A book where I’d tell you stories about embers of olive wood, smouldering on an ancient brazier next to the old walls of a bygone farmhouse in the light of the late sun of a Provencal afternoon. A pair of rabbits held deftly over the glowing woodfire by four long sticks, snapped from an old bay tree, made sharp with the old hunting knife that I reserve for an afternoon such as this, of cooking outside. That little knife, an Opinel no7, bought on a market stall in rural France, has served me very well over the years and most likely could contribute to a few chapters by itself.
I press my finger and thumb into the scalding, crispy-skinned thighs of the rabbits, ‘scottadito’, giving a squeeze so as to gauge how cooked they are, tender as they slowly grill over the branches into the late afternoon to be ready for an early supper. The smell of smoke, grilled meat and bay leaves haze around me as I wipe my charcoal and fat-stained fingers on my once-white t-shirt. My glass of ever-so-pale, pink rosé seems not to have run out for the best part of an hour. Lucky me. The ice clinks as I swirl it around. All is well here. The rabbits, split and rubbed with fennel twigs, lemons, salt and bay leaves. Plenty of salt. They sizzle and pop as the cicadas keep time for me. Rabbit and rosé, smoke and lemons...
I’d tell you about the smell of toasted fresh green fennel seeds, soft golden onions and caramelised lemon. When you roast them slowly together in olive oil, adding garlic and a little chilli as you go, the lemon rinds twist and turn in the pan as they take on that deeply golden tone. I’d add a handful of Moscatel raisins soaked for a morning in sweet wine, a little vinegar and then spooned over a plate full of crisp sardine fillets that I’d filleted and dredged quickly in coarsely ground flour, the one that the Spanish use for fish, then pan-fried with gentle pressure from the back of my knuckles, pushing down on the flesh side so their skins are crispy and blistered. Not turning them is key, like all fish really so they cook almost all the way on one side, and then I’d tell you to remove them from the pan and put them on a plate. The residual heat works its way through the fish, blushing them ‘just so’. The Venetians would be angry at my disrespect for their classic but I’d still give you the recipe so you could taste the sweet raisins and onions then the sourness from the vinegar contrasting with the bite from the little fragrant fennel seeds and the warm crisp fish.....
‘A Story of a Year’
Introduction
Oxfordshire, January 2024
The cold frozen grass, splendidly white, stiff, bristling with hoar frost, crunches under my boot as I walk, the silhouettes of frozen branches, burnished with lichens of green and gold that cling to the branches of the old apple trees here, against a sky that is in a moment, all at once a mixture of every blue you might imagine. Pale, soft baby blue, brushed through with the sharpness of turquoise, fading far away into deep Prussian. It could be a summer sky, early in the morning before the sunrise waits for the warmth of the day to gather, though today the intensity of its cold light gives its secret away.
It is winter.
The blue light is stark, sharp, imposing and cold. Still hibernal here in this secluded corner of rural England. The floods that rose at the turn of the New Year subsiding now as the river Thames wanders through the countryside, contained by its banks once again, fields on either side that were dark lakes until weeks ago once again slowly emerging as grassland. In the distance, a blackthorn bush is coming into bloom, dark pointed spines that will push deep into the thumb of the unwary who might come to pick branches of its blossom; pretty inflorescence disguising its armour. It is the only tree that tells of the promise of what might be, so early in the year. It has a soft white blossom, not unlike apple or cherry, and is a fine addition to a cordial, but beware its unforgiving thorns.
It is said that if you were to look in the corners of bygone fields where hedgerows meet, undisturbed corners, where you might find an ancient oak, one that has stood for centuries, one that can be seen from a distance, some say these are places where treasure might be buried.
Old gnarly hedges thick with branches and thorns. Corners and boundaries from centuries ago, places that people would recognise from a distance, a place where lovers would meet, secrets buried within the roots below, a ring dropped or a small bag of coins or a secret hidden for retrieving another time, now forgotten and lost. There is an old oak in the north corner here amidst a backdrop of the high-reaching boughs and branches of the woods behind. Hedges of bramble, hawthorn and hazel break the fields into lines as they have for hundreds of summers, hideaways where goat moths, field mice and voles live. Verdant and full of life in spring, now lays a decaying bracteal mantle of caramel, umber and tan.....
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