Last weekend I acquired, inadvertently a heart shaped falafel  press. Today seemed like a good day to put it to use.

There is a faint hint of Spring in the air what with randy pigeons chasing each other through the upper branches of the trees in the garden, male puffing out his chest, and tits eye up nesting places in a wall by the side of house. I even half spotted a frog in the pond.

The falafel were not quite as heart shaped as I would have liked. The shape lost something in all the hot oil but they were still very good.

If there is an advantage to be had in having children it is that they will eventually leave home to go to university where you can go visit them and find places to have good things to eat.

So this last weekend we spent 24 hours visiting the only son and bouncing between Camberwell and Peckham. Of course children were seen and that was all very good and I am sure they were pleased to see us – especially as some of them had not bothered to eat for a few days on the basis of an expectation that they would be well fed over the weekend.

We had last been in Camberwell in September and I can remember quickly walking past The Camberwell Arms and making a note that it looked like a promising place for a pint without really noticing that it did food as well. Walking past this time food was very much top of people’s agenda and we were ready to stop at the first place that did it even if it meant pizza and chips.

It was fortunate the first place we walked past was The Camberwell Arms. First impression confirmed we were in the company of good beer. Things got potentially better when it was noted that one of the specials was a whole turbot to be shared amongst three.

In the event the roast turbot stayed on the menu but the son and I shared half a roast chicken with chips. A chip is always the measure of where you are eating. These were good ones. Hot, crisp and giving on the inside. I have had a whole roast chicken to share before and it was disappointing – dry and lacking in chicken flavour. By way of contrast Saturdays’ half chicken was a fine affair – just the right side of being cooked without being undercooked and tasting of chicken. We went at it with sharp knives and fingers whilst the beer came in dimpled glasses with handles.

The rest of Saturday afternoon was spent shuttling over from Camberwell to Peckham and ensconcing parents-in-law safely in the rooms over The Victoria Arms. This of course providing an opportunity to sample more good beer, although it now came in a straight glass, before exploring the collection of esoteric books on the shelves of the slightly unkempt AirB&B flat which was our bed for the Saturday night.

Saturday evening and we were deep in the heart of Peckham eating at The Peckham Bazaar – a place serving Bulgarian/Middle European food. Because there were seven of us they suggested we stick to their tasting menu of seven or so courses.

Having sat down we were slightly bemused as the first four or five courses arrived in quick succession. All were good but for a while it felt as if we were going to be finished and out of there within thirty minutes. But all were plate licking good – courgette fritters, fried feta, fried squid and best of all – red mullet sat on a top of noodles. I could have eaten a great deal more of the red mullet.

We were reassured that these were only the starters and the main courses would arrive shortly and we were given time to settle into another bottle of wine. The main course was two thick sausages made up of venison and pheasant grilled so as to give off all the smells you would want to associate with an open fire and and a beach. It all deserved another bottle of wine which was finished over a plate of orange scented baklava.

Some of us then went to bed whilst others went out so as to be able to give us the benefit of their red eyes and husky voices the following morning.

So I have just spent a weekend in the Cottage with my Dad and two brothers-in-law.

We more or less survived and came out of it all still talking to each other. Although there was a moment late into Friday evening/ Saturday morning after Whiskey had been drunk and another bottle of red was in the process of being opened and the voices around Trump and Brexit hit a crescendo when that could have been thrown into doubt. Fortunately whatever doubt there might have been was gone on the Saturday morning as the sun came out and a petrol driven hedge trimmer put in an appearance.

The highlight of the weekend came an hour or so after breakfast (bacon and black pudding) that Saturday morning. I had washed the dishes and for a moment looked unemployed. That didn’t last for long and I was given the job of ridding a wall of ivy. This was one of those jobs were there a fine balance to be had between doing the job at hand (i.e.removing ivy) and complete disaster  (i.e. removing those last bits of ivy that were in fact holding the whole wall together and to have it collapse on top of me).

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tommy’s red van at the head of the pier. I left the wall to it and went over to say hello. We talked for a while and he then got out of the van and led me to the doors at the back. From there he extracted an older plastic paint container stained with the history of many years of fish. It was full of prawns, shrimps and Dublin Bay Prawns. he wouldn’t take anything for them and so I turned my mind from the wall to lunch.

We had had some Dublin Bay Prawns the previous evening – split and slathered with olive oil, garlic and chilli and roasted. We needed something different for lunch. There had been complaint as to the lack of mayonnaise the previous evening and so the solution presented itself. The sun was out so we would have the prawns cold with garlic mayonnaise.

The large silver pan was filled with water from the rock pools and put onto boil and I went to work with a couple of eggs and some olive oil.

The egg yolks were mixed with squashed garlic and oil was added as the twin blades of a mixer conjured it all up into a thick heavy garlic sauce.

By the time it was ready the water was boiling. I had found half a dozen crab claws amongst the prawns so they went into the water first for a good ten minutes. They were fished out and refreshed under cold water as the Dublin Bay Prawns cooked. They only needed a couple of minutes before being fished out going through the same process as the crab claws.

The prawns went next and took less than a minute to cook.

All was then arranged on plates and we ate them with bread, the garlic mayonnaise, pints and good wine.

It was a very good lunch. Almost as good as the sunset.

I am not sure what Veronica Steele would have made of the consternation that was caused by one of her cheeses this morning by the kitchen on the 5th floor of the office. I had bought a small round of Milleen and somehow the smell lingered longer than I intended.

There have been times when I have thought that rather than bringing the odd box of Irish fudge into the office after a trip to Ireland I could bring a small round of good cheese, cut it into bite sized pieces and leave it in the kitchen for people to help themselves.

But after this morning I am not so sure.

It was probably my fault. The cheese had been bought from the supermarket in Schull Sunday morning. I wasn’t buying anything else and it fitted fine in my jacket pocket so I slipped it in there and promptly forgot about it.

Even on quietest day in Schull Hacketts will be open for lunch and there will be open crab sandwiches. So we slipped around the table under the window that looks out over the bar so as you order the second round it can be handed through without the need to lift backside from seat to go fetch.

We ordered and then ate our open crab sandwiches and then someone had the bright idea to ask for a plate of cheese and bread together with another pint. That came as well and all was good in the world apart from the music which was the Eric Clapton Unplugged album. There was a time I thought I might like Eric Clapton but it only last a very short while and with the benefit of hindsight I realise the bits I did like had Duane Allman along for the ride. Eventually someone was deputised to ask if there was anything else other than Eric Clapton.

It transpired that there was but sadly it involved Noel Gallagher. Even now, 24 hours later, the clash and thunder of an unnecessary Champagne Supernova can be heard in my mind’s ear.

All the time the small round of Milleen stayed snug and warm and gathering some history in my pocket.

After lunch we were in a car and back to the airport. Replete with crab, pints and cheese I fell asleep on the backseat in such a way so as to exert almost maximum pressure on the Milleen.

It was only when we got to the airport that I put my hand in the pocket only to pull out the slightly warm, very flat cheese and which had already started to give off the smell of a rank farmyard. I found somewhere more suitable for it and wrote it off for tomorrow’s sandwiches.

By the time I came to make them this morning it had started to take on a smell of its own, deep and giving and redolent off a jockey’s underpants after a two mile chase.

Once in the office this morning the sandwiches were placed in the fridge. Twenty minutes later I was asked if they were the cause of the smell which had apparently emptied the fridge of everyone else’s lunch and was about to consign mine to the bin.

I had to confess that this was indeed my cheese. It was rescued from the fridge and swaddled in plastic bags until lunch when it was eaten with pleasure.

Not many people spoke to me for the rest of the day.

At home there is a lot more cheese in the fridge to go!