Bacon and Eggs

"Life expectancy would grow leaps and bounds if green
vegetables smelled as good as bacon"

The cure of many ailments and the cause of just as many.

Streaky. Smoked. Lean. Grilled. Fried. Ovened. Tender. Juicy. Crispy. Oh, sweet magical bacon. How I adore thy scent, wafting up and warming my tender nostrils.

You have been a dear friend to me over the years. Never failing to satisfy my hunger and enlighten my taste buds. I feel deep gratitude to those gallant pigs that have fallen to provide such a delicious treat.

Going abroad for a holiday is always lacking in good quality bacon. Having a butty is generally the first thing I do on my return from some far off shores. Two thick slices of fresh white bread. A 'healthy' layer of salted butter. Some crisp lettuce and half a thinly sliced tomato. A dollop of Coleman's mustard and FIVE rashers of extremely crispy streaky bacon. Jet lag and post holiday blues are temporarily silenced by this delectable treat. I spent much of my gap year, in a hash induced haze, dreaming of crispy rashers to adorn my homemade bread.

Fast forward almost exactly eleven years and I find myself in the abode of Peter and Collette Bacon. The Bacon Household. A rather attractive house nestled away in the leafy suburbs of Scarborough, the premier seaside resort of this hallowed country.

The trip up was arduous. Only because I was sandwiched (mmm, bacon sandwich) between the German manufactures door and a pile of bags, books and various gifts for the weekend away. Adam was at the wheel, Dido was on the Mac and Simba was keeping me warm and thankfully managed to 'hold on' for the duration of the journey. A pizza stop aside, we made good speed and found our way to Scarborough shortly after Thursday had expired. Don't get me wrong, the pizza was good (thank you for that Adam), but it was not quite large enough. Six inches is never enough.

The next few days are a bit of a blur. Not because Peter Bacon plied me with alcohol through out my stay (although he did), but because there were so many comings and goings and new faces and names to remember, at different points of the stay, my mind neglected to form some sort of order to the proceedings.

I was gifted a bedspace in the heavens of the detached house. Annabel was squashed into Hong Kong or was that playing squash in Hong Kong? So I was volunteered to take her room, complete with remote controlled lights.

Friday came. At this point I should probably describe the cast of the Easter weekend as they all arrived at some point through out the day.

Peter Bacon (PJB) had greeted us the night before. A rather engaging and powerful looking chap with a Manuel/Peter Falk type moustache. A dazzling intellect with a penchant for brandy and anything else that warms the cockles. And no, the 'J' doesn't stand for Jebediah or Jehovah.

Colette Bacon (CB) bade me a good morning in her dressing gown (she was in it, not me!). An elegant lady who plies her trade as an opto... opthom... opsth... Well, she seemed to be an infernal optimist. A most gracious host with a, seemingly, never ending supply of food and generosity.

Nick Bacon (NB). A self-styled financial and number crunching guru, who seemed to struggle with the numbers 2-9 and the letter A, J, Q and K.

Dido Bacon (DB). A late twenty something Apple addict with a habit of whipping out her... camera in public and a feisty opponent when it comes to anything competitive, be it monopoly or a simple game of Snap!

George Bacon (GB). A two wheeling ex-army boy with a collection of visors that would turn Valentino Rossi a shade of green.

Will McLean (WM). A curly haired (ex-bouffant) Liverpool fan, capable of hoovering up a 12" pizza in one fell swoop.

Ned McLean (NM). A straight haired Leeds fan, slumming it in League One with the rest of us never-beens.

Polly McLean (PM). A fresh faced English Rose with a penchant for furry things (explained later).

Adam Mills (AM). A late edition to the crew. Seems to have endeared himself to the clan, but there is plenty of time...

Baz Baron (BB). A pioneer and late addition to the Easter festivities.

Last, but not least...

Simba. The ever faithful four legged feather duster (Hands off! Ken Dodd), up there with Lord Lucan when it comes to hide-and-seek. I'll leave you to look up the definition of Simba on the Urban Dictionary.


Anyway..!

Friday morning was a trip into town for a browse, whilst Dido had her hair cut - that's 185 miles and four hours worth of travelling for a haircut. Adam and I perused the town which was long enough for me to realise the banks were shut on Good Friday and long enough to spot a fair few mullets on show. Dido made a reappearance with less hair than she started the trip with and we went onto purchase a pop up tent and some other stuff that escapes my fading memory. Nothing for me. I was still struggling with Halifax (Bank of Scotland) at that point and my cash reserves were lower than that of an Icelandic bank.

The next stop was a quick visit to the church of the wedding. Is there a wedding I hear you say? Yes, Adam and Dido are due to tie the not before the year is out. A rather quaint church with a beautiful view of Scarborough. A vicious incline saw us dive into a teashop that was camper than Christmas to devour a pot of tea and some hot cross buns.

Peter and Colette retired to some local party for the Friday evening (dent to the car and all), so the 'young whippersnappers' were faced with a feast of pizza (again), garlic bread, cherry tomatoes and some rocket. A very pleasant evening of calorie infested dough delicacies, wine and card games.

When Saturday came (minus Sean Bean), I was called into action for a spot of wine and food tasting at the venue of the reception, Wrea Head hotel. The visiting party consisted of Peter, Colette, Dido, Adam and the spare par...me. Drinks in the drawing room were the order of the day before we were ushered into the dining room.

A veritable feast was in the offing. Four starters (I picked the right one!) and a glass of wine heavier and we were onto the main course. A plate containing pork, lamb, chicken, more kinds of potato that you could shake a bottle of baby bio at and a collection of honey glazed carrots that looked like mini people. I dearly wanted to vote for the lamb, the apricot stuffed lamb, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I am against all kinds of animal cruelty and donate £3 a month to WWF (not the wrestling one)... What a way to go! I couldn't imagine anything worse other than pineapple, melon or perhaps lemons (supposing they burst).

The belt buckle was threatening to surrender and that was before attempting to battle ones way through four different desserts. Needless to say we were stuffed by the end of it, but not to the extent of that poor old lamb. Flowers and various other activities were a turn off, so I retired for the afternoon. My temporary slumber was interupted by a missing cat. I spent an hour in the woodland, above the house, shouting 'Simba!' - I wonder what the neighbours thought! (I am assuming you looked up 'Simba' on the urban dictionary.

Adam and I went for a 'leg stretch' and stumbled across a pub with a growing crowd of thirsty punters. Our life savings were spent on a quiz machine playing 'Bullseye' with the help of two natives. Much fun was had with our new friends, a rather odd looking couple who you would hope refrained from procreating. The McLean's had a better offer for the evening, so the remaining six of us were treated with a salmon or two. We were full again. The leather chair and my denim jeans produced a rather suspect groaning sound, it was not the reappearance of the pork, I promise!

Easter arrived. Eggs galore.

No, not that kind. We were treated, courtesy of Colleen to a spread of scrambled/boiled/fried/poached (delete as applicable) eggs and bacon. Our last feed until the big one.
The late morning and afternoon was spent shipping bricks about and rolling logs from the local forestry. Peter was keen to stock up the wood store and who could blame him? This winter has been long and arduous. I don't believe we have seen the last of it.

I wandered down the road for some supplies and got busted purchasing a £1.45 prawn sandwich. It was a spur of the moment treat to warm myself up for the Easter dinner. An eagle eyed Dido spotted my seafood and bread concoction and news of that quickly spread to the hosts who had told me to help myself to whatever I fancied. I wonder if that offer extended to... Only kidding.

The big meal was upon us. Dinner was an extraordinary affair. The kitchen was bursting to the seams with ten hungry occupants with conversation ranging from fingering pigeons to touching pussy (Sorry Polly). Accompanied by a red wine bottle that would make you feel like an extra in Alice in Wonderland. It was verging on 6 litres and would have required a rather strong F1 driver and the whole engineering team to manouevre the beast.

Barbecued lamb was on the menu. It was not stuffed to death with apricots, however... Mid meal, an excited Peter Bacon exclaimed that this was "...the first time I have boned a lamb and barbecued it!". Maybe it was sauteed the previous time? That exclamation did nothing to hinder the efforts of the hungry diners (even if one had consumed a sneaky prawn sandwich beforehand). A truly splendid smorgasboard of flavours treated our delicate palates.

The bottle soon succumbed to emptiness, quicker than most of us would have imagined or not (sorry Peter). The meal was over and card games were to follow, but not before Polly shrieked that she "wanted to touch pussy". Maybe it is a colloquialism or something that I didn't quite understand..?

Monday arrived quicker than I had hoped and the McLean contingent departed, along with George and Nick at various times.

Peter, Dido, Adam and I made for the local point-to-point at some Yorkshire venue (plenty of whippets on show). Ah yes, Charm Park. There was the inherent danger of losing each other with a melee of punters, trainers, novices and owners floating about, so we picked the stuffed toy animal stall as we were bound to find Peter there at some point. Yet again, I had to face the nemesis of my nightmarish dreams, the horse. Wasn't too bad until we were faced with a marauding horse who had long since relieved himself of his rider and made a break for the crowds. Thank goodness someone else heard the tannoy announcement!

The first two races, I studied the form, the conditions, guesstimated the windspeed and paid close attention to the movements of the horses in the paddock and that failed miserably. So I opted for a tried and tested measure. 'Which horse has the best name?'. I struck it lucky with First Fought ridden by a rather tasty Miss J Foster. It was my only success of the afternoon. However, backing it at 25-1 when odds later fell to 50-1 left me reeling.

A victim of either the Wrea Head
or Peter Bacon, you decide!

Mulled Wine was the choice of drink, albeit four months too late and there was a few winnings to be had along the way. Despite a couple of retirements, fallers and what-have-you.

We (Adam, Dido and I) made our excuses and departed for the smoke.

A thoroughly enjoyable weekend. Great food, great company, great to get to know Dido's family, great times were had.

Thank you McLeans (x 3), Bacons (x 5) and Mills (x 1) for a memorable weekend.


Word of the Day: Accubation - The practice of drinking or eating whilst lying down.

Quote of the Day: "Friends are the bacon bits in the salad bowl of life" - Anon