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It’s flipping well snowing as I write, but my Glyndebourne tickets have come and my MCC pass has just plopped on to the mat so it must surely be spring. And where a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love, so this old soak’s fancy lightly turns to just how many bottles I need to get me through Easter.
Growing up in Kent I lived near Romney Marsh, a special place that I still love for its windswept acres, lonely churches and tales of smugglers, revenue men and Dr Syn, the mysterious vicar of Dymchurch, who was not quite who he seemed. A leg of precious marsh lamb invariably took pride of place on our Easter board, my mother smothering it in ground ginger, runny honey, rosemary, a sprinkle of salt and pepper and half a pint of Kentish cider before roasting. And Rioja was invariably the wine that we drank alongside.
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