One of my most favourite of traditional English treats is cream tea – scones, clotted cream, jam and a generous pot of char. Upon my return to England I jumped at the chance to have one during my first weekend back; inevitably of course, it didn’t live up to my expectations, and certainly didn’t live up to the memory of that which I now call The Best Cream Tea Of My Life. For that illustrious occasion, we must travel back in time three years, to the summer of 2006…

I was in Devon, at a festival that one of my friends holds in his parents’ garden every year. My best friend (and foodie soul sister) Francesca was also there, and since after the festival finished we both had a few days to kill, we set off hitch-hiking around the area to see where fate would take us.

We ended up getting a lift with a local cabbie, who responded to our request of a free place to camp by dropping us off in a rather grim little wood, and rather further from civilisation than we had hoped. “Is there, err, a village nearby?” we asked nervously, to which, to our relief, the cabbie answered that Dittisham was but a half an hour walk away.

Thinking that we ought to get some supplies for our intended night in the wild, we started walking in the direction that our friend had pointed, laden with backpacks and camping equipment. It dawned on us that his estimation of ‘half an hour’ was somewhat flawed upon meeting some tourists walking the other way, who, with their satellite navigational system, informed us that it was rather longer than we had thought. Still, we were undeterred, seeing as the path was relatively flat and in the shade – a happy state that was soon to change as the trees cleared, the sun beat down upon our uncovered heads, and the landscape developed the contours of a roller-coaster.

All too soon we were sweaty, tired and emotional, but with our hopes lifted by the promise of a cafe in the village from people we met along the way, we soldiered on. TWO HOURS later, Fran and I stumbled, red-faced and exhausted, into what must be one of the most beautiful villages in England: stone cottages, winding empty lanes, and wisteria galore. Dazed by all this prettiness, we found the cafe, which was just as, if not more pretty than the village, and ordered a cream tea apiece.

I know that we didn’t expect much when we ordered (the cafe was staffed by teenagers), but that cream tea is without a doubt the best I have ever eaten, before or since. The scones were enormous and homemade, the jam too, and the clotted cream the most heavenly I have ever tasted. We ate on a terrace overlooking the harbour, the water dotted with brightly painted boats. The late afternoon sun shone on our flushed faces, and the green hills rolled around us in all directions. Fran and I kept bursting into laughter, it was so perfect.

Since that now infamous cream tea, I have tried on many occasions to replicate its glory, but with little success. For the time being, before I can go back to Dittisham, I will comfort myself with my own homemade attempts, and dream of harbour views, raspberry jam, and daffodil-yellow clotted cream.

Update: While in Britain I stayed a night with my friend Ciaran, who knows a few things about scones. I always have trouble getting my own homemade attempts to rise satisfactorily, so I quizzed Ciaran on his methods (I've eaten his own scones on a few occasions and they were always light, fluffy and high-risers). He said that you should 1) not use any sugar - it's too heavy; and 2) use slightly sour milk. Either use it the day after its use-by date, or leave it out of the fridge overnight, or add a little lemon juice.