Tag Archives: Roddas


Of course, food does. Hi fellow human!

But, perhaps you’re reading this because, like me, you don’t just eat food, you eat words. They nourish your mind and soul in the same way as food does your body.

Maybe your midnight snack is not (only!) a furtive trip to the fridge but a head-torch under the duvet with the giveaway

klick     klick

of your kindle. 

If so…this blog is for you.


In whatever form you get your five a day – prose, poetry, a word that makes your tongue smile – consider my blog an alphabet soup aperitif with which to start your day.

I aim to present you with some poetry, books, and literary events in Cornwall alongside more fundamental nourishment – foodie delights in the county. Serving up reviews, recipes, restaurants and folk who make our taste-buds party from Padstow to Penzance.

Each week you get FOOD and WORDS to snaffle – get your napkins ready…



Home-made scones. Ok, I know.  January, in the rain, is not a typical time for a scone scoffing session. But huddled on the couch around the only radiator (oil, I live on a wind-blasted plinth) those scones awakened a part of me long dormant. Rodda’s clotted cream transcends seasonality. And I swear after the fourth, I saw a little daffy poke his head up out of the hardened earth, dust himself down, and say: “Come on February, I’m bloomin’ ready!”

I echo Mr Daffodil’s sentiment – this is the last grizzly Monday in this bleak month. Bring on the scones!



Penelope – Simon Armitage

your man is long gone, and I have loitered

by your garden gate; weeded the border,

turned the soil over, waited on your word.

There is a quilt or sheet or counterpane

strug out across a tenterframe; by day

you make it, sitting in the window seat.

And you have crossed your heart and hoped

to die, promised that this cover, blanket,

bedspread, when completed will envelop me

with you.

Penelope, one night last June

I came for fruit, and from the crow’s nest

of the cherry tree I made you out:

unhitching one day’s stitching, teasing knot

from thread, releasing warp from weft…

I dropped down from the tree and left.

That’s fine. you’re buying time, holding your breath,

watching, waiting for your man to show.

I’m in the garden picking you a rose:

this new strain with their frantic, crimson heads,

open now and at their very best having dozed

all winter in a deep, rich bed, the trench

I sank one evening but the potting shed.

I mark the best bloom, take it at the neck.

copyright Simon Armitage

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