‘An hour later the old dog is sleeping nose to tail, content and snoring. His soft ears are full of blackberry rips and here and there a few thorns will need to come out. Not right now though, he’s worn down but warm and wants to sleep. Fair enough.
There’s a casserole slowly ticking away on the stove, a bubble or two here and there, shoulder of fallow just right for the long slow treatment. Some Agrias from the garden too, for a creamy garlic mash. Might even melt a little cheese into that. Needs a red wine, rich and deep, or a malty ale from that little brewery down the road. Funny lot, brewers. Didn’t seem to be making much money, but a happy bunch.
There’s even a smoky, peat-scented Scotch on the sideboard. A nip will be just the thing later, when the kids have gone to sleep. Turns the lights down low and bank the fire with blue gum, time to savour it properly while rain drums away on the tin roof. All good. No, there’s nothing wrong with winter, if you have it in you to love the unloved…’
from Hunting New Zealand – Parts Unknown
Peter P. Ryan www.faraway.co