Posted in Raising Floyd - a journey into cheese on May 21, 2021.
All four wheels span like Catherine wheels on the liquefied clay, achieving no more than spraying dirty yellow arcs past our windows into the waterlogged field behind. A robin on the gatepost beside us cocked its head, unperturbed by the engine’s scream, a semitone below glass-shattering pitch, perhaps wondering why I hadn’t checked the field’s entrance before reversing in to turn around. The smell of burning clutch permeated the cabin so I reluctantly relented and turned the engine off.
Alex placed her hand on mine, my white knuckles locked onto the gear knob. ‘Should I get out and push, Dad?...
Posted in Raising Floyd - a journey into cheese on May 21, 2021.
I turned to Pam. ‘We have to have one!’
‘No, we’re having lunch in less than an hour.’
‘I mean one between us, not each, obviously.’
‘Even between us, that’s more calories than Ranulph Fiennes burns to get to the North Pole.’
I looked to the precarious wall of pre-toasted cheese sandwiches on the stall in front of us; the slices of sourdough bread looking like pale lines of mortar to the brick-thick grated filling. A chalkboard advertised five types of speciality onion as well as organic leek and garlic used in the dressing. The assistant took an order from a business woman in front of me,...
Posted in Raising Floyd - a journey into cheese on May 21, 2021.
Smoke curled from the chimney tops and a flock of pigeons settled under the beamed eaves as I walked down into Haslemere. A poster for a Conan Doyle play fluttered on the Aga shop window. The Victorian writer knew the town as Little Switzerland, and, despite its present citizens’ preference for pizza over fondue, the simile for this cluster of life in the Surrey Hills still held.
The doorbell chimed above me and 4x4 fumes were replaced by cave smells as I entered a dimly lit corridor filled with aroma: both those appreciable from the display of cheeses to one side, and those promised, still ca...
Posted in Raising Floyd - a journey into cheese on May 10, 2021.
'You made this yourself?' My mother asked as she smeared the peppercorn-flecked, soft cheese onto an oatmeal biscuit. She bit into it and her eyes widened. 'Fantastique!' she proclaimed, slipping into her native tongue. 'It's as good as anything you get in the shops.' I felt the warmth of undeserved praise and wondered what sort of mess we'd have made without Mark to guide us. Thankfully, he had given us a course pack with instructions, one of which however, notes on how to age our drum of hard cheese, was now redundant due to an impulsive late night snack, post Shiraz.
This first review of o...
Posted in Raising Floyd - a journey into cheese on May 10, 2021.
I stood in the doorway of a deserted stone cottage, wondering whether to break cover. Below me the fields ran to the clifftops overlooking the stretch of angry Channel between Guernsey and Normandy, the latter now a place of holiday dreams.
It was the morning after hosting a wine tasting event. Instead of waiting the hour for my airport taxi in the hotel foyer, I chose to ignore the receptionist's warning and 'raise the heartbeat' with one of the 'not to be missed' cliff walks promoted in a tourist magazine. 'The weather can turn quickly in these parts,' the receptionist had cautioned.
A flash...
Posted in Raising Floyd - a journey into cheese on May 10, 2021.
The rain beyond our office window battered the view with a force that shook the last of the year’s leaves from the oaks in the valley below. Pam sat opposite me, head dipped, obscured by the computer screens separating us as she committed the figures from a heap of receipts to her computer. Aromas of coffee battled in vain with those rising from the wet Labrador beside me. I smoothed a map of China onto my desk and studied the numbers I had pencilled into the country’s Ningxia province. I circled the number one and Googled the corresponding winery’s website. Thinking I might be able to use its...
Posted in Raising Floyd - a journey into cheese on Apr 30, 2021.
The four of us settled onto a row of straw bales as the lights dimmed and the projector flickered to life. The face of a cow filled the screen, its tongue snaking from nostril to nostril.
‘Yuk,’ said Alex, yet to be convinced as to why the excursion might be fun.
The camera zoomed out, revealing a blossom-laden orchard. A voiceover commenced, telling of an ancient connection between land and taste, and of recipes passed down the generations. The camera soared over rolling valleys, pastures and a picnicking family unwrapping a cheese. I nudged Alex as the camera alighted on the face of a frec...
Posted in Raising Floyd - a journey into cheese on Apr 30, 2021.
‘So, shall we leave?’ Pam asked, placing her teacup on the garden table outside the half-timbered cottage we'd rented for the week. ‘We ought to be off soon if we’re going to get parking near the beach.’ The children rose, dusting off croissant crumbs, suddenly animated by the prospect. Oscar folded the corner of the page of his book and set it down, normally an action only arrived at after persistent requests. There had been talk of the beach earlier in the week and, at the time, I’d meant to mention I had already made an appointment with a Calvados producer at noon. I now regretted having le...
Posted in Raising Floyd - a journey into cheese on Apr 30, 2021.
The gravel crunched under our tyres as we came to a stop in the deserted car park of Moulin de Fossard, the restaurant we’d chosen as the highlight of our Normandy jaunt.
Pam looked over her shoulder at our twelve-year-old daughter and studied her complexion. Her hair clung to her head and she shivered beneath the picnic rug gripped to her shoulders. Pam turned to me as I unbuckled my seat belt. ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t go back to the cottage and get Alex warmed up?’
I looked across the car park to the tables on the restaurant’s terrace. Overlooking the river adjoining the mill house, they w...
Posted in Cheesemaker Visits on Nov 12, 2020.
I hurried past the fountain, its ornamental tiers and winged lions standing where once cattle and Red Leicester cheese would have been traded, a marketplace bustle now reduced to a pair of seated workers in hi-viz vests brandishing Tupperware sandwiches, and a confused-looking couple scrutinising a map. I approached Leicester Town Hall’s gates, imposing barriers of gilt Victorian ironwork designed to impress as much as suppress, and noticed only darkness through the surrounding windows. I tried the handles, slippery with the afternoon’s rain. Finding them unyielding, I stood wondering whether my quest was thwarted. It started to rain heavily again, striking down some remaining leaves from the plane trees and pasting them to the flagstones. It was getting dark and I was running out of time. I needed to find the town crier.