An icy sun glinted off the snow-ribbed Bowland panorama across the Wyre as Patty and I ushered Jan and Peter into the warmth and welcome of the Cartford bar. Jan, a friend of long standing, is a redoubtable lady with an independence of spirit that reaches beyond mere feminism. She and Patty make a formidable team. Knowing our place, Peter and I sipped our drinks and pursued our manly conversation in low voices. The choice of starter from the specials board was unanimous: queen scallops and cauliflower gratin served in a scallop shell. The scallops were plentiful and succulent, their subtlety enhanced by the 'au gratin' setting. I was about to lick the shell but met with Patty's disapproving eye.
By this time the restaurant had filled up despite the wintriness of the day, but the service remained as attentive as ever. Julie left her post behind the bar to chat with us briefly. Now Peter and I were faced with an unnerving trio of feisty lasses – particularly as Julie was wearing her scary specs. I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do – I defected. “Are you aware,” I simpered, “that we're sitting within 30 yards of a feat of 19th century feminism?” I had their attention and grovelled on. “Oh yes. Over 150 years ago Squire Thomas Robert Wilson Ffrance ruled over a Fylde estate that included most of Little Eccleston, Out Rawcliffe and the Cartford Inn itself. In those days the only way across the Wyre here was by ford at low tide (hence Cartford) or by a tiny rowboat ferry ...”
At this point the main courses arrived: the chicken served with wild mushrooms, the fish pie and, for me, one of the Cartford's most imaginative creations, roast hake wrapped in Parma ham resting on fresh tomato sauce with roast peppers. Cartford dishes, with their matchless depth of flavour, don't lend themselves to idle chat, so little was said for a while. Eventually, after much yumming and ecstatic closing of eyes, I finished off the last vestiges of sauce whilst the others mopped up their lillet and the creamy winey nectar of the fish pie. Then the women chorussed, “Well, go on!”
“Well, the Squire had a wife, a quiet, gracious lady. One gusty day when the Wyre was flowing full and brown, the Squire brought her by pony and trap to catch the ferry to the Cartford. On its way to collect them, the tiny craft whirled, capsized and threw the ferryman into the river from which he barely escaped with his life ...”
Then came the puddings, a fragrant selection of figgy orange cheesecake with mascarpone ice cream, crispy creme brulee and peach Melba panacota. Again, for several minutes the conversation was restricted to appreciative grunts and murmurs of contentment. I smirked, enjoying the reflected glory due to a man who has just introduced his friends to the Cartford Experience. Then came the cry: “Well, go on then!”
“Well, the Squire's wife, having viewed the incident with horror, told the Squire, in her quiet way, she would never again cross the Wyre with him until he built a bridge.
'Hhmmpp!' blustered the all-powerful land-owning Squire. And 'Fiddlesticks!' His wife smiled and said nothing – but within a month the original Cartford Bridge was built, an enduring symbol of early girlpower.”
I smirked ingratiatingly around the table, basking in the smiles of my fellow feminists – whilst avoiding Peter's reproachful glance. A couple of coffees later Jan and Peter headed back to Scotland with Jan vowing to return soon, if only to sample the best crème brule she had ever eaten – must have been authentically crisped, she reckoned, with a blowtorch.
