the wind can whip cruelly about
this upland. Then, the low lights of
the wood fires seem good after the
brilliant grey-green hill-frosts of
early winter.
‘The food is prepared over a fire
in a vast open hearth. The
cauldrons, pots and saucepans
hang black upon the ratchet.
Wood-pigeon and partridge turn on
the spits. The dry vine-shoots
crisply crackle as the place fills
with their blue aromatic smoke and
tingling odour.
‘This is, indeed, no place to get
fussy dishes à la Cambacérés,* but
go when the game is on and you