A Weekend with Mark Diacono and Diana Henry

A life-changing food writing residential

Some experiences don’t just stay with you - they shift something inside you.

This weekend was exactly that. A residential food writing course that turned into something so much more - a reminder of what matters, what connects us and what can happen when we truly show up for ourselves.

How can you have all of the words and yet, be lost for any of them at the same time?

Cadhay House

There could not have been a better location for this retreat than Cadhay House, a beautiful Tudor manor house nestled in the heart of the East Devon countryside. I was greeted by Mark at the door, who guided me through a tapestry of rooms adorned with oil paintings of the various lords and ladies who once called this place home. A collection of weird and wonderful trinkets and knickknacks of a time gone by. A lime green beaded cushion from Dunelm Mill…

Newton was my home for the weekend - a quiet attic room tucked beneath the beams of the manor house. It was simple, clean and surprisingly spacious, with the kind of writing nook you’d imagine to find in a place like this. A hint of ‘old book’ in the air. And the view. What a bloody view. Waking up to birdsong, crisp mist hanging in the morning light - casting its own hazed Instagram filter on the grounds. Falling asleep gazing at the stars above. Listening to the hoots of a nearby owl. The trickling pond below. A sheep coughing.

Our days were filled with learning. Not only from the infinite wisdom of Mark and Diana, but from each other, too. We talked through and examined great writing, ways to write and where to write. How to find a story and prepare for it, everything to do with book writing and publishing, and rounded off the course with the importance of Substack and promoting yourself.

On our first full day we were tasked with a writing exercise, to go away and write a piece starting with these 3 words: At the table. We had 1 hour.

After what seemed like 1 minute (PANIC!) it was time to return to the group and, for the brave among us, read out what we had written. A myriad of emotional and narrative stories were told one by one - each followed by feedback given by Mark and Diana. Half way through, imposter syndrome was imposter syndroming hard - but beneath the humour was a genuine ache… with each story told I was convincing myself I had no place to be there.

Picture by the lovely Sue of Netherton Foundry

And so I decided, along with a few others, to not share my scribbling. The gulf of experience between myself and what people were sharing seemed overwhelming, if I’m honest. Most of the writing I do on here is just me blabbing away about what I’d baked that week - hardly wordsmith of the year.

But, as with most things, after an evening of phenomenal food, heartfelt chats with the most fantastic people and plenty of wine - the next day I, along with the remaining few, were able to share our stories. Here are the words that fell on to the page:

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At the table where, for so long, I felt I wasn’t good enough to sit - I now find myself lost in food.

I grew up on a farm where food was just fuel. Functional, fast, and something you threw down your neck before heading down to the yard to ride horses for the next few hours. For years, I thought that the world of food belonged to other people. The ones who’d been granted some unspoken permission to belong. But (and funny this) I’ve learned that the kitchen doesn’t ask for your credentials to let you in.

I didn’t have a plan. I just wanted to learn. Blueberry banana bread, honey glazed croissants, brioche… each attempt gave me a bit more confidence, a stronger sense of purpose and slowly, I started building a relationship with food that felt like mine.

It turns out the table was always waiting. I just had to give myself permission to sit down.

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The feedback I received is etched into me: sincere, kind, honest.

It’s funny because, reading it back now I realise I was unknowingly writing the exact words I needed to hear in that moment. A message to myself, before I’d even lived it. I was trying to say ‘you belong here. Stand tall. Speak up.’ If only I’d had the courage to read it aloud then, perhaps, I might have heard it sooner.

I arrived hoping to learn more about writing and I left with new friends, a renewed sense of belief in myself and a feeling I can only describe as life-affirming.

In just a few short days, we laughed, we cried, we bared our souls to each other. We ate, we drank and I’m sure many of the others will agree… we found ourselves.

Truly unforgettable.

A huge thank you to our extraordinary hosts and teachers

Mark Diacono

and Diana Henry for holding this space with such wisdom, generosity and joy. To Joss Herd and El Kemp for the phenomenal food and care. And to everyone who was part of this journey: you’ve left a mark.

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Before this weekend, it’s funny - but I never considered myself a food writer. Not really. Even after 18 months of writing, it felt like a title that belonged to other people. But, something changed at Cadhay. Something quiet, and yet - roaring.

Hello, I’m Mark - a food writer.