The Jammiest of the the Jammy

Twelve went camping last weekend and lucked out one hundred percent weatherwise. Picked laneside blackberries to go with meringues Emma had bought. Took menu advice from juicy orange starfish laying bloated amongst countless shells and tried the mussels from our secret beach. James steamed them and served them up with butter and a little lemon juice. Tiny, rich tasting little things. P, Ray Mears in the form of a fine boned eight year old girl with blond curls, all but emptied the pan singlehandedly. G surprised me with Dime Vodka from Ms Marmitelover. (We think we’ll add another bar next time. Sugar tooths.)

Driving back, felt blessed to be in Norfolk. A variety of people sparse landscapes spread out from where I live. Parkland, woodland, shores of sand, marsh and flint. Sighing dips and curves, supermodel flat plains. Moonlight harvested fields now bristle, scattered with giant toilet rolls of hay.

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