One swing of the Cartford Inn's door was all it took to transport us from a dark, dripping, rainswept December night to a festive haven of subdued light and soft music. Ari, fresh from another term at Uni and apparently still growing, welcomed us with a smile that sparked like the famous Cartford log fire. In our chosen corner we sipped Pino Grigio and perused the menu. I make a notable pea and ham soup myself but could the Cartford kitchen team really incorporate black pudding and soft-poached egg into that traditional recipe? They could and did – with gratifying results. All around us the decorations reflected the candles' glow in gold and scarlet. Julie approached at speed, wearing her welcoming grin and scary spectacles as she prepared the tables for a big party.
The seafood pie is not for the faint-hearted or the dietary fanatical, but for a hungry man with a liking for rich flavours it was a culinary treat! Every forkful was savoured. 'I'll have a blue Christmas,' warbled Johnny Cash in the background. The candle on our table flickered momentarily, throwing Patty's face into warm relief. I raised my Talisker glass and watched the firelight dance in its honeyed depths. Mr Cash's Christmas may have been blue but ours was looking rosier by the minute.
Eventually – and what an elastic-sided word that can be when dining at the Cartford - we prepared to tackle the north face of Cartford Brow. Patrick offered to drive us home. As we climbed in we caught a distinct flash of sturdy Gallic thigh. Fresh from a night in the hot kitchen wearing his shorts, Patrick appeared to be, as they nearly say in Pilling, 'sans culottes'. As a simple Fylde country lad I viewed the proximity of a trouserless French hotelier with mixed feelings but it didn't half bring a gleam to Patty's eye.
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