It had been a beautiful afternoon, the first of our week on the Brecon and Monmouthshire canal, taking in the mountain scenery — and we decided to moor up and eat.

We had known the barge would be modestly equipped for cooking and had planned accordingly: we were simply proposing a goat cheese omelette, new potatoes and a green salad. There was a serviceable pan, and we’d brought our own ingredients right down to the vinaigrette. 

But there was one small problem.

“There’s no salt,” came the cry from the kitchenette below.

“No salt?” 

No, no salt. No salt anywhere on the whole 55ft boat. 

There was a small village about a mile’s walk downhill, but it didn’t look promising in terms of having a shop at all let alone one that would be open at nearly 7pm. But I could see a lone cottage over a bridge and a few hundred yards away. 

So I walked there, banged on the door, and an elderly chap emerged looking somewhat surprised — I got the impression he doesn’t receive many unsolicited knocks. When I had offered a garbled explanation of our culinary predicament, he scurried off and soon returned with enough table salt poured into a freezer bag to season the omelettes of a small army. Dinner was back on. 

Welcome, once again, to the lucky dip that is the self-catering kitchen. It is an experience that can vary wildly but does tend to disappoint. 

You often find a strange surplus of specialist stuff

When you look at a holiday rental on, say, Airbnb there will be at least a dozen images of tasteful interiors and views, full details of the layout and all that. The one thing they never tell you is what’s in the kitchen drawers and cupboards. 

You could get no ketchup — or there could be twelve half used bottles. There may be a whole set of Sabatiers (unlikely, admittedly — or simply no knife at all.

A couple of years ago we had booked a single night in a converted dovecote in Somerset and turned up with steaks to cook — only to find the kitchen didn’t possess an actual hob, never mind a pan. 

I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve had to try to rig up some Heath Robinson-ish sort-of cafetiere contraption out of pots and sieves because there’s no other means to make coffee. 

Then, crucially, there’s the wine question. Here there’s the mystifying prevalence of those awful small, rounded and horribly thick glasses that look like they came free from Bottoms Up in 1979. Even those become almost forgivable when you discover that there’s no opener and have to resort to trying to push the cork down with your thumb, splashing yourself in the face with a nice little Côtes du Rhône in the process.

Conversely you often find a strange surplus of specialist stuff that you would never conceivably want or need during a short stay — bread machines, ice cream makers, cocktail paraphernalia (but no booze to use, natch). One can only suspect this is overflow from the owner’s own home and your “delightful apartment” is doubling as a storage unit. 

In fairness, I think there is one major disincentive to owners spending money on their rental kitchens: people nick things. A friend started renting out cottages in Ceredigion last year with grand ambitions like having handmade traditional Welsh blankets in every room. Until they started to go missing. Now guests get throws by George at Asda instead.

But having a decent kitchen needn’t cost the earth. We are not asking for Riedel glasses — even those six-for-six-quid Ikea basics would be a significant upgrade on what you often encounter. 

Food writer Debora Robertson told in her recent book Notes from a Kitchen Island how she feels compelled to take a kit — knives, pans and the like — when she travels. “I never trust what might be there,” she told me. 

Even the humblest table salt is preferable to none

It’s time, I suggest, that we as punters lobby for a set standard: a renters’ charter of what we can reasonably expect in a self-catering kitchen. 

My list would be: 

Salt: ideally milled, better yet Maldon, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Even the humblest table version is preferable to none (see above). Breaking this rule should be punishable in the same criminal range as minor shoplifting or languishing in one’s car in a box junction.

Pepper: fresh milled not ground. Come on — this is no longer some exotic ingredient from a giant grinder at your local trattoria. You can buy disposable pepper mills for barely a pound, even amid the current hyperinflation.

Oil: Cooking and salad — sunflower, say for the former; the latter doesn’t need to be single estate olive from Tuscany. Cold pressed rape would do. 

Vinegar: cider is a good all rounder. Not malt, this isn’t a chip shop. 

Condiments: these fall into two categories, mandatory and preferable. In the former, we have ketchup — not own-brand please — and English mustard. In the latter, there is HP Sauce, Worcestershire Sauce, Dijon mustard (if you can still get any during the great French mustard shortage of 2022) and, in a dream world, some kind of hot sauce.

Spice/herbs (optional): some basics would be nice — cumin, coriander, chilli flakes, thyme, rosemary.

Knives: one multipurpose that’s vaguely sharp, and one serrated for bread. The former is the only thing here that would conceivably require much investment but even an older one sharpened semi-regularly is fine.

Other: a non-stick pan, a big and little pot, a couple of oven trays, a fish slice, a selection of wooden spoons, a whisk. And a kettle obviously.

Wine glasses: see above — Ikea is fine. 

Corkscrew: any — except novelty. 

Cafetiere: mandatory. Ideally a macchinetta (a stove-top espresso maker), too. Personally I’d also really like a milk frother but I know that’s just asking for grim-up-North-London abuse.

God knows there is enough suffering in the world without being unable to drink wine in comfort on holiday. 

The stern no-can-do catering Great Britain of we just ran out of Waldorfs is now in the distant postwar past. In 2022, when you can get exotica like, say, a Mexican tortilla press or an Asian bamboo steaming basket next day delivery on Amazon Prime, there’s no excuse to have no frying pan.