Mid-May to early August is not, it is fair to say, the time of year I am most likely to be found in the North East of England.
Land of the Prince Bishops, God's own country, home for 23 of my first 23 and a quarter years of life (though not, admittedly, that very first quarter). All these things it may still be, whatever the month.
But there's no football. No, I do not mean the effete, elitist tosh masquerading as the real thing in television transmissions from Switzerland and Austria. I am talking about the normal English season, which is organised so as to end each May with Sunderland either battling against relegation or striving for promotion.
That is the stuff of which life is made. How can I properly appreciate the wonders of Northumbria if there isn't the prospect of a match to attend or endure?
Twice in recent years, however, I have found myself drawn back at quite the wrong time. On each occasion, blame could be placed on weddings. The first of these led to arguably the best banquet that has ever been set before my eyes. And that was before I'd even reached the wedding. What is more, like all that nerve-racking football, it was in Sunderland.
The splendidly named Eugen Beer, who cooks up the ingredients of a food site called Cold Mud, wondered recently whether I had filed away any writings on such northern favourites as chips or chip butties. In fact, I recall only the first from my home ground (and so, surely, does everyone else wherever they grew up); he completely failed to add stottie cakes and pease pudding, come to that, but I am an authority on neither.
My treasured culinary experience was built on somewhat different ingredients: lobster, langoustines, giant prawns and all manner of other seafood delights.
The wedding to which friends, Martin and Julia, had invited us was to take place on a Saturday afternoon near the Stadium of Light (but way outside football season, in June) at the impressive National Glass Centre in Sunderland. Hands up those who knew nothing of Wearside's proud history of glassmaking? Hands up one southern friend, now I think of it, who once asked me where exactly Wearside was.
When other friends heard we were visiting the North, they insisted that we stop first at their place, a mile or so from the wedding venue, for lunch. Then, they placed their order with the fishmonger, and out into the North Sea fishmonger duly sailed to retrieve our sumptious feast.
Never afraid to push the boat out ourselves, we arrived clutching a bottle of decent Chablis. Our friends produced their own accompaniment to this glorious plateau de fruits de mer a la facon Mackem: lashings of champagne. There were all sorts of breads to go with it, though I distinctly recall my friends apologising unnecessarily for an absence of cheese.
Finally, we were ordered to leave our car at their place (as if any serious option existed) and go by cab to the wedding, where the fare was pretty much as you'd expect at such an event.
The most recent trip home to witness a couple getting hitched also involved no lobster. But then, it did take us to Middlesbrough, where they'd have trouble spotting crustaceans through the smog.
Warmest congratulations, nonetheless, to my nephew, Andrew Falconer, and his lovely wife, Sarah, seen in the photograph, and thanks for a smashing day. Given the location, there were few footballing withdrawal symptoms (Boro is not that kind of place; the game has never been known to be played there, except when there are visitors from up the A19).
And I am indebted to my brother who, during a sweet prayer recited and presumably composed by a friend of the happy pair and seeking divine aid for the good people of Middlesbrough as they search for jobs or sit exams, heard this heartfelt line:
And let us pray for Middlesbrough as a hole
That, at any rate, is how my brother remembered it, and it was enough to make the 540-mile round trip, done in an awayday, worthwhile.
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