a market and the Heath

One of the main drawbacks to our neighborhood in Bloomsbury is that it's not as much a neighborhood as a tourist mecca. You can find people who live here if you look very carefully, but they seem greatly outnumbered by the visitors. It also means that while there are plenty of grocery stores, there isn't a great neighborhood farmers' market. This really isn't a problem, however, since there are plenty of other markets within a couple of miles. It just gives me an excuse, as if I needed one, to visit them all.

Yesterday we popped up to the Parliament Hill farmers' market and it definitely did not disappoint. We ate a crodough filled with lemon curd and potato bread with rosemary and potato skins hidden inside, which were both scrummy, but the real treat was the Welshman selling said items. Not only did he think my accent sounded Irish (bless him! and don't be too shocked. It's all the r, I think), but he chatted with us for a good 5 minutes while customers lined up behind us. His accent was charming, although sometimes unintelligible, and I was reluctant to end the conversation. 

Here is one of the stories he told us: he saw two lines in a paper about a crodough (aka doughsant or cronut) being served in NYC and though it would be fun to try making them, which he mentioned to a friend, who immediately tweeted that the Welshman's bakery would be selling crodoughs at the next Saturday market. So the Welshman looked up a recipe online, made a couple of batches, and sold out of them the first week. They've been a hit ever since, particularly the ones rolled in cinnamon and sugar immediately after coming out of the fryer. I'm thinking about going back every week just to see him, but then it means I might miss other markets. It's really a difficult decision. 

We also bought a jar of sweet and dainty honey from an English flower I never quite caught the name of. I felt asking the honey man a third time for the name of the plant was just insulting, so I nodded, handed him a fiver, and scurried away with my honey. 

Then we found ourselves in the Heath, or, as I think of it, heaven in London. Hampstead Heath is an 800-acre "park," to use the word loosely. It's more a jungle of wild grass, massive trees, murky ponds, rambling hills, and tame wildlife plopped right in the heart of the city. You can pull on a pair of wellies and tromp through the mud and forget that you're in the suffocating midst of 10 million people. You can also frolic with your dog along with all the other dog people who look at you strangely when you ask them questions about their dog when you don't have one, but who chat merrily with the other dog owners. I definitely need a dog. 

I wish I had some photos to show you of the Heath, but I don't. Some things you just can't capture with a camera. At least I can't. If you can, please come visit and you can photograph it yourself.