To cake or not to cake, that is the question, at the end of not just a working week but a whole term — I’m on my Easter break. Unless the French air traffic controllers stymie the deal, the next few posts should come from a country that has not yet appeared on this blog.
How many of these peas will eventually sprout edible small green products remains to be seen: getting them started by the living room window is always the easy bit, each year. But we try.
“I know I present as red. But inside there’s that little bit of green that’s always been on the verge of coming out.”
Ignoring the currently redundant mug and bowl, we have: sugar; syrup; lemons; and wine. The pancakes are on the way — after that, nothing else is required for a while.
Let it be said that I find bananas to be possibly the most revolting of all natural foods: I really cannot stand them. If they were the only foodstuff that I had access to, I’d starve to death. Which is a shame, because bunches — literally — of them grow all over St Helena, including many in Gareth’s garden, as shown here. And I quite like their strange, purple flower/appendages, dangling down like strange alien tongues. But even after they ripen, I’m not going to eat any, I can assure you.
Actually she looks just like the kind of person who I would trust to deliver a really good cake. And it certainly looks that way, though I didn’t try the produce.
On 6th October last year I was hauling myself up Yewbarrow in the Lake District and about to go to Canada for a week, but no similar adventures are taking place at the moment: this is the sixth shot out of seven to be taken in Hebden Bridge and the fourth in a row indoors. But at least the garden is producing. The monster fruits to the right may or may not be a function of these being pictured in a silver bowl.
“I dunno mate. It gets worse and worse. Look at these scraps.”
“Know exactly what you mean, Bob. You just can’t get the humans these days. Must be global warming or summat.”
“Well, let’s see what we can get out of it before that twat over there decides to muscle in.”
In Donegal one sometimes feels one has gone back in time. Definitely, the tourist facilities need to catch up a little. Our B & B was kind of rustic, as you can see.
I’m only joking. Actually this was a scene in one of the reproduced historic Irish cottages in the Glencolumbkille Folk Centre. This village, out on the west coast of the world (well, Europe anyway), thereby becomes the 400th different named location to feature on the blog. (See the stats page if you really want the full list.)
It’s nice when interests coincide. Behind one goal at Atherton Laburnum Rovers’ Crilly Park stadium, there was growing today a whole run of plump, ripe blackberries, of which this was just a small part. Luckily for me I had a collection vessel, which was definitely filled before I settled in to watch the game.
You might have noticed that a nice round number approaches, in terms of the number of days I have been doing this. But that’s for tomorrow.
Being 42 