Chorale

And he spoke to them, propounding to them themes of music; and they sang before him, and he was glad.

The morning starts with coffee. Then we feed the sheep (five teeny, weeny, black mountain sheep) on one of the terraces. Keith's spot is insanely steep, with stone steps built into the wall of each terrace.

We collect figs and grapes and chestnuts. We finish off bottling a batch of passata - he now has more than 50 jars in his cellar. We potter about, drink tea, and talk. For lunch we eat left over pasta frittata with an enhanced and extended tomato and vegetable sauce. And of course, pick away at the grapes and figs.

We head down through Joyeuse in the early evening. At the organic shop I buy a bottle of local Pinot Noir and Keith stocks up on coffee and shoyu. At a patisserie, we indulge in gack of the highest quality before heading off to the centre for agriculture where the chorale will be practising.

The centre is like permaculture and organic centres worldwide. Well-meaning, over-funded, brimming over with seemingly unrealised ambitions. The composting toilets work fine, but the actual production of fruit and veg is unimpressive.

The chorale are excellent. They sing tunes from all over the globe - and the arrangements are lovely. Keith guides them with a precise intent, and they look like they're enjoying themselves, dancing as they sing.

We load up six bales of straw and head for home. It's cold, so we stoke the stove, close the doors, and cover the roof light. Then I drink the wine, and we eat more figs, feta and tomato sandwiches, roast chestnuts.