Test Time Down on the Farm

Test Time Down on the Farm

By P. Martin

“So have you had a cream tea yet?” my English friend asked as we drove along.

“Twice,” I said. “At a res- taurant in Dartmouth and a fancy inn in South Molton.”

He shook his head. “Then you’ve never had a proper cream tea. We’ll fix that.”

Minutes later we pulled into a dusty yard flanked by a stone house and barn, Tordown Farm. “That’s George,” my friend said, nodding at a man in a frayed sweater and trousers tucked into Wellingtons. George looked like a character out of All Creatures Great and Small. Inside I met his wife, Sheila, an ample woman wearing an apron over her print dress. She sat us down at a table with mismatched crockery, then served up tea and hot scones. I cut one open, covered it with jam, and topped it with cream.

“Ah, you prefer yours Cornish style,” Sheila said.

“Why do you say that?”

Sheila pointed at my scone. “In Devon we put the cream on first, then jam. We reckon you can taste the cream better that way.”

It was the perfect meal: a “proper” cream tea, in a real English home, served by a delightful woman. And I’d even learned the right way to eat it.