Last updated 11:36, Friday, 02 May 2008

It’s not what you expect when launching into the first forkful of a splendid alfresco lunch; long awaited, excitedly planned and about to be much enjoyed in warm Venetian holiday sunshine.His teeth hadn’t been a noticeable detail – unlike the fish’s tasty, soft, blonde flesh, impeccably slid from its bone. When you’re not looking for a husband, you don’t feel the need for surveys of continental teeth.

Fresh sea bass, it was. Landed that day. Gently poached, generously soused in delicate white wine sauce, accompanied by lightly boiled potatoes, sweet young zucchini and tiny plum tomatoes. Rough just-baked bread, drizzled with extra virgin olive oil completed the picture. See? Every delicious detail remembered.

“Marry me!” he said. Just like that.

“I will be your perfect husband. I’ll cook, clean, wash, iron, go straight to sleep and demand little conversation.”

Fork in mid-air, a swift glance at Jane’s saucer eyes and open mouth confirmed we’d both heard him correctly.

“You have to admit, that does sound pretty perfect,” I said. “For a husband.”

“Sure does. Can’t see him transferring very well to Brampton though,” she muttered. “This fish is very good, by the way. Did he cook it?”

It was a pertinent question and I supposed he must have done, since he’d been the one to recommend it, had chosen it for me from the ice in his refrigerated cabinet, made me look into its bright little eyes, described its sadly-shortened life story in minute detail. Time of death couldn’t have been more accurately pin-pointed had it been forensically calculated by a police pathologist.

And anyway, apart from the one other man who appeared to love his wine too much to want to sell it to customers, he was the only one in there.

It seemed tempting to suppose also that he probably proposed to every woman who complimented his fish... which was a bit of a worry. Jane was right. You don’t get a lot of that in Brampton – nor in any of the other parts of Cumbria I’ve grown to know.

Much as I love Venice, marriage seems an awful lot to ask for the favour of serving a good lunch. Cumbrian chefs would know that instinctively. They’d prefer a tip and an appreciative compliment.

It’s great to get away. Refreshing and rejuvenating to take sunny, leisurely breaks from routine. Particularly after the long, dank, dark winter we’ve all endured.

Scraping ice from car windscreens in April has been no fun. Wondering when we’d get round to turning off the heating has been a bit of a trial. Listening to overhead rescue helicopters in the dark, signalling how some couldn’t wait to get out onto the fells wearing shorts and sandals, even in six inches of snow. Worrying about squirrels having to cope with wintry nuts ... not a great spring, was it?

Breaking the strain is good. But it’s wise to remember where home is and how well it fits. With or without a plate of fish. Know your station, girl. Remember the cobbles, Cranstons, curry nights in the Howard Arms, gossip in the post office queue, rain over Shap. None of it worth sacrifice to poor exchange rate... or a silent, sleepy cook.

“Nice of you to ask,” Churlish not to thank the spontaneous suitor, who had indeed lifted my spirits – because I’m shallow like that.

“But right now I don’t need a husband. Right now I need a bottle of Soave.”

With a “your loss” shrug, he ambled away to wrestle some wine from his horror-stricken chum, who was guarding his bottles in moist-eyed terror of one more imminent experience of intense loss.

“He had funny teeth anyway,” Jane whispered in a there-there tone that hinted I might one day regret jilting our chef at the altar.

Which is as it should be. Memorable detail is for reality, not for the kind of impossible fantasy that wouldn’t pass airport baggage checks, never mind transfer to Brampton.

“Odd that he should spot you as a woman not wanting a chatterbox mate,” she said.

“And hurtful he should notice I don’t do much ironing.”

But correctly sussed on both counts, as it happened. Contentment. Perhaps that’s what he’d seen. The contentment of a woman glad to break all strains but keen to pick them up again following forays into Venetian splendour and a whistlestop Cook’s tour of folks and friends in Yorkshire.

Reintroduction to reality came on the M6 heading north again. Over Shap that old familiar stair-rod downpour was true to all previous form. Does it ever do anything else there? Does the sun ever show?

Hope not. How else could it feel like a homecoming?

Smiling contentedly at the wheel and humming a gondolier’s corny little tune brought more important matters into focus.

Teatime... would the butcher take leftover Euros?