I am getting frightened. I am taking to this place like oil to mustard. I love it here, the rawness of the treeless, wind-battered and sheep-strewn landscape and the feeling that I have stepped out of society. But my eyes are wide open too, and central to my feeling of contentedness has been the priceless boot-full of fresh garden vegetables and fish that we imported.
There is no knife of any use in this otherwise wonderful and well-equipped house. The wind and rain is lashing at the windows behind me. My lungs are pumped with the richest air I’ve breathed, my skin dry from the sea air, and my growing belly full again of salmon baked in foil with butter, white wine and salt. We had smoked salmon for breakfast, thick slices of the stuff loosened up with some lemon and black pepper and piled on hot brown buttered toast. Tonight’s fish was still clinging to the spine in the centre, the way it should be, and was served with a bowl of cave nero, baby carrots, fat garden peas and soft slices of creamy potato roasted with capers and plenty of premium salt. Big dollops of Hellman’s to ease it on down, and I am already looking forward to a breakfast of salmon to fuel my morning reckie.
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