Why the poet’s garden may be a jungle, the artist’s house a mess and why writers often live on noodles

Why the poet’s garden may be a jungle, the artist’s house a mess and why writers often live on noodles

A couple of years ago, a friend expressed puzzlement at why we had stopped making our own wine and beer. It had been so much a part of our lives that at one time I considered starting a small business. A quick look at the complexities of licensing law put me off but for many years I spent countless hours picking fruit, fermenting petals and enjoying the alchemy of turning a pile of elderberries into a deep red beverage that tasted just like vintage port. Our scullery in our Norfolk rectory was stocked with barrels of beer and cider, and we experimented with recipes using raspberries and even heather.

And then it stopped. Not overnight, but over a period of years and I know it baffled those of our friends…