When I started my cheese adventure back in May, hoping to educate myself in all things cheesy, I envisaged myself scoffing back stinky French wedges and holey Swiss slices in my quest for fromage knowledge. Guzzling Gorgonzola, snaffling Saint-Marcellin and pigging out on Parmesan were all part of the plan. Then I read a bit more and was determined to try Norwegian Brown Cheese (Gjetost), Sardinian Maggot’s Cheese (Casu Marzu) and Mauritanian Camel’s Cheese (Caravane). But something rather unexpected happened along the way.
I fell in love with British cheese.
I didn’t mean it to happen. I know it’s like the equivalent of planning to backpack round the world and then getting off with Tony from Halifax at Heathrow Airport and taking him back home to meet your mum. But I couldn’t help it. I’ve tried to wean myself off it, to get back on the plane. I’ve eaten Reypenaer and Rocamadour, Pont l’Evêque and Provolone. But it’s no use.