Postcard from the parlour

Sunny afternoons in Britain aren't complete until you've heard the chimes of the ice cream van. The discordant rendition of 'Greensleeves' is a more welcome soundtrack to summer than drumbeats leaking from the open windows of passing cars.

My problem is that a Mr Whippy-style dollop into a cone made of crunchy air cannot satisfy the Pavlovian craving the music triggers. Not even if you stick a Flake in it.

I'm certain there's a gap in the market for quality ice cream parlours in the suburbs. I'd love to be able to wander down the road and choose from a range of delicious flavours as I did in the tiny ice cream parlour in Spain, pictured above.

I selected creamy coffee (and a pink spoon), my companion chose decadently rich chocolate (and a blue spoon) – gender stereotypes are alive and well! The gelato texture was heavy and smooth, the flavours intense. My only disappointment was that they weren't playing 'Greensleeves'.