Velo-Shed: Tour 2016 J 8

Al Fresco with Friends

Regular readers will know that S and I being creatures of habit, we tend to return to the same places if they are any good. Of course, this ignores the numerous duff places we have stayed. I tend not to mention these latter accomodations to S after the event because of the attendent trauma, but as I say to her 'you have to sort through the silt to find the gems', to which she retorts 'if you opened your wallet you could buy the bloody gems . . .'

Moving on from these inexact financial allegories, the place we do keep coming back to is the Ancien Presbytère at Lescouet-Gouarec, an old granite vicarage, lovingly restored and operated as a chambre d'hôte with attached gîte, by Pete and Keith. And let's face it, who wouldn't want to stay here . . .

Now this year, as you already know if you've been paying attention, the SBCC were staying nearby at Huelgoat, surviving solely on spaghetti bolognese and omelette from Le Brittany Pub. So, taking pity, we invited them around for lunch - and if there's one thing guaranteed to tempt the average cyclist on a round trip of 70 odd miles it's the offer of a slap up meal and cidre.

"So what areyou cooking them?"

"Eh . . ." - H, looking up from Discworld novel No. 7

"What are you cooking?" S says, "'I'll do dessert" . . .

Not one to be daunted by the magnitude of this catering challenge there was only one answer, the Casa Hevanos signature dish of chorizo stew. So, borrowing a slow cooker of which Desperate Dan would be proud (readers under 30 please refer to the Comics Collection in the British Library), I set to the task of constructing a meal of gargantuan proportions . . .

. . . meanwhile, S popped down to the shops and bought a tarte au pommes.

So, leaving the stew to marinate, we set off the next morning to meet our lunch guests at Rostrenen and pilot them in, so to speak, plus pick up a few extra bits and pieces from the local boulangerie - not, I hasten to add, the automated baguetterie described yesterday . . .

On the stroke of twelve, as we reclined at a pavement café enjoying the inevitable café au lait, our guests arrived to be led back up the hill to lunch - myself weighted down by bread it must be said, though perhaps the two bottles of red wine in the depths of the Carradice did not help.

What else is there to say . . . we were kindly lent the use of the terrase and household crockery, and a darned good nosh-up was had by all . . .