Black mountains

A warm humid day with more rain passing through. This is the photo I’d like to have taken. This is a much cropped down shot to emphasise the lowering hills and the patterns left after coppicing in the foreground oak wood.

I bottled up the last of the olives, tidied up, took rubbish down to the bins on the road and talked to my sister as she left the house for the last time. She’s worked tirelessly to distribute and dispose of Mum’s great accumulation of stuff. Auctions, Oxfam, friends, Freegle. Very little went to the tip which was brilliant.

I lifted a glass in the direction of Oxford - actually to the north-west of here. I was surprised just how west the UK is of Italy.

On my third attempt the prugnoli and pasta was absolutely delicious - picked within the hour, sliced and gently fried in hot butter and olive oil with a touch of garlic. I tossed the mushrooms quickly in the hot fat to seal them and picked dry they gave off much less water. Then cooked half penne mixed into the frying pan with fresh parsley. It has to be eaten hot hot to get the full subtle flavour (extra).

Prugnoli are really hard to find, growing beneath leafmold and grasses. But provided they are not disturbed they come back faithfully each year in the same spot. They say the knowledge of these secret spots is passed down through the generations.