After just one cold day and the valley fills with the scent of woodsmoke. Wisps of it curl around the tops of the pine trees. Puffs come from the mud brick house tucked into the corner of the valley across the creek. We use it to heat our houses in this particular neck of the former woods, including my cottage.

Most of the smoke at the moment is in my bacon. A cold smoked product, it’s soft to the touch and sweet and sultry to the mouth. I use a little to flavour a quiche. A little to add life to potato salad. A rasher to dip into the runny yolks of just-fried farm eggs.

Went scrumping for apples with a friend. The taste of real apples, straight from the tree – stolen from a tree no less – is an apple savoured. I could cook with them, but not this week, not when they’re so good to eat fresh and I’m still in the seasonal throes of pleasure. Maybe next week, if the weather cools again, and I may want to put on the oven.