Blood, Sweets and Tears - The Great British Bake Off, Series 4

This year I've signed up to write for the university newspaper, Exeposé and student magazine Razz. Just in case you're not in Exeter or you just haven't got around to picking up a copy of either the paper or the magazine, I thought it might be a nice idea to show you the pieces I'm writing for them here on my blog...

With custard thefts, crying contestants and more blood than an episode of Casualty, the fourth series of The Great British Bake Off could easily be mistaken for a primetime drama instead of the search for the nation’s greatest amateur baker.

The introduction of the first baker’s dozen of contestants was the only change to the successful format. The three tasks set each week - the Signature Bake, Technical Challenge and Showstopper – are judged by master baker Paul Hollywood and queen of puddings Mary Berry, who decide which baker (or two) to send home. While producers insisted that this year’s standard would be higher than ever, some poor bakes in Week 1 left a bitter taste in viewers’ mouths; these thirteen bakers were supposedly the cream of a 10 000-strong crop, a record number of applicants for the programme.

But after this nervous start, there have been moments of pure baking brilliance. In Week 3, Paul and Mary declared Beca’s stunning petits fours, comprising mini macarons and millionaire’s shortbread, ‘perfect.’ Christine aced Week 5’s Showstopper challenge with her shortbread Bavarian clock tower and Frances’ Edith Piaf-inspired puff pastries (no, really) earned her the coveted title of Star Baker in Week 7.

As the competition heads towards the final, it’s tricky to pick out front-runners from the all-female line up. Kimberley and her unusual flavour combinations were probably the early favourite, but well-executed traditional approaches by Welsh choir singer Beca and Christine, Mary Berry’s secret sister, have gone down a treat. Eccentric Frances seems finally to have addressed her initial ‘style over substance’ imbalance, while student baker Ruby could win if she carries on fluttering her eyelashes at Paul.

After a somewhat soggy-bottomed start, The Great British Bake Off is back to its best – delivering mouth-watering bakes with a generous helping of innuendo. Spotted dick, anyone?

Verdict - 4/5

We survived the real-life Broadchurch!

I don't know about where you are, but ITV's drama Broadchurch was veeery popular around these parts - although whether or not it had anything to do with having David Tennant in the lead role, I couldn't say. In spite of an array of West Country accents which were almost as accurate as those in Doc Martin, it's fair to say that the show was a huge hit nationwide; the 'finale slug' even had its own Twitter account.

Now, you might not want to spend part of your summer holiday in Broadchurch, and I wouldn't blame you. But its real-life counterpart, West Bay in Dorset, is really rather lovely.

From what I can gather, the programme was filmed partly here in Hardy Country (Tennant's character was also called DI Alec Hardy - coincidence, anyone?) and partly near Bristol, which might explain the gurt Bristolian accents, but we'll forgive and forget those, shall we?

And this Saturday's day trip took us an hour-and-a-half or so up the road from Devon to neighbouring Dorset, with West Bay being very close to the border - in fact, you can see part of the Devon coastline over the shingle in the third pic (above).

West Bay lies, quite predictably, at the western end of Chesil Beach, which runs along the Dorset coast from Portland for 18 miles. Rather than being a sandy beach, it's made of shingle and pebbles, like those above. It was on said shingle that I spent most of the afternoon, reading (or re-reading a rather fab autobiography of the Mitford sisters), snoozing and unfortunately getting a tad sunburnt. That'll learn me for putting factor 30 all over the front of my legs and not the back...!

Just on the other side of the harbour, a small distance from the beach, sits a row of six or seven fish-and-chip kiosks, behind which I spotted a seemingly very patriotic boat-owner (sadly, we didn't have time to take a further trip on the River Brit, which cuts through neighbouring Bridport). As always, it was a job to choose between the kiosks, but once our lunch had been selected, we sat on the small green in the middle of the town to eat.

So here's a little something for the Broadchurch fans amongst you; the local newsagent is clearly taking full advantage of the attention that has come West Bay's way since the programme was shown, making their own (quite convincing) window displays, featuring mock Broadchurch Echo articles and a fun fair poster signed by Pauline Quirke. 

After lunch, we headed back along the harbour in the direction of the beach once more. West Bay's harbour has, in our family at least, become known as one of the West Country's prime 'crabbing' spots, strongly rivalling Dartmouth. 

Thus my dad and my sister Mel came to be hanging over the edge of the harbour wall, nets and baby squid (the crabs' favourite bait) in hand. For anybody not already acquainted with this traditional yet curious pastime, it involves baiting a net or a little hook, plopping it in the water and waiting for a crab to bite, or claw, or whatever it is that crabs do. The idea is to catch as many as possible, pop them in a bucket of water, then return them safely to the water once you're finished. It's proper edge-of-your-seat entertainment.

Even though it was a little cloudier than it had been on previous days, Mum and I decided that the beach was still the best place to be, so we left Dad and Mel to their crabbing and went back to relax on the shingle, with me intermittently checking Twitter for #royalbaby gossip, of which there was predictably none.

I also endeavoured to master the Youtube Capture app:

Mel and I have been holidaying near West Bay and in Dorset in general since we were very small. In fact, my first holiday, when I was 8 months old, was at Gorselands, a caravan site just over the hill, along the beach. I considered uploading a charming baby picture of me, but decided against it when I discovered that it seems I spent most of that holiday naked and in a red plastic tub of water.

It's safe to say, then, that we know the area quite well, having spent more than fifteen summers there, and so it was strange when the time came to return home not to a holiday cottage, but to Plym at the end of the afternoon. 

But there was still time for one more ice cream from the 'Broadchurch shop' before we departed (see Mum and Mel with enormous Mr Whippies below...) And given Dad's crabbing success, I've no doubt that we'll be returning before the summer is over.

(: xx