pumpkinstrokemarrow

After Ely onto Clacton to see the seaside, not being a place I recall having been to, despite having been born up the road at Felixstowe. There is a differance which became clear as we went on though: Felixstowe is in Suffolk while Clacton is in Essex. So around Clacton, for example, we had two or three hairy bits of aggressive driving - people in smart cars flipping across the lanes in their desperation to get ahead. But one has to give them nerve and skill even if one does not applaud the business as a whole.

Our first division hotel had not got our booking - despite the booking having been made through what looked like their website rather than an agent (must keep an eye on the bill) - but being the slack season there was no problem with our superior double with sea view. And a very nice room it was too, although an interesting shape which resulted in the ensuite being about the size of a cupboard with one of those showers with clinging curtains the size of an even smaller cupboard. Rainy evening in which we found it hard to find pubs - in fact we only managed one proper pub and one worky. After we were done we found a few hotels and a Witherspoon on the sea front but none of them could really be called a pub. And we didn't find any more when we left the following day. Perhaps the place was built by one of those temperance builders that were knocking around until recently (I think Laing was one of them).

One of the hotels on the front was called the Geisha hotel and boasted what it called the only revue bar in Clacton in its basement. One assumes that revue is a code word for strip or perhaps even burlesque (a term I was reminded about by going to a local rendering of Gipsy last year). A warming up bar on the ground floor looked reasonably busy.

Bright and cheerful if cold the following morning so we had a stretch on the esplanade, splendid thing miles long which must cost a fortune - apart from the sea itself there looked to be a fair bit of movement in the low sandy cliffs behind. Bought some cod from a chappess at the end of the pier. She said that it was by-catch - the sort of cod which is out of quota and usually gets chucked back (dead) to avoid trouble with the trusties. Or maybe she said that (like stallholders talk with a nod and a wink about stuff falling off a lorry) just to make it sound better. Either way not sure about the morals of buying the stuff - which was a bit small but very cheap and probably very fresh.

Decided that as it was small (and might go soggy), chowder would be a better bet than baked - particularly as we had some quite decent smoked streaky bacon. So simmer cod for a few minutes, remove and flake. Cook potatoes in the water. Meanwhile fry up the bacon in butter, add onions. Stir whole lot together and serve. Very good - although the cheap white potatoes from Mr S (probably not 'taste the differance' - this now being the Mr S euphemism for regular - a wheeze to get prices up on the sly) were a bit softer than desirable.

This should have been followed the next day by white pudding. However, it felt decidedly soggy. On opening, a damp sheen on the surface. When sliced more or less fell apart. When fried (in lard) got interestingly large and glassy bubbles. And would not fry to a firm brown crust as it usually does. Black crust and still falling apart. Smelt OK but decided that it was off. On inspection, the sell-by sticker mysteriously missing from the wrapper. More poor stock control at Cheam? Had the seal on the (shrink wrap plastic) wrapping gone? Was it ever there? Did they know? Irritating the way that people who you use regularly will still palm you off with dodgy gear if they think they can get away with it.