I'm still in heaven, although I'm not in Devon...

So it's been five days since I departed. Departed from that house, those people, that dog. Left Devon, left those luscious green fields, traded them for those grey high rise buildings of Liverpool...

I've been rained on, soaked through, worked my fingers to the bone, worn out and worn down, I've been through it all. But a glimmer of sunshine appears.

Like an enlightening experience that people only see once in a lifetime, my memories of Totleigh Barton are being kept alive.


Through baking, cooking, reading and writing, immersing myself in all that is food and through these mediums, I will keep my memories alive. These memories are motivation, stimulation, a way to escape the rut that was my life.

Now I write like I did when I first fell in love. I'm meeting my soul mate for the very first time, all over again.

Everything is fresh, vibrant and full of promise. But this isn't nostalgia, this is now. This is happening. I am awake, rediscovering a lost love and immersing myself in it's warm embrace.

Total Immersion, Totleigh Barton

The antiquated walls of Totleigh Barton have seen me eating too much, cooking too little, detaching myself from reality, musing about Ukrainian cuisine and re-discovering my love of Cadbury's Hot Chocolate.

Under the watchful eyes of Peter Gordon and Yotam Ottolenghi, my style dissected and analysed beyond recognition. Good intentions, finally realised and given time to germinate, years after the smallest seed of an idea was sown, the lush backdrop of the Devonshire countryside acting as inspiration. Bountiful hedgerows boasting a crop of vibrant colour and more berries than you could ever pick.

Strangely enlightening discussions under blasting gas furnaces, the patchy roof of the barn whistling as another brisk gust rattles through the rafters.

Memoirs by AA Gill met with praise and repulsion, his witty overtones marred by moral anguish and the part he played in the shooting of a baboon.

The resounding disgruntlement at Tom Parker Bowles' attempt at food writing, his misogynistic, meat heavy meals. The nostalgic smell of the abattoir fondly remembered alongside the image of a small child clinging to their father's legs.

Totleigh Barton, a stream of consciousness, a thriving pool of ideas flowing into the cow fields. Ideas embraced and nurtured, the de-mystification of the elusive magazine editor setting countless minds at ease, the shaky start to a first attempt at making custard from scratch. Renowned chefs bonding with a Shepherd's Crook bought at the market.

Hatherleigh Farmers Market

Pulling into the dusty car park, metal corrugated roofs stretched out as far as the eye could see. A gaggle of locals congregated around the various gatherings of fruit, vegetables and brick-a-brack, some making polite conversation, others questioning the quality of a local pork sausage, much to the stall holder’s dismay...

But I wasn’t en-route to some life changing bartering experience on the continent; I was immersing myself in the Devonian delights Hatherleigh Market has to offer. From locally sourced Kurly Kale leaves, to the freshly picked scarlet Strawberries from Lifton Farm, we were spoilt for choice from a produce point of view.

I was however, a little concerned and bemused, that one of the vendors had a white transit van advertising: ‘Fruit, Veg, Tools etc’. I can honestly say that these four words do not sit well in a sentence for me. I’m still wondering what other services this jack of all trades offers to the general public ....

Perhaps it might explain why I was able to (if I wanted) pick up a feather duster from the same man that had just sold me a bag of apples.

The car boot-style product range reflected what I can only presume to be the markets ethos ‘something for everyone’. The site, which was originally built as a slaughter house has in turn, made way for the market, which has now made way for pet supplies, ice-cream vans and a livestock auction. Now that’s what I call progress!

Despite these glorified flea market stalls being fronted with local produce, providers were unashamed to admit their tomatoes were procured from places afar, such as Holland, but proud to proclaim their strawberries came from Mitchell, Cornwall, their west-country accents adding a seal of authenticity to their pitch.

The market culture still exists here and Hatherleigh has adapted and changed with the times in order to keep the locals tantalised. Where else could you meet characters like Dan the Fish Man who claimed ‘you’re in heaven when you’re in Devon’? These are the individuals that only the likes of Chaucer could describe with some level of accuracy.