[veuillez défiler vers le bas pour la version française] These gooey triple chocolate cookies tick all the boxes for a sweet, sugary pick-me-up at the end of the working week (or any time of the week, if the truth be told). I’ve been tinkering with this recipe for going on thirteen years, trying out alternative flavours (such as these scrummy mince pie cookies) and double- and triple-chocolate variations along the way. If, like me, you’re a big fan of Sainsbury’s Triple Belgian Chocolate Cookies, these won’t disappoint – and, what’s more, you can bake more at home for less moolah.
On my trains, there’s a fairly even split of bookworms and people who treat their commute as an extension of their working day. I can’t help but sneak a glance at others’ books. What are they reading? Why are they reading it? What made them pick Reservoir 13, Nox or Sapiens? (I haven’t read any of them. Should I?) Was it the eye-catching cover design, or the pithy blurb? Was it the Goodreads rating, or a friend’s recommendation? Or plain old FOMO?
From afar, the Barbican Estate looks like a concrete jungle: a bleak mass of grey blocks, columns and towers. Cast aside your opinion of brutalist architecture for a moment, and venture inside. Greenery spills over the balconies; water features create an oasis of calm. But the best is yet to come.
Rewind to last summer: searing heat, endless sunny days (a stark contrast to the grey days and downpours this year). Sun’s out, bikes out. Destination: St. Ives. Cripes, that’s a long way, I hear you say. Fear not: I’m talking about St. Ives, Cambridgeshire, here, which is only 20-odd kilometres away from Cambridge on the world’s longest guided busway. (Yes, that is St. Ives’ claim to fame.)
[veuillez défiler vers le bas pour la version française] Porridge? Bleurgh; not for me (unless I’m camping, in which case I’ll tolerate it). Combine oats with sugar (lots of it) and syrup, and it’s a different story: I’m the sort of person who’ll eat flapjack mix straight from the saucepan, and who can’t resist a crumbly, oaty biscuit fresh from the oven. It doesn’t take long to whip up a batch of these scrummy little snacks – and, in my house at least, it takes a serious amount of self-restraint not to demolish them in even less time.
Postbridge lies on the fringe of Bellever Forest, right in the heart of Dartmoor National Park, and is best known for its medieval clapper bridge. We’d crossed it the previous evening, but as we hadn’t had time to admire it properly a detour first thing in the morning was in order. After eating our fill of cereals, we set off into Postbridge, opting for the dirt tracks instead of the main road.
I was expecting bleak expanses of moorland, shrouded in fog. What I experienced was the polar opposite: blistering heat and clear, blue skies. If I had to choose a favourite day in Dartmoor National Park, it’d be the one spent hiking to Postbridge, via Princetown (for that all-important cream tea) and Wistman’s Wood (a magical spot which, in misty conditions, would be a dead ringer for the Forbidden Forest).