Lake District

I am a city girl through and through. I am actually allergic to the countryside (literally - I get terrible hayfever). So when the Wiganer found out about a certain trip to the land of the lakes, she knew she was going to have to dress it up for me to even consider.

I was told it would be a bank holiday weekend of sunbathing and cocktails by a large lake. And for just £35 I could get all food and board included. I was informed of the trip during the (probably only) really sunny week in May. So obviously the offer seemed pretty good.

However. As time wore on, and I had paid my money, booked a train ticket, and had selaed off all means of escaping the weekend, things started to emerge from teh woodwork.

The first thing to be mentioned was "wetsuit". At first I ignored the Wiganer, thinking, and hoping, that perhaps she had meant to say bikini, and it was just another north/south language confusion. But then she mentioned the word "kayak".

Hmmmm. there was no ignoring that one. So, plucking up the courage, I decided to just clear up exactly what the weekend was about. "Ah yes" said the Wiganer, "we are, um, going on a water sports weekend".

Uh oh. this is NOT my cup of tea. I spent my entire school career AVIODING things like this (hence becoming most avid fan of the soup run my school had ever known).

After much persuasion (and ridicule from pub colleagues) the Wiganer managed to calm me down. To be honest, the weekend was run by a friend of hers who has decided FOR FUN to sail from Antigua back to Britain on a yacht. And not a giant 300ft one. No a teeny peeny 37 ft one. I should have known better.

So the time comes round to pack. I got rather distressed. The Wiganer made me pack an old T-shirt, two hoodies, a bikini (yay!) to go under a wetsuit (sob) and, god forbid trainers. No high heels (I was sneaky and wore some on the train - ha! she couldn't just take the shoes from my feet). No little skirts, or cute summer outfits. It was heart-breaking.

So we got to Wigan. After a long and painful train journey. And were driven up to the Lakes.

Now obviously, as I was in a moving vehicle I fell asleep within approximately 4 and a half minutes of leaving Wigan (much to the enjoyment/wonder of everyone else in the car). And was woken up approximately 4 and a half minutes before we arrived.

And gosh was the scene different. No longer on a Wigan estate we were actually in the middle of nowhere. Everything was green. There were no houses. I even saw a well (as in what people used in the olden days - and sill Coniston - for getting water).

We were staying in an activity centre, which was very nice and quaint. As it was late we had dinner, and a few drinks sat in a FIELD and went to bed. (Might I add, it was freezing after about 9pm, and I was sincerely gld of the two hoodies and fluffy socks the Wiganer had packed for me, and yet Sharples our host was still in a vest, shorts and flip flops.

Next morning we got up, and were assigned our wetsuits. Sadly they ran out of the really small, so my 5.2 and a half inches was given on made for someone closer to 6 ft. And was still wet. That was unplesant. And also made it virtually impossible to get in the damn thing.

So after many undignified bends to get myself in, and we were ready. Went down to the lake (where again - freezing) and was promptly put in a canoe. And then a kayak. And then another kayak. And then we kayaked across the lake, to the other side, sat down and then came back. And I actually did it!

Now I can't say I did it with any style, and was extremely anxious for at least the first hour. But then I saw a 6'4 man capsise, and out came sharples (in her own speed boat - I collect shoes, she collects boats) and pulled him (yes a 6'4 injured man) AND his kayak into her boat. It was nothing short of incredible. Barker, the large man, got back onto land claiming "Sharples is as strong as an ox". After that, less nervous of the old water sports.

Although after the excitement of all that kayaking, did spend about 3 hours having a nap, sunbathing and doing handstands.

That evening we did the usual country thing of a large barbeque and bonfire on the beach. Was nice.

And then we came to the final day. Got up. And was a little more confident that before. Pulled on still wet wetsuit. Took less than an hour, so had improved since day before. Was feeling pretty good about the day.

So we got down to the water. And it turns out that we are building our own (yes OWN) raft. And then sailing it out to a buoy, that frankly was little more than a tiny yellow dot on the horizon.

Now this seemed less fun. Luckily I managed to be on the team with the most industrious looking boys. Who also turned out to the best at knot-tying. So our raft (where the extent of my help was using a vital rope to play skipping) actually looked pretty good and sturdy. Especially in comparison to the other teams. Their's was already falling apart without even being in the water.

So we had built the thing. Then came the time to select a crew. Now I was more than happy to arrange the on land cheerleading for the team. Bt suddenly a finger pointed at me. "You". Er. me? Are you mad? "Your light. On you get".

So plan was not going to order. Due to being small, they (wrongly) assumed I might be an asset to the team (light but powerful).And suddenly I had been given an oar, put on the damn boat thing, and we had left the beach.

I have never ever prided myself on strength. I am positively weedy. Which the rest of the crew noticed about 8 metres from the shore. And as this was a race, and we were losing, do you know what happened? I was tossed overboard. Yes. Made to swim behind. Oh it was a sad moment. (After making a big fuss after about 5 mins some kind boy pulled me back on, and I was allowed to bang a drum, which I might add, I did exceptionally)

We lost the race. And I had finally been in the lake. And was convinced I was getting frostbite in my feet (apparently you can't get it in May). And it was time to go home. But I had done it. I had actually spent a whole weekend in the country, where there are no clubs or bars or shops or people. Where at night, the sky is totally dark, without a hint of orange. Bizarre.

I won't rush back. I am pretty useless at the water sport thing. But maybe next year. Maybe it can become an annual thing. Because while I hate to admit it, for one weekend it was kinda fun to hang up the heels and dresses, and walk around in a wetsuit and hoodie.

Farmer's Markets

I love shopping. I love shopping for clothes. and shoes. and pretty things. And I love a good tesco shop. In the really big ones. The Tesco Extras. I get so excited by the mass of opportunity.

And now I have discovered a new training ground for my shopping. The Farmer's Market.

Now, me being the true city girl that I am, thought a farmer's market was full of sheep, cattle, old men chewing straw, and hay (hence the wide birth - i suffer chronically from hayfever).

But I have had my eyes opened. Doing research for a documentary I am making about Tesco, I decided to go back to the roots of all great global supermarket enterprises - the market stall.

So, at 7am on saturday morning I got on my rail replacement bus to Pimlico, and ventured into the world of Farmer's markets.

They are amazing. You can get so much stuff; fruit, bread, cheese, juice, flowers, plants, conversation.

Everything is fresh, local and seasonal. And you can ask the people who sell anything and everything about their products. Not like in tesco, where one question of "is this organic?" merits death stares and an angry gesture at the label.

No. These people LOVE to talk food. And see the harder, more probing questions as a welcome challenge.

I was interviewing the wife of a farmer. I met her (very glamorous for what I wrongly assumed was a severely unglamorous job) and immediately liked her. She was lovely, and warm and inviting.

She told me that one of the best parts of running a stall at a farmer's market, was the connection one forms with the customer. She regularly recognises the majority of people who come to their stall, and is known to pop round to offer gardening tips, cooking tips, or just general chat.

She revealed that her family's farm go to 10 farmer's markets across London, and that at all of them, they have a similar relationship with their customers.

Well, having developed a new love for these shopping grounds, I decided that I must right away discover some more.

And so began my weekend of markets. And the slow transformation of the city girl, to country lass.

I went to one in Queen's Park (best cakes EVER - hazelnit and beetroot - yes BEETROOT - was amazing).

Borough market for the best pig sandwich I've ever eaten, and also strawberries - two punnets £1 - sod you Tesco, at that price never again will I grace the fruit and veg section.

Portobello road - already a known shopping ground - but the food market was wonderful. Got a quiche (which although onion and feta, and smelling like feet, was yum) and a delicious brioche).

Finally went to the one in Clapham - got some very impressive eggs, and apple juice. Bloody fantastic.

All the food was wonderful. Although a tad on the pricey side for my humble sutdent budget. But for the research purposes of the documentary - definitely worth it.

And in order to truly embrace my new image of rural living, I am off this weekend, to the lake district. On an activity weekend.