Home, to a slice of great Britishness at The Victoria on Grove Road, E3

We bustled about our last day, squeezing an early morning pool swim under the azure sky; the kids, giddy after two weeks of late nights and frites gathered later for splashed hysteria into the mid morning, until Tom towed them in the blow up boat through the sea past the rocks of our sheltered, shallow, sandy bay while I half swam, half waded to the the stonier shore of Moriani Plage, looking for one last piece of fun.

The pull along inflatables weren’t inflated as we reached the small, temporary set up where jet skis and pedalos can be hired a sandy plod away, so instead we opted for ice creams back at Les Flots Abri – I conservatively opting for a little pot of citron sorbet, sat in the scorching sun, one eye to my ever waning willpower, while the kids gobbled down caramel and framboise in big cones offered gratis, as the restaurant wound down for the end of the season; burning it off with a swim to the little diving platform where shoals of tiny silver fish swam in and out of rock beneath by the dozen.

The afternoon clouded, so we popped in for a salad lunch back at the apartment, using up the last bits and bobs we’d bought earlier in the week at the local Casino and the petit epicier artisanale up the road, coaxing the kids out of the hire car to buy bonbons centimes and to look at the stuffed head of a wild boar, bearing down on the tourist shoppers buying pain rusique and locally pressed olive oils.

The dark clouds whipped up by the mountainous hills looming over the Apartmentes Sognu di Rena where we stayed occasionally elicit a crack of thunder but only once turned into rain, but they cleared in time for one last poolside dip, first with the kids, then alone as they disappeared off to play Minecraft: a delicious half hour of uninterrupted late afternoon heat.

A last night out followed, after the late afternoon half-hearted bustle of cleaning, packing, showering and shaving, to be tidy for work on Monday. We dressed up and went to the local port for a rich meal where remained resolute about desert until a man and his wife, sat to one side of us were brought their spectacular creations, so we caved, having already paid the bill, and split a giant profiterole between the four of us, the kids lunatic with tired and all of us replete, almost glad the feasting was finally over. We breathed in the salty night air and took in the bright stars one last time, mosquito bitten between the ruins of my silver cocktail dress, worn for the last time, filled to capacity and stained with chocolate syrup, my memory of it contasting unfavourably with a similar picture from years ago, now a little stouter, a little less perky: strengthening my resolve to get back on track.

I began today with hot water and lemon, a spoon of olive oil and black coffee to kick start me out of the apartment and onto the plane, where I read a little more of Bryony Gordon’s The Wrong Knickers, liking her more as she loses her prissy schoolgirl entitlement amid a hedonistic whirlwind of midweek cocaine and poverty wages, men who don’t text her back, and damp rented rooms. We’ve all been there, love. She seemed, at least, to have had some fun in her twenties, which is more than I can say for mine. Although I’m not sure where she gets off saying East London is a shithole. She obviously just doesn’t know the right places to go.

We landed, amid a weak late summer sun filtering through the fluffy English clouds, the atmosphere soft compared to the vibrant arid skies of the Med, whose clouds, when they came, were like pink tinged UFOs rather than the dirty cotton wool of London.

Our house had not, contrary to the spikes of anxiety that reared up at odd, unnecessary moments, been burgled. Instead, our bi-weekly cleaner had come, and the post had piled up behind the front door, most of it for the previous occupants, who appear, given the incessant correspondence, to be hiding from their bank.

I was beginning to feel smug from my morning’s fast: headache reassuring me that detox was underway, last night’s chantilly burned off,  ketosis achieved in sour breath, my jeans comfortingly looser than when I pulled them on, starched and stiff first thing. But Tom, who’d grown tetchy from hunger and suitcase lugging, wanted to prolong the holiday for one more meal. Our fridge contained, of all things, some parma ham and last month’s homemade blackberry jam, so we piled off, first batch of laundry in the machine, to our revamped local, The Victoria on Grove Road, which now sports all the jolly, camp charm of a Punch & Judy show, all red and white striped canopy, and tiled floors, coffee shop area, and slightly wanky “English Tapas” menu, in contrast to its previously, dark and studenty, loved but lived in, burger-in-a-bag incarnation.

Full to bursting with well-coiffed pseudo-hipsters spilling out into the sunny patio fronting the lass salubrious-looking Grove Road Fish and Chip Shop (which incidentally does cheap and cheerful fried fish and chicken at considerably less than the poncy Fish House up the road in Victoria Park), we were ushered upstairs to a little dining area that seemed incongruously styled as a ski chalet, to the one remaining table. It was late for lunch service, and after staring for some moments at the large and painfully copy-written menu and hackneyed witticisms of the wine list, I decided to keep up the good work, ordering fresh lime and soda and roast beef without the potatoes. Jonah semi reluctantly-asked for sausage and mash from the kids’ menu – I think he was secretly pleased not to be allowed any more chips, which, when it came, consisted of rich, well seasoned mash, a side of peas, but only the one sausage; while Ava followed suit with a mini roast, and Tom went for the slightly more expensive lamb. I would have gone for the veggie option of a butternut squash strudel, but it seemed slightly overpriced when you could get roast beef for the same £12.00, but it looked delicious when it arrived for other diners and their comments, overheard in the slightly oppressive space, seemed entirely positive.

The overflow room became stuffy, as parents of a newish baby fussed and tried to keep up appearances with a childless friends (been there too). And last to arrive, our food took some time, which meant I caved, ordering a glass of thinnish, blueish house wine but when it came –  the waitress, hoisting a door open with her foot having made it up up two flights with tray – everything was cooked to perfection: baby veg – whole roasted carrots, slivered parsnips and braised red cabbage, savoury and delicious after two weeks of much fish and salad.

I sent the waitress scurrying for horseradish as I waited impatiently to start, and failed not to eat my generous Yorkshire pudding. In all, it was a promising start for the pub, which, like its young staff, trying hard in braces and beards, strove for trendy modern Englishness, which is always nice to have on your doorstep, particularly when you return, tired, hungry but happy, from two weeks away from home.