Fruit of the cubby hole

Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two gentlemen were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished dining parlor, in the town of P----, in Kentucky.

A day of domestic bliss. Claire makes scones for breakfast. I rustle up lentil and bacon soup for lunch and then roast a chicken for tea. In between I plant strawberries and turnips while Claire heads to the coast for a spot of sailing.

Nick rocks up as we're finishing off tea. He helps with the bottle of wine that I've opened as a treat. It's one of a case we bought from an organic vineyard we visited while we were trolling round France in the camper van back in 2007. It's been living under the stairs (in the cubby hole) ever since and it tastes pretty good.

Later, we head down to the yurt for beer, whisky and tunes. Billy Sloane reads out our requests on Radio Scotland - Maybelline (Chuck Berry) for Nick, Irene (The Photos) for me. He doesn't play either of them. Then the batteries on the radio expire, Nick exhausts his mandolin energy and we wile away the time listening to tinny tunes from my phone.