Untitled from Paul Vincent on Vimeo.

Winter is behind us once more. Clocks have sprung forward, Summer Time has arrived, and light evenings are back at last. A fierce March sun blazes down on the valley. Unusually strong for the time of year, it warms our backs and coaxes tired old grass into growth. Newly ploughed fields glow like dark melting chocolate under a cloudless blue sky. Ecstatic birds fill the air with their rejoicing. A heron dives optimistically into the stream. The swans are back on the Creek.

The mill pond is a cacophony of quacking. Daffodils, yellow, orange, white, spread across the orchard. They seem to sing in harmony above the primrose carpet.

Camellias, planted just a few years ago, are suddenly overburdened with huge blooms, flowering for week’s, they defy wind and frost.  And yet, I am told from all sides, I must not celebrate any of this gloriousness because, despite recent downpours and heavy morning dew down here in the South West at least, this wonderful weather threatens future drought.

We’re lambing again too. This gentle weather is perfect for new life; nine strong babies so far in rapid succession. Yet all the while we are reminded not to rejoice at this either, our next infants may be infected with the “Schmallenberg” virus, a deadly threat lurking in the wings. Just one case so far in the South West but news bulletins keep us constantly in fear. Apparently the infection is carried across Europe by midges. There is absolutely nothing we can do to control the situation but cross fingers and pray. I must not enjoy the sun because it may not rain, my lambs may all be born deformed or dead, so says the media.

As I drive through narrow Devon lanes,  having just filled the empty tank of  my very ordinary car with an eye watering £83 worth of diesel, I am reminded that fuel cost has become so huge few of us can move about freely anymore. And if the threatened tanker driver’s strike comes to fruition none of us will be going anywhere at all. I am told I must not “share a bottle of wine with my partner” because we will surely become ill and die of cancer or heart disease. Old people with dementia, of which I will doubtless soon be one according to statistics, that is, if I live, are being starved by overworked hospital staff or locked up in wards “for their own safety”.  As the government are “damned if they do and damned if they don’t”, whichever way they try to tackle this national malaise, I begin to feel overwhelmed by an epidemic of despair and fear.  A “what if” culture seems to have us by the throat.

But, hey, it may rain very soon, as it always does just in time for the Easter holiday! Our lambs may all be born strong and healthy after all. The fuel strike may not happen.  I may live to nearly 103 like my father who still loves to discuss current affairs over a glass of sherry. This evening on the phone: “will this Granny Tax affect you? Who’s suffering from all this dementia? Should Cameron have had these people to supper….and how is the economy?” I may escape hospital like him. And maybe even die at home without ever suffering the downward spiral of Alzheimer’s.

So I tend the ewes with new lambs, feed the wethers and the yearlings, talk to the donkeys, dig the garden, celebrate my newly reconstructed old greenhouse, clear mud from the pond, collect eggs and clean out the chickens, walk over the hills with my dogs and my camera, ponder when to get more pigs, do the accounts, cook “kitchen suppers” for my friends even if they don’t donate to my chosen charity, and risk that second glass of wine. I feel inclined to rejoice regardless at what we have, rather than negate the beauty of the present by fretting about what may never happen in the future. Oh, and the pork was wonderful too; the pigs a great success. Richard Pollard our butcher, pollardQmeats@hotmail.co.uk , did an excellent job; delicious sausages, bacon and gammon, shoulders and legs neatly boned and rolled ready for stuffing, belly boned for slow roasting till crisp and cracklingy, loin chops cut thick to cook slowly under the grill till dark and golden. Pork as it used to taste. “Have you any left”? “When can we have some more”? I must get more pigs!

Fillet of Pork with Sausage Meat and Prunes

Friends for supper last week so I thought I would do something with the pork fillet but it looked a little small for four of us. Trawling idly through my mass of cookery books, Hugh Fernley-Whittingstall’s Meat Book came up trumps again, but, of course I didn’t have exactly the ingredients he suggested.  So, instead of the mincemeat and dried chestnuts that he suggests, I used my own dried prunes; last summer’s Dit’sum plums dried slowly overnight in the bottom oven of the Everhot then stored in an air tight jar. I split my little fillet nearly in half and filled the cavity with our sausage meat, salt, fresh ground black pepper and the pitted prunes. I tied the whole with string to make a big oblong, then wrapped it loosely in tin foil leaving the top exposed, poured lemon juice over it and  chilled it in the fridge while I went into the garden to dig the very last Pink Fir Apple potatoes and pick winter spinach. The pork went into a hot oven, 200C, for an hour until well done and golden. As the potatoes cooked I took the meat out of the oven, covered it and let it rest in a warm place on top of the cooker.  I made a sauce with chicken stock, a table spoon of redcurrant jelly, and a pinch of cinnamon. I slaked a desert spoon of cornflour into a little extra stock, stirred that into the sauce and brought it just to the boil, stirring all the time until it thickened. Finally I stirred in a couple of tablespoons of cream, tasted the sauce and added seasoning.   The washed and destalked spinach wilted quickly in its own water. The secret with spinach is no extra water  and the quickest possible cooking. I still needed to drain it thoroughly and press it down in the colander to really get it dry.  A quick stir over the heat with a knob of butter and it was ready too.   As I sliced the pork and served my friends it suddenly occurred to me that I had produced everything on the plate !  Not pudding though; I found Nigel Slater’s wonderful quick lemon curd ice cream recipe in his lovely book, Kitchen Diaries. Speedy to make, it is sharp and delicious after the rich unctuous pork.

Postscript:

Today we lost our beloved old sheepdog, Meg, loyal friend and wonderful working dog of 15 years. We miss her terribly but she had a long and happy doggy life, sweet girl.

This morning’s hard frost came as quite a surprise. The mild, damp weather of the last two months has lulled us into a sense of false security. No snow, no frozen water troughs or icy farmyard. No heaving of water buckets from the stream to quench the thirst of chilly livestock. No throbbing, freezy fingers, no numb toes paralyzed with cold inside unrelenting wellies, no scarlet, stinging nose poking out of balaclava, whipped numb by the east wind; well, not yet anyway.

The grass continues to grow, spring bulbs push up through mud, snowdrops promise another avalanche of white, while camellias take enormous risks bursting into a profusion of pinks, forgetting completely the perils of early morning sun on icy petals. Even roses continue to produce funny ragged little flowers. It can’t last. A cold snap is bound to arrive but for now the garden seems to think spring is already on its way; I wish!

Fat ewes munch happily in the rain. The wethers, growing fast, race up to me each morning. Bucket tame, they jostle for their breakfast. Last year’s ewe lambs, round and fat now, graze quietly on the top field we call “Dainty” after a naughty erstwhile pony.

As for the pigs they are getting so big. To quote Hugh Fearnly-Wittingstall’s description of his porkers in his wonderful “River Cottage Meat Book”:  they arrived as fat puppies and now resemble small hippos.  Little hippos they are indeed, I’m learning why it is that so many people love pigs; they are so intelligent, so entertaining. They just make me smile! But sadly it is also becoming clear to me why they are the most abused of farm animals. They require such different husbandry than sheep and cattle. We are fortunate in the UK that new legislation forbids the use of sow crates. UK pigs must have a minimum space in which to exist; still not so great but much, much better than overseas. Sadly this has led to a rise in price in UK pork which in turn means that cheap foreign meat which comes nowhere near our welfare standards, is flooding the market and severely threatening our pig farmers.

Pigs need regular feeding and attention twice a day. Since the dreadful Foot and Mouth outbreak ten years ago strict laws are in place in this country controlling their diet; no more kitchen scraps or “pig swill”. We must feed only certified pig nuts. Pigs eat neither grass nor straw but love to rootle round in search of tasty morsels in the ground, truffles if possible! Such enthusiasm leads to large holes and much mud but despite this fun they are extraordinarily clean, keeping their sleeping quarters immaculate and pooing only in one designated place. The defamatory “Living like Pigs” is, without doubt, a reflection not of the creatures themselves but of their human captors. My weaners demand and deserve respect and care during their short lives and they will reward that care and attention with wonderful pork.

No pigs to be seen at this year’s Dartmouth Fat Stock Show. There were sheep, all breeds and sizes, cattle, massive, large and small and yards and yards of ready dressed turkeys. The beautifully restored and refurbished Market Place was filled once more with livestock, as it has been every December over so many years. All the local farming community, young and old, were there for this historic annual meet. Rain, sleet and sunshine took turns with an icy wind which curled around the market walls.

Jilly’s Best in Show bullock and our prize White Face Dartmoor Sheep

The Dartmouth Market we know today was built in 1823. In the 12^th century Dartmouth was the fourth most important town in Devon. It was already meeting the needs of commercial shipping. Smith Street, Higher Street and Lower Street formed the town centre on the water’s edge; merchant houses and warehouses backed onto the river making it easy to load and unload cargoes straight from ships. Boats lay alongside for repairs and the quay side was a thriving marketplace, the earliest recorded in 1231. It was a popular place with brewers and vintners! In 1364 it received the Charter of Merchant Vintners increasing trade in cloth and herring as well as wine. Everything arrived by river.

It is so hard to imagine Victoria Road under water until the beginning of the 19th Century. No wheeled vehicle, neither cart nor carriage, could get down the steep hill into the town. The only land access was on horseback and the only carriers were pack ponies. It was not until the Improvement Act of Parliament in 1815 that drainage and land reclamation began in earnest.  The crossing places at North Ford and South Ford, uniting the two small towns of Hardness and Clifton, became dry land at last.

By the 1820’s Foss Street was dry land too, leading to the newly built Market Place. At the same time as the construction of the market, the engineer, James Rendall, was working on the New Road to Townstall which would enable horse drawn carriages to join the Turnpike to Kingsbridge and Modbury. For the first time in Dartmouth’s history wheeled vehicles were able to travel to and from the town. Local trade increased dramatically. Farmers were able to bring more produce down to market; no longer were the people solely dependent on the river for food and trade. The New Road was renamed Victoria Road at Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. I wonder where Queen Elizabeth Road will be!

And today the Market is still thriving, restored and modernised once again with plate glass and stainless steel, it houses even more businesses than ever, while still remaining true to its roots. Weekly markets and the Farmers Market flourish and of course the wonderful annual Fat Stock Show each December which still brings livestock into town.

Foss Street shows little evidence of its watery past. Bedecked with flowers in summer it gives us such treasures as Simon Drew and Coombe Farm Gallery. Pat Candy’s Kitchen Shop is one of my favourites. I have to own I find kitchen shops irresistible anywhere and everywhere in the world. I even found one in Soeul in Korea this September; quite marvellous, piled high with unrecognisable kitchen utensils that fortunately wouldn’t fit into my suitcase.

The Seoul Kitchen Shop

But back to Dartmouth; here on our doorstep we find a local market selling wonderful local produce and right round the corner one of the best suppliers of the were-with-all to transform it into something special. Not only is Pat Candy a retailer with years of experience, a huge knowledge of her merchandise and a fantastic flair for presentation, but, she is a cook! It is this, above all else, which gives the Kitchen Shop it’s edge.

Pat Candy’s Kitchen Shop in Dartmouth

So with my kitchen equipped by Pat and my freezer filled with my own lamb and vegetables, local beef from Farmer Phil Bond, Mark Lobb’s wonderful fish and another delicious Oakcroft chicken from Mr Roger’s of  Beaworthy, my own pork soon too, winter suppers are looking promising

But first I need a warming Vegetable Soup for a quick lunch. There’s nothing as comforting as a big bowl of homemade soup when dogs and I have been blown home from the farmyard by a sharp south easterly.

I choose the ingredients for soup according to the sort of stock I have in the freezer. This time it’s ham. Onions or shallots are a must and peas go so well with ham but the other ingredients just happen to be in the fridge; the last piece of a large pumpkin, a potato, a couple of large shallots, two big garlic cloves, some parsley stalks, a little salt (ham stock can be salty) and pepper.

The principle is the same for most soup; sweat the chopped shallots or onions, garlic too if you like. Add a peeled diced potato; this will act as the thickening agent. Add diced pumpkin, carrot or other root vegetable but keep the balance of flavour in mind. Remember for example that parsnips, though delicious, are much more dominating than a carrot, pumpkin is mild but will enhance texture and so on. Once your chosen veg are sweated, i.e. softened in their own steam and a little oil in a pan with a heavy lid, you can stir in the stock; simmer gently for about twenty minutes, taste and season. To liquidise or not to liquidise is a matter of taste. Do you like your soup smooth or with bits!

Serve with hot crusty bread and good slightly salted butter.