We moved into Forester's House a year ago today. It was roasting as we drove down the A90, the dashboard thermometer read twenty-six degrees. When we finally got here the heavens opened and we ran for cover indoors. A busy day was brought to a standstill as we did not dare to brave the storm to run between the van and the house dragging boxes, bits of bed, and every other thing we owned. Thunder and lightning frightened the dog who, in a strange place, struggled to find a place to cower. It was an extraordinary entrance to our home.

For two or three weeks the sun has been shining over Keithick. It's shining before we wake up at seven, and it is still bright at eleven at night. The sun can be strong. Azra Mo is looking lovely and tanned. My neck and arms are red. Every now and then there is a wet day, when rain pours steadily through the night and through the day. Then the grass looks greener, it gets longer, and daisies and buttercups multiply in its midst. I like the wet days, because I don't have to go in and out of the house filling the watering can and soaking the salads, the onions and tomatoes. And I know the potatoes are getting a drink. We have so many rows of tatties I simply cannot be bothered watering them daily. Note for next year: Get a hose and get an outdoor tap. I want to buy an old whisky barrel too, so I can collect some of this rain and put it to good use.

( Fruit and veg and notes and sunshine )

The tomatoes indoors are doing well, though they seem rather thirsty. Their older leaves are browning and waning, but I am not concerned because the inner leaves are pert and fresh and increasing daily. This week I put some tomatoes outdoors too. For the first few days I would bring them in at night too, but when the weather warmed to 20+ during the day and 14 over night I just left them out, south facing, but partially shaded. Again, inner green bits give me confidence, but these plants look a little more vulnerable to the wind. The Dean says he will give me seeds for a South African variety which is, apparently, more robust.

It's time we earthed up the tatties. I've been doing this sporadically. I've been getting conflicting advice on when and how to do it. So when I spoke to the Dean I asked his advice. He said once the plants were several inches high to earth them up, but to leave the leaves visible. So I have done that. When the plants flower they are fit for harvesting. Roll on.

We timed the potatoes pretty badly. All the books and experienced friends said to plant in March/April. So we planted them in the last week of March. Then it started snowing. I phoned the Dean, the potato veteran, and he criticised my timing and called me silly. But he recommended covering the rigs with fleece or polythene. We used what we could, and the potatoes were under cover for a week or so. We planted two varieties of earlies: Pentland-Javelin and Homeguard. We planted two sorts of main crop: Cara and King Edward.

( You say Potato, I say Potato )

I started off by planting every single tomato seed I had into little modules. There were over twenty and nearly every one of them sprouted. So I moved them all to small pots, placed them in windows, and they grew to between six and twelve inches tall. Yesterday, I moved them to bigger pots so that they have plenty of space. The books said leave 45 cm between plants. But a 66cm pot was costing £5, so I've got 3 plants per 66cm. I planted them deeper than I did last year, and caned them, so they have plenty support. The idea is to keep them trained this time, and put the emphasis on growing fruit not foliage.

( Other growings on... )

I think February had started when I noticed tiny wee pine cones on the Christmas tree we have in the garden. That was the first sign of life slowly emerging this year, but it would be a long time before much more would come through. Well into March, almost every morning brought frost to the garden, and the shaded side of the house would barely shake it off before night would quickly fall. At the same time, the last of the snow that fell before Christmas could still be seen on our designated vegetable plot, while in the front garden snow drops made a small tentative appearance. Mo and I ran around the house and figured where else they were coming through. Two weeks later and we have at least three varieties of snowdrop all the way down the side of the garden and sprinkled across the lawn.

( Beyond the front gate and down the track they are there in clumps and blankets. )

Last summer I grew tomatoes, chillies and peppers on the windowsill. The tomatoes were especially good. They were much more textured and flavoursome than Tesco's. The chillies came in abundance and I still have some in the freezer. They were mild, so far as chillies go. Unfortunately the plants did not last the winter. Mo nurtured the peppers, and it is a shame we got so few because they had a super-refreshing taste, they were very juicy. In my last summer in Aberdeen I harvested apples from the trees in the garden and made jam with them. This summer I made jelly from blackberries I picked around the estate. On many summer mornings, Mo and I would pick raspberries off the bush and eat them fresh with our al fresco breakfast.



( It's healthy and delicious... )

I trust that you will forgive my friend. The wines were too various. It was neither the quality nor the quantity that was at fault - it was the mixture. Grasp that and you have the very root of the matter. To understand all is to forgive all.

An old Etonian, in Brideshead Revisited. 

 

( The Tasting Notes )

 

The first time I ever tasted malt whisky was behind the counter at Oddbins. The shop was quiet and Duncan thought I could do with a tutorial. He poured me an Ardbeg, said things I don't remember and then added a minute amount of water. I can still recall the cloudy impact it had on the whisky, and the way the oils in the dram separated and lifted to the surface. Of course, the smoke was a new and unique flavour, but it was the raspberry sweetness on the tip of the tongue which added wonder to the drink. There and then I was fascinated. Islay whiskies are the business, full of peat and smoke. Ardbeg is something else. The distillery uses short stumpy stills which allows heavy particles to survive distillation and contribute to the rich flavour; it's a very dirty whisky. As a descriptor for its taste I often say 'engine oil'. For a very long time I had little patience for softer whiskies. Islay was the place, Ardbeg was the best.

( Smoky peaty dreams within )

I dreamt a few things last night. I had a very broken sleep. In the end, in my dream, I was in a hotel. My friend Ewan (whom I have never met in one of my dreams before) and I were due to check out at the same time, but thereafter to go our separate ways. I had a plane to catch. But then Ewan fell ill (he got a flu), and so I had to check out alone, which I had to queue to do. It was a bland task and I began to feel agitated because I wanted to buy Ewan some food and medicine before I left. I also had a plane to catch in a short while. I got Ewan his stuff from a kiosk at some station or underground. It was a grey, dirty place, with the air of dust and engine oil, lit harshly and unevenly by fluorescent light. Back at the hotel I jumped a queue to get into the elevator. I was becoming very concerned that I may miss my flight. I had times written down in my pocket and reassured myself that in planning my journey I would have given myself a contingency; specifically, the time on my piece of paper would be the time I had to get the train to the airport, not my flight’s time. Ewan’s room was number 702 so I got off the elevator on the seventh floor. Long corridors with lush carpets were nothing compared to the doors. The doors were made of one single solid piece of wood and spoke of the tree’s trunk. Incredibly, the door numbers appeared to be written in the grain of the wood itself. I couldn’t find Ewan’s room. By the time I had covered the whole of the seventh floor I had passed through a restaurant and an Irish bar (where the stools were sections of tree trunk – bark and all – and the usual menus and fruit machines were lying around). I even went behind the scenes of the hotel where the white walls were dirty and covered with notices for staff and the fire escape was clogged with boxes. Back in the corridor I eventually found Ewan’s room half way up the stairs between the sixth and seventh floors. I knocked on it and it felt as though it was coated in sponge. Nevertheless the noise was made and Ewan (more quickly than I expected) called me in. He was sat on the edge of the bed; he looked like Danny DeVito as the Penguin, except he had his own face. The TV played, the room was warm. Ewan was ill and sweaty and sombre and used tissues were strewn across the bed and floor. The stuff I had got him was quickly added to the mess. I told him to order room-service and he indicated a cooked chicken in a box by the door.