafood School”; there was no queue, and the restaurant layout was vaguely reminiscent of Wagamama in London – low, clean tables, and communal eating.

First to hit my eyes was the “Specials” board – Oysters at 85p a shot; that seemed a bargain, and it was a Friday and likely to be fresh, so that was the starter sorted out. Although I love cod deeply, I try to avoid it in favour of alternative fishes, and seeing “Squid” on the menu solved the question of the main course. The only remaining question was “Battered, or Grilled?”

“Squid, battered, or grilled? … Battered, or grilled?”

“Battered” – the waitress, coming up behind me, was quite emphatic.

“Really?”

“Yes; it’s dusted with flour so that it comes out with a light crunch, not the same as tempura but not unlike it.”

“Superb!”…

…and so I went with four oysters and an Australian white, to be followed by battered squid, chips, and “mushy peas”. The oysters were served on the half-shell, with lemon, in a cardboard take-away box which struck me as an amusing debasement. I’ve not often had oysters, nor do I attribute them the mythical status that they have with some (eg: Bourdain) – the first was innocuous but the latter three just were fine, like seaweed and harbour air and sea spray all at once splashed briefly into your mouth.

The rain came down hard while we were eating, chatting freely and easily with the other guests, they enquiring after the oysters, me about their wine and from where they had come, and their knowledge of the area. You can socialise easily with the older British generations – younger people tend to consider conversation an intrusion.

The squid arrived and I topped-up with a acidic french white, luckily perfect for the new dish; I love squid when fresh and properly done, and this was near heaven – very tempura-like as described. And the chips! Stupendous chips, brown and crenellated, fluffy inside but crispy and heavily textured without. This was one, basically, of the best fish-and-chips I’d ever had. I can think of perhaps two possible competitors, and those were pitched to a different class.

Then the horror struck me: there was no dessert menu! Aigh! What was to be done? You cannot possibly have a sumptuous meal – albeit for 20 quid – without having something to shut-down the palate.

Moreover, I needed a sugar-rush. So, bidding my new friends goodnight and safe journeys, after paying and being debreifed by my waitress, I went in search of chocolate.

Back to the Metropole, comb through my hair, wash hands, and descend to the restaurant: “Hello. I’d like a table for one, for dessert, please.” – and after a small amount of shock and awe I am seated with a sea view, ordering a fine dark chocolate terrine with a fresh coarsely-crushed raspberry coulis, and a decaf cafetiere.

It was perfect. And, that night, I had the weirdest dreams.

In the morning, at Bridget’s recommendation, I rode across Dartmoor to photograph the Baskervilleian Two Bridges Hotel:

…and some day I may stay there, to explore the Moor more properly.