Fickle ...

Appetite's a fickle thing. What provokes it? What diverts it? And why?

Last Friday afternoon Patty, daughter Fiona and I wandered on impulse into the Cartford for a drink. As we sat gazing out at the river we decided to share a couple of sandwiches. After some negotiation we agreed on a choice of fillings but before we could convey our order the mood changed dramatically. Was it the view of fresh springtime greenery beyond the window? The airy blue sky being repeatedly wiped by scudding white clouds? The serenity of the Wyre flowing past on its forty-odd-mile journey from fell to ocean? Or was it something as basic as a fragrant dish of something wonderful being carried across the room by a smiling waitress?

Whatever the reason, within the minute Patty had changed her frugal sandwich order to the grand solidity of locally produced sausage with mash. With a resigned 'Oh well then,' Fiona followed suit with a request for wood platter of antipasti with its succulent local ham and smoked duck breast.

And me? Well, I couldn't in all fairness nibble on a butty and watch the others tucking in. Contemplating the view through that magnificent window as I mopped up the last of my seafood platter, I decided – it must be the endless, never changing flow of the river within feet of the window that soothes the senses and sharpens the appetite - or maybe it's just plain, healthy gluttony.