The Legend of the Gourmet Dart Feast 2003

(This is the story of a meal cooked by Richard, including Tiger Prawn Soup, Lamb and Potatoes and Pear Belle Helene...)

It began with a beginning, and will finish, as all endings must, in the timeless circle of a cliché...

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell like drops of water falling from a cumulonimbus into the lower atmosphere. Lighting flashed violently and far below, on the mythical river Deert in deepest Llandevonshire, a lone paddler could just be seen, silhouetted against the lightning, threading his way through the rapids with the easy grace that only a master meal planner can achieve. He boofed over the river's most notorious feature, the Vacuum Cleaner of Destiny, with hardly a thought of stopping to do a few endos. For he had a far more serious task on his mind. A little way downstream lay his goal, rising up suddenly out of the misty darkness. There, on river left, was a small field of exquisitely verdant pasture, a tiny gem of emerald lushness nestling contentedly between the fullsome curves of the surrounding mountains. The lone paddler eddied out and raised his paddle to the sky, calling out a deep magical chant, drawing the forces that lay within to come out and face him.

For a few moments, there was nothing to be heard, except the lashing of the rain and the fierce roar of the rapids. Then, suddenly, figures loomed out of the darkness, pacing forward with stern solemnity, gathering in a group to face the paddler. A great voice boomed down, "Speak, Master Chef, Speak. In the name of the great Aries of Ovis, we are here to hear your plea". The paddler trembled for a second, and it was not clear if it was the sweat of terror or just the rain that was running down his neoprene-capped brow. He answered, "Oh great Oves, I come with a request. A request for you to join in the greatest paddling feast ever devised, to play your role in history. My divination has determined that this field contains the most delicious lambs in the whole of the Kingdom." The voice boomed back, the great horns curved and glinting in the moonlight. "This is true, Great Steerer of the Redline, never before has such a tender set of lambs been raised. But is the feast a worthy one?" The paddler answered, "Indeed my Sheepish Lord, it is the Annual Celebration of the Regent, and a particularly auspicious one, as it falls on the Sixth Day to the Ides of February, heralding the rebirth of the Spring and its associated fertility. The honour would be great. But you must understand the nature of the sacrifice involved?"

The great lead ram sighed deeply, and answered, "The ewes will be forlorn to see their offspring depart, but the nature of the request is profound. We must assent. Take our firstborn with our blessings, and may your paddle always be sure". "Ay, and may your horns be ever sharp", replied the paddler. Lighting flashed once more, and the pact was sealed...

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Some months later, in the crystal clear waters of a Micronesian island deep in the Pacific, a sun-bleached Redline drifts and scrapes aground on an outlying reef of a pure white coral atoll. The boat's paddler, his hand still instinctively clutching a speargun, is jolted awake. He has been 6 days on the high sea, and is delirious with lack of sleep and fresh water. But suddenly, all his senses are alert. A tiny movement below the surface of the water has indicated the presence of his prey. Careful to avoid casting a shadow, he moves like a wraith, raising his spear like a great Heron's beak, poised for the moment, his hand steady despite the tremors of hunger racking his entire abdomen. The sun glints on a nearby wave, and a skua's piercing cry masks the gasp of pain as the paddler unleashes the spear from his raw, salt-blistered hands. But his aim is true, and a perfect prawn is impaled, just three segments down from the brain, ensuring the perfectly-formed flesh remains intact. He stares at the beautiful, tiger-striped beast lying in his hand, as he flash-freezes it in his peli-case mounted cryo-storage pack. "Only 173 more to go", he mutters grimly to himself...

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Deepest Lincolnshire. An unfamiliar red shape catches the eye of a small boy walking to school across the fens. His gaze extends out across the hazy matrix of dykes and farmland, the rich moist soil raising up a delicate peaty aroma in the early morning sunshine. There, in the distance, a whirl of red paddle can be seen, powering a small kayak through the fieldscape's many ditches, the bright Werner-pigmented blades offering a beautiful visual contrast to the viridian green leaves of the surrounding crops. The figure in the craft can be seen to pause briefly at certain banks and press the paddle to the ground, the other end to his ear, as if listening for something underground. The network of fields covers about 250 square miles, but the paddler is persistent. He is seen by the boy for most of the Michaelmas Term, in sleet, snow, rain, and of course the ever-present biting wind, sweeping in unrelenting from Siberia and across the fields. But the paddler knows that these are the perfect conditions for growing Solanum tuberosum, and in early December, he strikes gold.

The moment is honoured by a small rainbow that appears, shining brightly against the slate-dark sky, as the paddler leaps forward onto the bank, thrusting his paddle into the ground, digging deep into the roots of a particularly fine specimen. He is feverish, despite the cold, and manages to control himself enough to gently wrest the golden nuggets from the dark, crumbling soil, and consign them to the purpose-built backdeck larder system in his stern.

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Helen looks up from her desk. It's in the Orchard Dealing room of a large City bank. She has just transferred over from the Paris office, and is still learning the ropes, but as a beautiful young Frenchwoman she has plenty of young blades eager to give her advice on how to run the department. None of them interest her though, and she has been wondering if she will ever meet a man that is her true match. On the Reuters newsline, there have been reports all day of strange activity on the Thames, of a chauffeur-paddled limo-kayak arriving in the Pool of London, indicating the presence of a great and wealthy entrepreneur. There is a sudden hubbub in the room, and as she looks across, a tall figure strides towards her. Although he is wearing a pinstripe suit like all the others there, it is a wetsuit. And neither is his hat a bowler, for she can make out the letters 'Prijon' written on the side. He is definitely not the man from Delmonté, but all the orchard dealers seem to know him at once. "I have come to buy some 2003 Pear Futures Options", he announces in a grave tone.

A hushed silence suddenly falls. The traders hit their mute buttons, and all that can be heard is the gentle belch of a water cooler. They look around nervously, glancing at Helen to see what she will do. She clears her throat and addresses the man, noting his well-pocketed buoyancy aid and fetching skirt. "They've never been sold before, sir. They're the most expensive way of acquiring pears, although they are of course the finest pears on the market". There is a silence. A long silence. There is no sound at all now, except for sound of a single drop of water falling from the man's paddle and hitting the generic blue carpet tile below with a soft plop. Then he speaks. "Nothing but the best is required for this particular project. I would like 4,000 at 52 basis points with a ten-year boof option." The room breathes a sigh of relief. "Mr Kayaker, he says 'Yes'!", they email to each other. Helen, her heart pounding, completes the transaction, and having arranged delivery, looks up at his handsome face with as much composure as she can muster. The man smiles at Helen and says, "Thank you. You look very nice, by the way, tu es une très belle Hélène", and he strides out of the room. Helen swoons.

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Director's Notes on the Scene: A fast, turquoise-blue rapid in the French Alps. Cut to an aerial camera shot swooping down the gorge, zooming in on a kayak in the middle of the flow. Music: Carmina Burana. MTV-style fast-cut scenes of huge holes, mega drops, and perfect boofs. Shot from the bank closes in on paddler surfing the lip of a great stopper, and suddenly the viewer will realise that he is heading down into it's maw, with a lazy, almoust careless flick of his paddle, as if he actually intends to get stuck deep inside. The paddler vanishes, and after a few moments, with the cameraman nervously scanning various bits of the river, he is suddenly seen resurfacing. Astonishingly, he is upstream of the hole. Various dazed mutterings can be heard from the cameraman, only picked up on the soundtrack because the soundman too is completely gobsmacked. The camera shot realigns and refocuses as the cameraman gets his act together, and we see the paddler is actually attaining -- paddling upstream in this 43,000 cfs Class V. By whipping along the merest traces of eddylines, doing endos that land above the pourovers that started them, and through sheer mercurial muscle power, the paddler begins to creep up towards a small forested area.

The crew's researcher has been conferring with the director, and in shaky handcycam footage that was being shot for use in the 'making of' documentary, we learn that this is a first descent, or rather first ascent, and that the little dell has never been reached before, either by land, river or helicopter. Using the largest zoom lens available, which was eventually found in the bottom of the still photographer's bag, the paddler is tracked far upstream and seen clambering out of a microeddy just below a small stand of juniper trees. Later research revealed that the understory of this particular sub-species of juniper is the ideal place to find a particular species of wild mushroom, but only at altitudes of 8,000 metres and above, and only if the ground has not been disturbed for the previous 200 years or so. The paddler has by now passed out of sight, but his boat is still karabinered to the bank. Suddenly a whoop is heard, and, abseiling into his boat on his throwline, the paddler reappears and seal launches 40 feet back into the flow, throwing a few wavewheels as he goes past the open-mouthed camera crew. Who is this man? And what is in the small package strapped to the deck of his boat? ...

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The man's task is nearly complete. He pauses for a moment and allows himself a small sigh of satisfaction. In just a few moments, weary paddlers will be returning from the epic labours of running the Dart at rather low winter levels, and they will be stepping into another world. There is an enticing glow of candles, sourced from the wax of Himalayan bees, and the receptive surfaces of the tabletops are resplendent in decorated paper, lovingly-handpainted by Finnish monks using quills from eider ducks and inks based on organic blueberry juice. All was ready for the Meal of the Century™ (Terms and Conditions apply. May or may not refer to years in the 21st Century later than 2003. Always read the label. Extended boofing may cause discomfort).

All that was needed now was to put the menus on the table, and then the festivities could begin. And legendary they were indeed, too Bacchanalian and depraved to be described in mere words alone, so I hope this tale alone will suffice.