Saturday 9 April 2011

Roskilly's Farm. Yeah. Farm.

Here’s a thing London doesn’t have and that Cornwall is plentiful in: Farms. Lots of farms. I imagine that fact doesn’t come as much of a surprise to you.


Thrilled to bits with the opportunity to swap wedge sandals for sensible wellies, this city girl has driven across the county to the back end of St Keverne for an afternoon playing Spot on the Farm. Plus, I hear Roskilly’s are renowned for making really awesome ice cream, so I obviously must fulfill the crucial duty of providing you, the good tourists of Cornwall, with a verdict on the munch front.



I’d heard whispers that Roskilly’s had branched out from normal farm production and into epic ice cream escapades after an oversubscription of milk one year, so instead of pouring it away it was made into batches of ice cream. To my sadness, it turns out their ice cream bomb didn’t take off due to any lucky accident. I accost a couple of kindly farm hands for information but get nowhere . They did try bless ‘em, but they weren’t too sure as to exactly how all this kicked off, and were more bemused by the fact that I most certainly didn’t look like a local. Bit of a cheek really; one of them was from Southampton. After a little online nosing, it turns out it was more of a trial and error situation. So much for my attempt at investigative journalism.


Trying not to be too down-heartened that I hadn’t proved myself as Cornwall’s excuse for Louis Theroux, I shift the disproved rumour to the back of my mind and skip off to make friends with two tiny little fluffy donkeys I’ve spotted in a nearby field, stopping at the the dry meadow on the way to give the grand golden brown Jersey cows a pat on the back as a massive thank you for supplying me with years of clotted cream, strawberry yoghurt and Dairylea Dunkers. Speaking of which, the hefty drive over has rendered me a peckish little soul, and I start thinking about abandoning the farmyard critters to begin a search for their café - The Croust House. I didn’t bring any children to the farm with me because, well, I don’t have any (apparently you have to feed them and keep them alive and EVERYTHING) and few people would agree to lend me theirs after they’ve seen my attempt at driving, but judging by how much I’m enjoying the company of the many, many Roskilly cows, you might not have the option of cutting the petting time short. Besides keeping the kidlets entertained with hours of animal adoration, it would be a very good idea to time your trip to see the evening round of cow milking at 4:30. The viewing area in the milking parlour has a board where visitors can make suggestions on what to name the next calf: I noted an array of names scribbled on there - extravagant names like Talulah, traditional like Buttercup, ordinary ones like Harry. As I happen to be in a minimalist-yet-practical mood, I simply add the suggestion “Cow” In a herd of 100, I personally would want a name that’s easy to remember.


Across the way from the milking parlour is the Bullpen Gallery, an odd but entertaining play-area-come-furniture/card/book shop, and one gate down from there I find the Ice Cream Kitchen. Unfortunately it is closed today, however I challenge anyone, big or small, not to be interested in watching and learning about how the icy good stuff goes from the milk bucket to being cornet-ready. All these little side attractions are open for extended hours in the summer, and I really recommend making sure everything’s open before popping up, otherwise you may find yourself a little short of variety in terms of learning about how the place works.


The Croust House


A Roskilly’s Farm review wouldn’t be complete without checking out the Croust House; You can try as much as you like to review anything in Cornwall on as academic a level as possible but let’s face it, it’s always going to come back to food in these parts.


At first glance the café menu seems a little disappointing with its standard selection of jackets, baguettes and all day breakfast (though we’re all partial to the odd dirty sausage I’m sure...), however the specials board mixes it up in a health conscious way. They’ve got salmon, they’ve got Spaghetti Bolognese. There’s also the option of beefing up my afternoon with some spicy chilli con carne for a super special £7.95... and I do. An inquisitive glance at the rest of the menu counts numerous flavours of ice creams for dessert on offer - fourteen to be exact. All ices can be made into milkshakes, which is not a treat limited to the teenyboppers of your clan, as is made apparent when the amiable Northern fella to my left gets far more excited at the prospect of ice cream milkshake than his toddler son is.


Declining a seat in the picnic area outside for a spot inside by the open fire on this less-than-summery day, I place myself and my trusty notebook on a solo table well in earshot of of four fellow diners, where two silver haired gentlemen are conversing in such impeccable Queen’s english that Lizzie herself would be put to shame. As if they needed to sound any more Southern, the topic of conversation included Winston Churchill and PC World, which the gentlemen’s wives ignored, engrossed in their own conversation about walnut cake.


I can smell my chilli before it has even left the kitchen, and the mighty plate of nutritious brown rice (at ease now health freaks?) and gorgeously rich mound of flavoursome beef placed in front of me by the chef really is a meal fit for a king. As I tuck in, I feel some level of guilt that I am possibly eating the friend of the cow I’d just spent ten minutes cuddling in the nearby field. However, at the rate I’m shovelling my carnivore’s platter down, they’re not providing me with an incentive to turn vegetarian any time soon. So I dine in ignorance, as this scrumptiously mild and sweet chilli versus the watery microwave meal concoctions I was so well acquainted with during my student days just does not compare. Farmhouse fare for the win.

My favourite part of the whole dish is actually the homemade mango chutney accompaniment. I would be quite happy not only to stick this atop my savoury treat, but also atop one of the ice creams being sold in the next room. It is THAT good.


Like many of the good-willing Cornish attractions, Roskilly’s extends its support of local produce beyond the products of the farm alone. I’d noticed some products on my way past the gift shop that seem to be getting lots of attention around the county. I strike up a conversation with the kitchen chef about Cornish Sea Salt - a selection of flavoured natural Cornwall cooking salts rising constantly in popularity and “making waves in the culinary world”. She is happy to sing their praises; “I like it in cooking much better than ground salt, and there’s so many options. If you put the garlic one in pasta, you don’t need to add anything else! We use as much local produce as we can.” Indeed they do. Other gifts on offer include Halzephron Herb Farm’s chutneys and jams (the strawberry and rhubarb is to die for), Roskilly’s own chocolate coated fudge, Cornish flavoured tea selections and even their own range of soap, bath salts and shampoo. Watch out Crabtree and Evelyn.


Firmly of the opinion that my shopping trip warrants an ice cream trial, I inspect the counter. I assure you, it’s probably easier to solve an intermediate algebra equation than to make a quick decision on ice cream flavour. Among the selection of fourteen is Hokey Pokey, Coconut, After Eight, Apple Crumble and Fudge. A lengthy debate results in me selecting the Malty Mystery (Mystery spoiler alert: it’s Malteaser!), clotted cream topping optional obviously, and a cheeky taster spoon of Mulled Wine and Pear sorbet. Delightful.


I finish my visit by trotting off for a gentle walk around the lakes, serenaded by the sound of really loud mooing. Strangely, the gaggle of ducks living on the wonderfully picturesque waters seem more animated than your average pond-dwellers, but they were lovely to watch while my legs get a good stretch before heading back to the car. I manage to give myself a small shock by peering into the overlooking sheep field, and do a double take when I realise there is a dog sitting in there trying to blend in with its woolly friends. That definitely isn’t found in London much either.


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