Bearing Up

The big old hare who looks as if he's fought a few battles in his time often hunkers down in the field behind my house. His coat is auburn with rich golden streaks, and there are darker patches where he may have been hurt and scarred over the years. He looks honourable, and his normal gait is dignified and slow, though when he runs he goes like the wind, all hare still despite his age. I like to see him out there, doing his solitary thing. I wonder what he thinks about all day in his form, the name given to the shallow depression in the ground where hares settle in the day and sleep at night. No cosy rabbit burrows for them, where they can curl up underground on fleecy linings and be safe. In biting cold or crushing heat alike they are always exposed. They must be some of the toughest mammals in Britain. He's a survivor, indominitable, and he inspires me.

It's the same miserable story here, and I'm feeling limp and dispirited again this evening after a lovely day. I dared to hope earlier that I was getting better, but it was short lived. A surprise visit this afternoon from old friends was very cheering, but the excitement has proved too much for me. Yet I think there was an improvement, and I dare to hope that there will be a few steps forwards tomorrow before the step back again.

It's not all bad. There's a fat organic chicken roasting in the Rayburn, its skin massaged with butter and rubbed with salt and pepper, a half lemon stuffed up its nethers. The chef is recreating one of the best meals I've ever had, which consisted of an identical chicken, roughly bashed new potatoes, French beans and a gravy to surpass all gravies. The basis for this latter came from a friend of the chef's, a gourmand par excellence, who had passed on the remains of one he had made the night before. It consisted of a jug of dark brown jelly, and when melted into the pan of chicken juices turned out to be simply sensational. What was in it? we all kept asking. It's incredible, unspeakably delicious. It turned out to be an awful lot of Fino sherry reduced to its very essence, so rich it could almost walk by itself, and so it is going to be recreated tonight for the delectation of weary bodies and parched palates. The smells are filtering through to me. I may be feeling better already.