Gingham

The chance spotting of a flyer for a village fete at Eastnor led to an encounter with some of the most succulent blueberry flapjacks and possibly the best chocolate cake I have ever tasted. OK, I apologise to all of my friends and relatives who have strived over the years to satisfy my yearning for that most desirable of foodstuffs but this was the business.

I have a hierarchy of cakes and pastries. It is not rigidly adhered to, some rise, some fall, as time passes and my taste varies. Of late chocolate has been at a low ebb, subordinate to lemon drizzle, apple and almond, coffee and walnut and the ever present quest for the perfect almond croissant. Muffins of complex and wonderful combinations come and go, and even fruitcake makes an occasional appearance, egged on by its supreme accomplice, marzipan. But last Saturday, chocolate made a comeback, fighting its way back to the top of the tree and riding once more firmly upon my waist.

Gingham is an Indonesian word which has come into English via Dutch; I just thought you'd like to know that. When I was at school it was used to make the girls' summer uniforms. I don't know whether that's still the case but it does turn up in the better sort of teashop or English country gathering as a table cloth. Cotton, not plastic or throwaway paper - they do things properly amongst the sunny hills of Herefordshire.