This esteemed competition will take place aboard The Royal Yacht, which shall be docked at Blue Harbour Bay, Puffin Island, on the 1st of August.
As one of only ten exceptional bakers, each nominated by esteemed figures in the industry, you are invited to present a cherished family recipe, steeped in heritage and uniquely your own. Your creation will be a testament to your roots, history and passion for the craft.
Your presence would be an honour, and we eagerly anticipate witnessing the culinary story you choose to share.
Kindly confirm your attendance at your earliest convenience.
With regal regards,
The Royal Baking Committee
‘I think your great-great-grandmother’s story deserves to be shouted from the rooftops,’ Betty said with conviction. ‘It would be such an honour for her because if it weren’t for Beatrice Rose, we wouldn’t have our beloved Café on the Coast.’
Clemmie smiled wistfully as her thoughts drifted back to the remarkable tale of her great-great-grandmother.
‘Go on, you tell it,’ Betty said as though reading her mind. She nudged Clemmie’s elbow.
‘Oh no, you start,’ Clemmie replied with a grin. ‘You always do, after all.’
Betty rolled her eyes affectionately but launched in without hesitation. ‘All right, then. Beatrice Rose– your great-great-grandmother– wasn’t just any woman. She had grit, heart and a stubborn streak wide enough to stretch across the entire island.’
Clemmie nodded. ‘She needed it. Because when the war came, Puffin Island wasn’t spared. The bombs fell, and…’
Betty picked up the thread seamlessly, her voice lowering. ‘They took everything. Her home. Her parents. Her whole world, in one terrible night.’
Clemmie exhaled. ‘Anyone else might have crumbled. But not Beatrice. No, she found that old pink cottage down by the shore– falling apart, windows shattered, barely standing– and she saw something the rest of the island didn’t.’
‘Possibility,’ Betty said, her eyes bright with pride. ‘She rolled up her sleeves, and the whole community joined her. They rebuilt it, brick by brick, board by board, turning it into more than just a café. It became a refuge. A place to gather, to grieve, to heal.’
Clemmie smiled. ‘And to eat.’
Betty chuckled. ‘Oh, did they ever eat! And every Christmas, she’d host a feast, filling every plate and every heart with warmth. That’s when she first made the torte. Her famous clementine torte.’
Clemmie leaned back, crossing her arms. ‘And you know what they say…’
Betty lifted a brow at Clemmie’s deviation from the usual spiel. ‘What do they say?’
‘That it wouldn’t be Christmas on Puffin Island without a slice of Beatrice’s torte.’
Betty rested a hand over Clemmie’s. ‘So, don’t you see? It’s not just a recipe. It’s your family’s history. A piece of the island’s heart.’
Clemmie swallowed, the weight of her granny’s words settling deep.
Betty stood, brushing flour from her hands. ‘And let’s not forget, your name wasn’t chosen by accident, Clementine. Beatrice always said clementines carried warmth, resilience and a touch of sweetness. Just like her torte. And just like you.’
Betty gave Clemmie a quick hug and then shuffled out of the room, humming a tune as she went, leaving Clemmie to think about her words.
With the puffin banished and the café door firmly closed, Clemmie got to work making another Victoria sponge. She measured flour and sugar with a determination that would put to shame a general preparing for battle. The eggs were cracked with precision, the butter whipped into submission, and the batter folded with a vengeance. She was just sliding the new sponge layers into the oven when the bell above the café door jingled. Clemmie groaned. ‘We’re not open yet!’ she called, brushing a strand of flour-dusted hair out of her face.
The door creaked open anyway, and in walked Amelia, her best friend, the owner of the local bookshop. She was grinning. ‘Just here for my breakfast croissant.’
Clemmie smiled at her best friend. ‘I’ve already bagged one up for you, freshly baked this morning.’
‘Perfect, thank you,’ she said, looking at the counter. ‘What are you baking?’
‘Another Victoria sponge, thanks to my early-morning puffin invasion, but it’s given me time to think.’
‘About? And what puffin invasion?’ asked Amelia, pulling out a chair after grabbing her croissant from the bag.
