Our recent trip through southern England was filled with exactly those kinds of moments.
Every destination has foods that become part of its identity, and for me, England tastes like Sticky Toffee Pudding and clotted cream fudge.
Sticky Toffee Pudding is everything comfort food should be. Imagine a warm, richly spiced cake made with treacle—a syrup with deep molasses notes—drenched in buttery toffee sauce. It usually arrives with a choice of cream, ice cream, or custard. I never hesitate. Custard is the only correct answer. The dessert is so wonderfully rich that sharing isn’t just polite—it’s practically required.
Then there’s clotted cream fudge.
As someone who considers chocolate one of life’s essential food groups, admitting that another candy can compete is high praise indeed. Yet Devon’s clotted cream fudge simply melts away the moment it touches your tongue, leaving behind a buttery sweetness that somehow manages to be both delicate and indulgent. I always tell myself I’ll bring some home. I never seem to bring enough.
Tea, naturally, became part of every day.
At home I begin each morning with a hot cup before switching to iced tea in the afternoon. Europeans, however, seem puzzled by America’s affection for iced tea. In England, tea is almost always served piping hot in a proper pot, usually with milk instead of cream.
I’ve tried it with milk, and while it softens the tea with a gentle sweetness, I still prefer mine plain—with a packet of saccharin. I’ve been using it since the 1970s, long enough that the taste feels completely normal to me, even if others can’t imagine it. Knowing I’d be unlikely to find it abroad, I tucked a supply into my suitcase before we left.
Each morning I simply asked for whatever tea was served with breakfast. Was it truly English Breakfast Tea, or was “breakfast tea” simply whatever happened to be in the pot that morning? I never solved that mystery. I did discover, however, that not every cup was memorable for the right reasons. After several disappointing mugs, I decided the culprit wasn’t the tea leaves at all—it was probably the local water. Sometimes that’s the conclusion a traveler reaches when there isn’t anyone around to ask.
Tea itself turned out to be more confusing than I expected.
Growing up, I imagined English tea exactly as children’s books portrayed it: elegant little sandwiches, tiny cakes, beautiful china cups, and leisurely conversation. It was the sort of tea party I recreated countless times with my dolls, usually persuading my mother to become an honored guest.
England certainly offers that experience—but only if you’re looking for afternoon tea.
Ask simply for “tea,” and you may discover that you’re actually ordering dinner. On our first trip to Britain, we innocently stopped for tea and were greeted with toast followed by a full dinner menu. Lesson learned.
This time we sought out a proper tea room. The menu offered both Afternoon Tea and Cream Tea, distinctions I’m still not entirely sure I understand. We skipped the towering trays of pastries and instead ordered smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches with a steaming pot of tea. By the time we’d finished, we were far too full for cake, which felt almost sacrilegious. Still, the cozy atmosphere, polished teapots, and unhurried pace made it one of those delightful little stops that had no business being as memorable as it was.
Mike’s culinary quest was rather different.
While I hunted desserts, he searched for the perfect scone. I have to confess I’ve never understood the enthusiasm. To me, a scone has always tasted like an American biscuit that forgot to stay fresh. Mike, however, happily enjoyed raisin scones during our mid-morning breaks, proving once again that every traveler has their own traditions.
Where we stay matters almost as much as where we go.
If we’re simply passing through, we’ll often choose a familiar American hotel chain where loyalty points and predictable comfort make life easy. But when we want to experience the character of a place, I spend hours researching independent inns and bed-and-breakfasts.
This trip rewarded that effort.
Our first stop was The Smuggler’s Inn in Osmington Mills along the Jurassic Coast, a centuries-old thatched building said to have once sheltered seventeenth-century smugglers. Between the low ceilings, nautical décor, and historic pub downstairs, it overflowed with character.
Unfortunately, character doesn’t generate air conditioning.
Europe happened to be enduring a record-breaking heat wave. Our room sat at the top of a narrow staircase beneath the roof, and the windows opened only slightly. By bedtime, the atmosphere was wonderfully authentic—and the temperature was unforgettable. By morning, we were convinced that the smugglers probably smelled exactly as we did.
Our next hotel couldn’t have been more different.
Malmaison Oxford occupies the former HM Prison Oxford, which housed inmates until 1996. Instead of climbing steep staircases, we gratefully rode an elevator to our converted prison cell. Fortunately, the “cells” are now stylish, spacious, and—most importantly—air conditioned. Sleeping behind bars had never been so comfortable.
The heat wave followed us throughout the trip, coinciding with half-term school holidays, making many destinations busier than usual. We also noticed charming reminders of England’s determination to preserve its heritage. In Cornwall, department store signs appeared not only in English but also in Cornish, a Celtic language that nearly disappeared before experiencing a modern revival. It was a quiet reminder that history here isn’t confined to castles and cathedrals. Sometimes it appears on an ordinary shopping sign.
When people ask what I loved most about southern England, I could mention Oxford’s dreaming spires, the Jurassic Coast, or the picturesque villages. But the truth is, those aren’t the memories that surface first.
I remember sharing Sticky Toffee Pudding over spoonsful of warm custard. I remember carrying packets of saccharin halfway across the Atlantic. I remember accidentally ordering dinner instead of tea. I remember sleeping in a smuggler’s attic, then behind the walls of a Victorian prison.
Those are the little things.
And, more often than not, they’re the things that turn an enjoyable trip into one I’ll remember forever.