Last blast of winter

Imagine for a moment that Lunchista had the patience to record the temperature in various places within a big triangle over most of central England, every day since about 1659. Luckily, since delegating is almost as difficult as time travel, I don't have to pull off such a feat, because it has already been done. The Central England Temperature Series is the longest-running set of weather data in the world. Here, courtesy of the Met Office, is a graph of the results, averaged for every day of the year.

Notice anything odd about next week? Such as, it has the lowest average temperatures of the whole year?

I'll get my coat.

Haggis, neeps and tatties

We see here the ingredients (well, the non-alcoholic ones at any rate) for Burns Supper here at Chateau Lunchista. The more eagle-eyed will have spotted the "V" mark on our haggis, it's a vegetarian piece made out of nuts, pulses and veggie oils. Very savoury, very healthy and (I'm reliably informed) goes well with the old Water-of-Life. It's one of the easiest meals there is to get ready, too: the haggis goes in that steamer (yes the one I bought for 20p at the car-booty, plus the lid I found in a leftover box at The Waste street-market in Dalston) for an hour or so, the spuds are boiled and mashed, as are the neeps. Simple.

Which is just as well because out of the blue there came a TV programme I really wanted to watch: mad* Geography professor Nick Middleton is investigating why we're having such a cold winter, and how to survive it. In the process he travels to Scotland and lets himself get exposed to hypothermia, and buried in the snow. It is of course against such eventualities that the original haggis was designed to protect the intrepid drover, crofter or infrastructure maintenance engineer.

It happens that Lunchista's first ever taste of Burns' Night took place in an unknown pub somewhere in a deeply-wooded area of the Home Counties, twenty years ago today. I was on a train coming back from a meeting in London to my cheap-and-cheerful flat on the coast, when our journey came to a complete halt. A tree had been blown down across our route by what turned out to be the UK's worst storm of the 20th century. The train then trundled backwards to a station we had just left, and the lights went out: they must have had to cut the power to the third rail for the sake of any maintenance crew. Our guard stepped off to make a call down the line. He then came along through each darkened carriage and explained that, given that the nearest suitable heavy-lifting gear was in Cardiff, this was going to be a long wait. Cue surreal twist:

"...but I'm told there's a pub a hundred yards down that road who are offering free tasters of Haggis and Whisky because it's Burns' Night. You won't miss the train, because when the engineers arrive I'll come along too". Beat that for service! He was as good as his word, and two hours later made sure we all found our way back to the train. Suitably warmed and fed, we proceeded on our way.

And what was this meeting that had caused Lunchista's part in all the drama? A meeting for Meteorologists, of course!


*editor's note: "mad", uttered by Lunchista, is a term of respect.

Iceland under pressure

This winter, the back-end of last winter (with that cold spell in February) and the winter of 1962-3 all have something in common. Apart, that is, from their obvious coolness. They all involve the absence of the usual "Low" over or near Iceland.

Here it is (thank you, South Downs Hang-Gliding!) in its natural habitat:
Wind, like the mythical Haggis in that joke about it always having to run round mountains clockwise because its left legs are longer than its right, blows clockwise around the Highs and anticlockwise around the Lows: in other words, that Iceland Low brings in lukewarm damp weather from the Atlantic. But now all that's gone, and in its absence we get to share in the sort of winter they have in mainland Europe: land cools down more than sea does. Wind that blows off this cool land comes up against the damp air over the sea, but instead of rain we get snow.

Meanwhile, somehow or other the good people of Iceland have to muddle along without their usual Low. Or indeed without their once-highly-successful banks. Banks whose returns were so high that HMG insisted any local Council not using them as a repository for their spare cash was in need of investigating, capping and probably The Lash to boot.

The banks' collapse seems to have caused the instantaneous disappearence of some 3 thousand million pounds, and of course that begs the question, who should pay? Depositors who thought they'd get "something for nothing"? HMG, who forced local authorities to use the banks because the numbers looked good? Us, the voters, who insisted on local councils offering "Value for Money"? The Icelandic government, who forgot to regulate their banks? Or the average Sigurd or Rúna who, indirectly and very temporarily, enjoyed the profits and must now vote on whether or not they want to give up something like £10,000 each?

I can see where the idea came from for that superstition about not being caught pulling a silly face when the wind changes direction.

School's out!

This good old-fashioned, unreconstructed, take-no-prisoners winter is still with us, much to the delight of all at Chateau Lunchista. The smaller Lunchistas returned to school on Monday (4th) and were looking forward to finding as many ways as posible of getting round that boring, litigation-culture-inspired rule that forbids the throwing of snowballs in the playground. Towards the end of the morning I settled down to start scribbling, and not long afterwards the 'phone rang. It was Lunchista fille, informing us that school had given up for the day because the heating wasn't working, and she'd gone home with a friend, presumably for a pleasant afternoon building snowmen, chatting and drawing cartoons.

A few minutes later Lunchista fils piled in and announced with obvious glee "Peak Oil has reached our school!" Apparently the tank was empty, the next delivery of the vital substance being either badly procrastinated or stuck in the snow somewhere. During Science, they'd had to light the Bunsen burners to keep warm. No oil delivery was due until the day after tomorrow, he said, so could we go sledging tomorrow?..

And so an exciting afternoon was spent by the lads in the street investigating the structural properties of snow necessary for building the largest snowman, the ballistics of snowballs, and the coefficient of friction of ice (and how to minimise it). They also confirmed the finding that a body loses 25 (yes, twenty-five) times more heat through wet clothes than dry ones. The following day we took the sledge to a particularly good ice-run down by the river, and built a snowman striker (complete with football) to take a shot at the goal on the playing field in which someone had thoughtfully constructed a snow-goalie.

Today we'd been advised to listen to the local radio to find out whether or not the school would be open. I haven't listened to the radio for years, though we do at least still have a working radio in the house. I'd forgotten how bad commercial radio could be: the guy kept saying "...and school closures, coming up shortly..." then there'd be adverts, sporting fixture lists, trailers for interviews coming later with celebs I've only just heard of, traffic news (protracted by the huge number of road and airport closures because of the snow), followed by a piece of music I'd always profoundly disliked but which, having been shot at me first thing in the morning, remained embedded in my head for hours.

Finally we gave up and looked on the school's web-page. School was up and running. So off went the small Lunchistas, in their wellies in something like six inches of snow.

Now that I can sit and think, the obvious question that occurs is: what on earth is an urban school doing messing about with oil, when gas is available, cheaper and (for those who care about such things) emits less in the way of greenhouse gases? It's also more reliable: one thing I discovered from my foray into radio news this morning was that if Transco fail to deliver, those households left gas-less are entitled to £300 a day compensation.

And it wasn't a one-off: the smaller Lunchistas' previous school also suffered an empty oil-tank one New Year, with a use of oil over the holidays that bordered on the suspicious. Nothing was ever proven, though: no-one at the school had the slightest idea how much energy the place really used. I wonder if there's a posse who go round schools with a lock-picker and a length of hose while everybody else is busy stuffing the turkey? If so, I wonder why I've never heard a case of these people being caught?

Midwinter

I'd forgotten how much I love it when it snows. All of a sudden it all goes quiet. All the mundane stuff in your typical streetscape disappears and gets replaced by works of art. There's a kind of odd glow, even before you open the curtains, because the reflected light is coming from a different angle than usual. And it's blue instead of grey.

It started yesterday afternoon, and carried on through the evening. The Sustainability Committee were treated to mulled wine, roast chestnuts and mince pies. We lit the stove. Sadly though, Lunchista fils let it go out, even after an explanation about how the privilege of lighting it leads to the responsibility for keeping it going. And I thought I was good at delegating...

It turns out that of the six of us on the Committee, two other than Chateau Lunchista have got woodburning stoves. Which made Lunchista glad that she had put "Treeplanting" on the agenda for our meeting. It transpires that the City Council are willing and able to supply trees at next-to-no cost. Now all we have to do is find some land whose owner doesn't mind the arrival of something as pleasing and useful as trees (especially when immortalised by Ansel Adams) You'd think that wasn't too difficult. Wouldn't you?

For mulled wine, pour two bottles of cheap red wine, the cheaper and redder the better, into a large (non-Aluminium) pan and put on a low heat. Add about half as much again of water, an orange studded with cloves, six tablespoons of sugar or honey and a few tablespoons of liquer. Slice up two more oranges and two lemons and add them in. Ready after 20 minutes on a low heat. Make sure it doesn't boil, or you start to lose the alcohol.

Urban Guerrilla

It started with conkers. Ever since the invention of string, it seems, people like Lunchista fils have collected conkers every autumn, threaded them on string, striven to make them as indestructible as posible (by means fair or foul) and smashed them into each other.

Academics have recently pieced together the story of the invention of string, or at least, why it caught on so rapidly. As the ice-age tightened its grip on our ancestral landscape, the cave-family who were able to use a sharp bone and some string to piece together their furs to a more figure-hugging shape, including new-fangled luxuries such as shoes, obviously had a life-enhancing piece of technology worth sharing. It's interesting to speculate that the existance of patents in those early days would probably have done for the human race.

Meanwhile, as the more serious-minded family members stitched together their winter survival kit, some bored five-year-old was probably experimenting with the head-bashing potential of one of granny's pieces of this new-fangled string stuff with a nut threaded on the end...on his little sister's head. The family's continued survival thus rested on the invention of the game of conkers as a substitute activity. But I digress.

What usually happened at Chateau Lunchista was that the conkers would be collected all right, but then just thrown round the garden and forgotten about...until nature took its course and small horse-chestnut trees started appearing everywhere. Lunchista dug them up and put them into pots. They were later joined by some stray Hazels, grown from nuts that had gone past their "use-by".

Then a suitable road-verge appeared: people kept veering off it in their trucks and demolishing, over and over again, the same piece of wall. We thought a hedge might be a better bet, keeping the HGVs off the wall, while also providing a softer landing. So the trees got planted out in front of the wall. That gave Lunchista a taste for that kind of thing.

Hazels and rose-hips (the big fat irregularly-shaped type) spilled out onto the path from the station to my previous workplace. They all came home, got planted, and are now growing in our garden. The lawn under an oak tree at Castle Howard was covered in acorns when we visited one day last autumn. Erm, then it wasn't: some of them are in the loo-rolls in the picture, and some took off last year. Planting them out is the difficult bit. It hasn't stopped me from collecting more seeds of various sorts, though.

It took ages before I could find a place that isn't mowed, dug over or napalmed with weed-killer on a regular basis. I had to content myself with lobbing apple-cores and plum-stones (dozens and dozens of them, from fruit from the orchard) out of the car window if our trips took us along country lanes.

Until the day, just over a month ago, when I spotted a perfectly good gap in a hedge. It was just the right time of year too.

So I loaded a potted oak sapling into a JJB bag (and covered it with another bag), stuck in a trowel and set off, in the middle of the afternoon when everybody's at work. Getting from the path to the chosen place was a pain: it was full of nettles! I also noticed how loud a carrier-bag can be, and how long it can (seem to) take to get a plant out of a pot. I'd picked a place that looked as though it had a nice view: that way, if people happened to come by I could pretend to be looking at something. This came in handy when 2 joggers hove into sight.

I quickly dug a hole, stuffed the contents of the plant-pot in, pushed a load of dead weed stems over the patch of bare soil, trod it down a bit, picked up my stuff and scarpered. It poured with rain that night, so hopefully the tree got a good start. It's also bang up against a wire fence, so no strimmers or accidental boots.

A month on and not only has the neighbouring path been completely mown (missing my tree) but floods have come, and washed a load of old twigs over it. It looks as if I'd picked a good place: the tree's neither been strimmed down nor washed away.

Nearby is a huge old apple tree that probably escaped from somebody's orchard. It dropped hundreds, possibly thousands, of little apples. Not much good for eating, but brilliant as "seed bombs". They are now scattered in the brambles all along the path, among the nettles along the edge of a nearby field, and in the long grass the strimmers have missed under a fence along the main road South out of the city. Of course apple seeds don't usually "grow true" but even so, they'll still produce fruit of some kind, or at the very least grow into trees and improve the landscape.

On my way back, I also got rid of two stuffed pockets full of beech nuts. They are lining a verge between the road and a field, currently under water, where 700 houses are to be built. It turns out that Lunchista is in good company: Admiral Collingwood (Nelson's second-in-command at Trafalgar, no less), thinking about the need for timber in the future, used to plant acorns wherever he could.

Barking? Possibly. But who would you rather put in charge of your future: Admiral Collingwood, or someone who'd arrange to build 700 houses on a flood plain?

Mean Time

"I'm really looking forward to not having to get up early tomorrow morning!" said Lunchista fille over dinner last night. It's half-term week, so as well as no school, there's no football practice either. Suddenly an entire Saturday morning is open to us to do with as we see fit. Which is just as well, because "350" had decided to declare today a Day Of Action and our city's humble contribution to the worldwide array of stunts many and varied was to form a human chain, complete with Mexican Waves, around the Minster at the eminently civilised time of 11:30 in the morning.

We got there early and immediately bumped into our local eco-enthusiast par excellence (of course) who, knowing that Lunchista is something of a lapsed astrophysicist, mentioned a conversation he and his son had been having about how far it was possible to travel in a lifetime, assuming that you could, over a long enough distance, accelerate to about nine tenths the speed of light. Of course it would be a lot longer than an 80-light-year round trip given that, as your ship accelerates, the time would pass much more slowly for you on board than it would for your stay-at-home relatives, or indeed for any (stationary) aliens you might intend to visit.

The worst bit would be coming home to find everybody you care about passed away or aged beyond recognition. And, assuming Climate Change plays out as currently expected, in our case we'd find our city (presently only some 20 metres above sea-level) about 50 metres under the (all too real and not very Mexican) waves.

I wondered if the son in question had ever listened to the lyrics of '39 by Queen, written by fellow lapsed astrophysicist Brian May. And, walking round to find the event's organisers, I couldn't help wondering also if the Minster, which has been there for the best part of a millennium, would manage to stay around for a second one. At which point I bumped into the organiser of the Nature Reserve, who has been trying to assemble enough of us for a meeting to launch a new "outreach" programme. There are ten of us, and he's had to resort to putting all possible names, dates and times into a spreadsheet in the effort to solve the logistical conundrum involved in assembling us all. How little time everybody seems to have. Even the Year-Long Lunch Break is passing at a disturbingly rapid rate: now more than half gone.

Both mainstream and "skeptics" invoke Time repeatedly in their spiel: skeptics will say either that we still have plenty of it, or else that if you travel back through enough of it you'll see lots and lots of "Climate change" due to volcanoes, the sun, cosmic rays, you name it. And it never killed anyone, did it? On the other hand, listen to anyone serious talking about Climate Change for long enough (in my case about 2 minutes will do) and you rapidly develop a sense of "time running out".

All Lunchista can do is offer you an extra hour tomorrow morning before you have to get up. What can we do with this precious, and some would say illusory, extra time?

Light my fire

People seem to bear a serious grudge against this time of year. They complain that "the clocks are going back" and then invariably start a campaign to stop the change to Greenwich Mean Time, as if that would somehow prevent winter, or by extension, old age or that tough deadline at work. Elaborate plots are spun to avoid the worst of the cold and the dark: many of these involve flying off long distances and spending unfeasably large amounts of money. Lunchista has never done this and wonders what it would be like: on returning to an airport submerged in the general dreich-ness of a Northern Temperate Maritime (translation: dark, cold and damp) winter, would I feel worse than if I'd stayed put and got used to it, or would I somehow feel "recharged" by the extra hours of sunlight?

Sadly, unless you happen to be Goldman Sachs, "winter sun" holidays create the sort of holes in the budget that aren't exactly enablers for year-long lunch-breaks. Lunchista would therefore offer an alternative strategy: do as we have done. Instead of running away from autumn, by chance we've done something that improves it: we got a woodburner in. Lighting up has become something of an autumn ritual: a landmark which, unlike Hallowe'en, the clocks going back or the leaves dropping off the trees, is warm and cheerful.

We did it when speculation surfaced about the Gulf Stream packing up. It turns out that reports of its death were somewhat exaggerated, but we're glad we took the plunge. There are two- to three-week stretches on either side of the heating season when a stove is about right but firing up the entire central heating system (and the bills that come with it) would be a little OTT.

We started to notice how many lumps of dead tree people left lying about. In fact a combination of landscaped workplaces, other people's gardens, council tree-felling, and DIY projects has meant that in the six years since we first lit up we have never had to pay for any wood. It generally starts to appear about this time of year, and we quietly ask if people mind, and if they don't, we load it up and bring it home, where it has to dry out for a few months. Then it gets sawed up and stacked in the garage.

So, since last week, every evening when the darkness closes in, instead of mourning it we have something to look forward to. It's funny how much of a difference it makes, being able to look into the flames. I mean, you couldn't tell ghost stories in front of a radiator, could you?

Value Engineering

There are some places on these islands whose sunlight really is special. Lunchista has lived in Glasgow (but almost anywhere on the West Coast of Scotland will do as an example), and stayed near Aberdyfi in Wales, but the Lake District has this light too. Somehow the sun looks brighter if its light is falling onto steep, dark terrain. The less charitable could also point out that sunlight looks brighter here simply because it is so rare, and I'm afraid the numbers from the Met Office back them up. You've got to seize your moment.

Famille Lunchista were lucky enough to catch possibly the best day of the summer for a boat trip on Ullswater (although to be fair this followed a prescient look at the forecast). A 1930s style boat took us half the length of the lake (about six miles) to a classic country hotel where we had lunch on a terrace with stunning views. It, too, had something of the 1930s about it, even down to the waitress's uniform (full length black dress plus white pinny). It was all very unhurried, un-crowded and, unlike most tourist destinations I've been to of late, generally not a system under stress. Or so we thought.

Value Engineering is the black art of getting the most "value" out of some enterprise, by paring off any inputs that aren't strictly necessary while still delivering, just, what people expect, and have paid for. It was originally applied to straightforward mass-production and the like, where it made for more-efficient processes and less waste, but has since then spread into areas in which, to put it charitably, it is less appropriate. Such as Tourism, and infrastructure design.

We walked back to the lakeside in time to see the previous boat to ours come along. It was rather smaller than ours, and could only just take on the people queuing at the jetty. The motor started up... and then the driveshaft failed to engage. From the crew's conversation with their base we jaloused that the boats were checked thoroughly every morning, and that these smaller ones had had extra checks because they had been drafted in to replace the route's largest vessels, which could not be used that day because the lake's water-level was the highest it had been for 20 years after our unusually wet July.

The crew explained that a tow was needed and that this meant all the passengers had to disembark. They thanked us for our patience. Then the real system failure happened. It transpired that the jetty only had space for one boat to moor, so we all had to wait until the Park Rangers' motor-launch (complete with tow-rope) had done its stuff before any of us, now a total of about 300 people (including all the passengers in our boat, which as we joked was in a "holding pattern" out on the lake), could go anywhere. All because someone, somewhere, had decided that the cost of a few extra planks couldn't be justified because, well, they'd never be needed...

We were there for an extra three hours.

Most tourists want to cram as much as possible into their day, rather than simply sit somewhere and soak up the atmosphere. But as far as I was concerned, none of this really mattered: not having value-engineered our day, we didn't have to be anywhere else in a hurry. The jetty was warm wood, the view was beautiful, Lunchista fils lay his head on his rucksack and had a quick kip, Lunchista fille looked at the shapes of the mountains, and I was lost in memories of various children's stories set in this type of landscape: Swallows and Amazons, the Moomins, that kind of thing. Nobody got cold or hungry, and we only slightly regretted not staying on at the hotel terrace for cream tea. Even the dog didn't throw a wobbly.

I got to explaining to Lunchista fille about the layout of the Lake District and how it had come about: the lakes are mainly the routes of glaciers, radiating downwards and outwards from the central mountains, like the spokes of a wheel. Opposite our spoke, for example, is Wastwater, and then the coast.

Sitting on that coast is a place whose bosses and operatives, I really hope, never get the idea of Value Engineering into their heads...

St Swithin's Day update

The Met Office has just cancelled the "Barbecue Summer" we were supposed to be having, and no wonder. Received wisdom here at Chateau Lunchista is that anyone wishing for sunny and/or warm weather must never, under any circumstances, utter the word "Barbecue". The correct terminology, if we wish to invite people for charcoal-powered alfresco nosh in fine weather, is "An offering of burned meat to the Great God Pluvius".

Meanwhile, sixteen days into the St Swithin forty, here at Chateau Lunchista we have had a grand total of 2 (two) days without rain. It has also been incredibly windy for summer: this is the first time in five years that Lunchista has had to tether sunflowers to stop them blowing down (having first had to right them: not a cheery task!).

By the way if you've ever wondered what to do about vegetarians and barbeques, apart from the obvious veggie "kebabs", Haloumi cheese makes a damn fine grill and doesn't melt (and it can go in kebabs as well).

Isobars are back!

Yesterday (15th July) was St Swithin's day. The original St Swithin lived in Winchester and by all accounts was a bit of an Outdoorsman. So he asked to be buried outdoors and, being an influential chap, had his request granted. At least initially. When, later on, his remains were moved to a posh indoor venue, there was a violent storm and it carried on being wet for most of the summer. And so was born the tradition, summed up in the little ditty:

St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain nae mair.

It so happened that, here at least, the afternoon of St Swithin's day was quite wet. And lo and behold, so was this afternoon, so we wonder here at Chateau Lunchista if we're in for 40 wet afternoons. This would go against the Met Office forecast for the summer, which as you may remember from a previous post was talking about dry conditions interspersed with the odd downpour. So Lunchista has started following the TV weather forecasts to see if anyone's willing to pass comment about all this.

About two years ago the quality of information on the TV weather forecasts took a bit of a dive. In particular, Scotland all but disappeared off the edge of a newly-curved map, and the proper synoptic chart, with its isobars, was abandonned, perhaps because some focus group (or more accurately the most vociferous person therein) said they didn't understand it.

So imagine Lunchista's delight when, on the weather at the end of the evening news last night, not only were the isobars back, but they were complemented by a detailed explanation of where all the rain was coming from. The Jet Stream, which usually directs the sequence of lows to which we are treated in winter and then disappears North in the summer to leave us in an island of High pressure (and fine, calm weather with it), has decided to indulge in a summertime southern sortie over the UK.

Now I'm not sure how rapidly the Jet Stream changes its course, but supposing the answer is "not very" that might explain the St Swithin's Day ditty. It will be interesting to see, as the forty days go by, which forecast (wet from St Swithin's, or dry from the official long-range) will be the more accurate.

Meanwhile if it keeps on raining we can console ourselves that at least it will be good for one thing: St Swithin's rain is supposed to "christen the apples" and make for a good harvest.

Some like it hot

Just for the record, here is Chateau Lunchista's weather station showing today's lunchtime temperature: 32 degrees Centigrade if you please! A second glance will reveal that the humidity, at 65%, is kind of tolerable, and that our weather station believes it might rain later. The bottom line shows the date (so you know I'm not fibbing), and the frame, as ever, advises a light snooze.

A third glance will reveal that Chateau Lunchista is not a modern house: the indoor temperature, in the face of this thermal onslaught, is a blissfully cool 23 degrees. Heat is soaking into the walls, ready to re-emerge after sunset and do something useful, like keep the damp off as the outdoor temperature goes down to the 'teens and the dew falls.

Talking about cool people reminds Lunchista that today's lucky recipients of that ticking timebomb that is the rotating EU Presidency (passed to the next player every 6 months) are the Swedes. Yes that wonderful country who brought us 3-point seatbelts (deliberately left un-patented so that everybody could enjoy them, saving millions of lives) and compulsory triple-glazing, saving millions in fuel bills. Incredibly, they have a president called Fred (well alright then, Prime Minister).

They are going to try and clean up the Banks and the Baltic (Sea, not Exchange), and for good measure they're going to get everyone else who matters in these things to agree to the same climate-change targets as the EU already has, while at the same time ensuring economic growth. Lunchista also has it on good authority that they are working on delivering "The Moon, with brass knobs on" by Christmas.

We can all take the mick, but every now and again there are times when you really need to aim high. Lunchista feels the urge to write to the Swedish Prime Minister and wish him luck.

Cliffhanger

Gorgeous, isn't it? (OK, if you suffer from vertigo, look away now...) Famille Lunchista's weekend entertainment included a walk along the cliffs at Bempton, armed with a pair of binoculars and a leaflet describing each flying object in helpful detail. Without which, of course, all the Gannets, Razorbills and Puffins would have remained Unidentified Flying Objects, at least to Lunchista, who is to birdwatching something like what Jordan is to Nuclear Physics.

Incredibly, you can get here without having to drive, which is just as well because otherwise this post may have degenerated into a rant against hypocrisy as Lunchista's eyes happened upon an advert in which an RSPB "happy customer" expressed his delight at (and I quote) "coming here to escape the exhaust fumes..." But let us give our man with the fresh air fetish the benefit of the doubt and assume that he cycled here across the North Sea, or at the very least took the train. Meanwhile I'm afraid that for once we brought our own exhaust fumes.

If you can't stand the heat, never mind getting out of the kitchen just come to the East Coast: quite often while the rest of the country is baking under a big fat summer Anticyclone, the East Coast spends much of the day shrouded in Haar, its own special mist, brought to you by the light East wind which has drifted in over the cold sea.

Back in town the following day, a community picnic had been organised on the linear park down by the river to promote (among other things) the idea of growing your own food. The weather was absolutely perfect for it. Best of all, the Met Office say we're in for more of the same as the summer goes on.

Have you ever noticed how much better food tastes when you eat it outdoors? And a cup of tea has its own distinctive smell when drunk in the open air, quite different from the same tea taken indoors. I wonder if someone has ever carried out proper research to try to find out exactly why.