I am in Poole, Dorset, in an apartment high up in the trees. We almost moved to Poole in 2005; I was working on a book and every morning would walk to the library, then down to the beach to meet my partner and our baby daughter. I’d wonder at the incongruous tors of Special Brew I’d see on my way down, until I discovered that the library car park becomes a dogging paradise at night.
None of that this time. The library is sheathed in scaffolding and nearby houses have put up high fences. It has been a glorious, old-fashioned kinda holiday; much needed since we are all smarting from a very big family bereavement.
Today we headed to Chocol8, a chocolate and coffee shop in nearby Westbourne. They sell boxes of chocolates, chocolate in novelty shapes (not my thing) and then loose chocolates, where I could see immediately which chocolate I’d love: the milk praline that looks like a small walnut.
I selected others: pistachio marzipan, choco-dipped cherries, a 72% ganache, chocolate-coated candied orange, and the praline with caramelised nuts. They work out at £1 a chocolate. (Next door is a bakery, Le Petit Prince, which had the most amazing chocolate hazelnut eclair. It was too early so I didn’t buy it, but the memory of it is scratching away at me.)
I also bought a book from the gorgeous bookshop opposite and when I went home I lay on the floor like a child reading my book and eating my chocolates. They were so much better than I expected and I was right: the praline one was just wonderful.
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