Moules

When I was in my teens, we'd come on a family holiday to the Lake District every Easter, and in the summer we'd camp in France at a site in or near a place called Les Sables-d'Olonne. It was a site where the tents were pre-erected. We'd take the ferry across, then drive down, and there our tent would be waiting for us. 

I don't remember too much about what we did there, to be honest. We'd go into town most days but I don't remember going to the beach or swimming, although I do remember that my brother and I would spend hours in an old outbuilding where there was a table-tennis table. Since the difference in age didn't make any difference, we were pretty well matched, which made it something we could happily play for ages.

But I do remember that sometimes my dad would buy a load of mussels in the market and cook them back at the tent, and then he'd serve them with vinegar. I don't really remember having mussels before those holidays but I loved them.

I was reminded of that this evening, when Abi and I went out for dinner. After a good meeting, this morning, the Minx and I drove home, dropping her off in Chorley before I returned to Kirkby Lonsdale. Dan was at choir, so it was just me and Abi, which was lovely. We had dinner in the Royal: she had pizza and, as you can see, I had the mussels. (They were excellent.)

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