I am in Padstein. It used to be a fishing village, just north of Newquay. It was Padstow then. But then came Rick Stein.
Padstein has the smell of a theme park. This is a village made over by one man; it belongs to him. In my hand I have a map of every Rick Stein outlet in town, numbered for ease of access — four restaurants, five hotels, a cookery school, a cottage, a pub, a gift shop, a patisserie, a delicatessen. People queue to buy Rick Stein chutney, drink Rick Stein-endorsed wine, eat Rick Stein chips or sleep on Rick Stein pillows. He is expanding into Falmouth, opening a bookshop. Perhaps he will write all the books. Who knows?
He actually lives in Australia, which makes me wonder how much he likes the town he created. Perhaps, like God, he made a universe so perfect he could not bear to watch others live in it.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in