The Night Before Norfolk

Well, here we are - the night before I leave for deepest Norfolk. I didn't plant the daffodil bulbs or rack the wine. I think it's safe to assume that both of these tasks can be postponed for ten days or so.

I did plant the garlic though it wasn't a straightforward task. You see there is this little white hen who can escape her enclosure even though the surrounds are more than eight foot high. I think she flies onto the branch of a tree and from there launches herself over the fence. From then on she does fun things like root through the compost heap, lay eggs in secret, private places, nibble Nelly's chard and uproot her leeks.

Evie finds the secret nest (photo by Zoe)

So I planted about half the garlic and went back to the house for more cloves and a wee coffee. And when I got back there was the little white hen who had unplanted it. So a job that should have taken an hour took nearer two for then I had to build an intricate cage around the bed to prevent further incursions. The little white hen tried to blame the damage on the polytunnel robin but I knew that was a lie. Little robins couldn't do that much mischief in so short a time.

Today I started packing and when I got bored with that the girls and I went out to pick damsons. I thought they were over but the Wee came round (just back from four weeks in Vietnam) and informed us that he'd spent the morning making damson jam. Of course, I'll not be making jam as wine is far nicer. We got about six pounds from the tree. Enough for twelve bottles of wine.

Martha picking damsons

From tomorrow I'll be away from the keyboard. I haven't decided if I'm going to take my iPad. Maybe not. A week away from the internet might be good.

Root Soup

When it comes to soup there are only a limited number of recipes that Bert is prepared to try. He dislikes any made from root vegetables or squashes with the obvious exception of the potato. His reason for this is that he finds soups such as parsnip or carrot 'sweet' and, in his view a soup should not be sweet.

Nevertheless, I plan to work my way through 200 Super Soups with no thought to his odd preferences. Sometimes he'll like it, sometimes he won't. He wasn't too sure about yesterday's French Onion. That would have been the spoonful of sugar (to caramelise) and the cup of medium sherry. But last night's mild aversion to French Onion was nothing to the horror when Swisser served him a large bowl of vegetable soup made with carrots, parsnips and swede. I thought it was delicious and was particularly impressed with the aromatic spices she'd used, especially the ginger. Bert said that the ginger was the worst part and if he'd had to eat another spoonful he would have boked. I took the recipe anyway. He can eat weird Lidl fish on my root soup nights.

After lunch, we went for a brisk walk on Runkerry beach where Bert lost his mobile phone. He has some hopes of getting it back. It is absolutely worthless, being the cheapest and most basic phone in the shop so anyone finding it may well think it was thrown away because it is so crap. Anyway, I was more gutted than him, as only yesterday, I'd gotten him to put his accountant's number back on his phone after a year of asking him to update his contacts. Ever since he lost his last phone, back in September 2015 he's been getting me to look up phone numbers for him, numbers he should have put on his phone the last time he asked me.

Anyway, losing his phone with all the inconveniences that will bring him is surely karma for turning up his nose at Swisser's root soup. So, you may wonder, what are Bert's preferred soups?

Leek and potato, mulligatawny, pea, chilli bean & pepper, any fish chowder and,

his all-time childhood favourite, chicken broth! Just look at the glee on that little face. Poor hen. She thought Bertie was her friend.

Hen Funeral

Sometimes the best pictures happen when you haven't got a camera. I was walking back from the polytunnel today with a handful of salad and a couple of peaches when I saw a curious procession. Bert led the way carrying a big spade. Behind him walked a very solemn Evie. Then came Ben, carrying a box containing a dead chicken whose head and neck (recently wrung) hung over the edge of the box. Lastly came Martha carrying a small pink spade and a bunch of flowers.

They were having a funeral for the hen while I prepared lunch.

Afterwards Martha took me to see the grave. Evie was reluctant to go as she thought it was 'too sad.' This time I brought a camera.

And if things continue in this vein I may have to change the name Nelly's Garden to The Blog of Death.