The secret to a great service station

A couple of months ago, an invitation arrived. Would I like a room at the Savoy for the Baftas? I could attend the awards, guzzle champagne, walk the red carpet alongside Demi Moore and Ariana Grande and so on. Sadly, I replied, I was already booked up that weekend as a judge for a very different kind of competition: the World Marmalade Awards in Cumbria. This year marks the 20th anniversary of this event, held at a whopping Grade-I listed house just outside Penrith, surrounded by stone walls and sheep. Ahead of time, all judges were told to bring warm clothes, so I drove from London with a suitcase of jerseys. Upon arrival, I was shown to a room with a four-poster bed (given to the family by Queen Anne) but no heating. There didn’t seem to be central heating at all, in fact. An Aga in the kitchen and a coal fire in the judging room, where hundreds of amber-coloured jars were waiting to be tasted. Otherwise, we judges needed our warm clothes. Some wore scarves, others thick tights. Two came down to breakfast in puffer jackets. ‘Ah yes, they’re in the attic. I thought they might be chilly,’ remarked one of the family. Actually, after the initial shock, I enjoyed the privation. I ran from the bathroom to my bedroom, skin steaming in the cold, and slept under a duvet and three blankets. In the evenings, we warmed ourselves with Aga-baked potatoes, venison lasagne and red wine. I grew up in the Borders where I could see my breath hang in the air from bed, but have become a soft southerner too prone to flicking on the heating via my phone. If you’re worried about the reading on your smart meter, I suggest a trip to the north.