Observations from a Hill

Just a very quick throwaway food post tonight - and not even about anything I've bothered to cook for myself, either. I decided on a whim late this afternoon to just get a takeaway Indian from the Sitar in Bethesda. After much faffing around to find a working cashpoint [the place is still delightfully cash-only after thirty years and several owners], I went for a swift half of estimable Welsh cider at Y Fic [the old Victoria pub], before picking up my simple repast of Chicken Madras and two chapatis. Whereas when Abdul - the original owner of Sitar - was in charge of the place, the Madras had all manner of things in the curry, including loads of green pepper chunks [not complaining], this Madras was a totally Old Skool plain and hot Madras Chicken with a vengeance: a 1970s-style B.I.R [British Indian Curry] in all its glory. Having said that, it wasn't perfection, but pretty damned close enough for rock'n'roll, and it certainly packed a hefty punch of chilli. To be perf...

Funny thing, memory. I had two possible topics in mind for tonight's post, but both now escape me totally: I made the mistake of not making an immediate note of either when they occurred to me in the first place. Note-taking is an essential tool in securing stuff in memory. Failure to not remember things is not simply a feature of growing older, as most would take it [for granted, even], but rather a baked-in feature of who we are as a species; psychologically we are a need to know organism: we retain in minute detail all of the stuff that is necessary for our survival. Have you ever doubted that you would find your way back home or any other important place, for that matter, at least when sober? Until any of us enters a period of physiological and mental decline, we retain all of our internalised geographies and topologies in some form: we learn to map our environment instinctively from birth, as do all creatures on this Earth. Disease aside, we never forget this stuff. But when i...

Despite my best intentions from the outset of every day, I invariably leave the posting of my trivia in these pages until the very last possible minute, which I guess sums up the modus operandi of my life generally: deadlines I feel instinctively are there to be pushed firmly against, in order to gird the loins, put fire in the belly and sweeten the eventual closing of the chase. O! but were life itself were so urgent and so pressing. Oft-times true in usually distressing manner, but for the most part as commonplace and I would hazard, mundanity in itself. Tonight's scribble is no exception. Up against the wire yet again with nary an idea to my name. However, I was reading a piece in my partly-read Summer Edition of The New Statesman about time . Time, of course is something I return to time - ahem - and again here, and I could be accused of being so exercised because of my advancing age and the rapidly contracting reservoir of my personal supply of the stuff; but it's simply n...

Rachub, what a place. Of all the places we've lived, this little burg is wholeheartedly the sentiment encapsulated in its name: Yr Achub; literally 'The Rescue' or perhaps better translated as a refuge or sanctuary. For that is what this place is: a place to find peace and respite from the world beyond, either as refugees from without or as returnees to a lost heritage re-found. To casual visitors, this hodge-podge of narrow streets and tiny terraces can seem mean in the harsher seasons of autumn and winter; grey, slated roofs over blue-grey stone or pebble-dashed walls streaked with rain and moss, uninviting at best at first sight. But the place itself invites and welcomes people: the interiors of the small cottages and terraced dwellings hereabouts; the people that live within their confines, welcome people to come and stay. To make homes and form friendships; to find a welcome bulwark against an increasingly hostile and baffling world. The world here is smaller and gentl...

I may have written at some point about my choices of the best albums of all time for me - a perennial exercise for those of us who actually have experience of the art-form that is the 'album'. I usually cite Van Morrison's 'Astral Weeks' as the absolute apogee, an opinion which I still hold and cleave to: never bettered, impossible to improve upon and simply perfect. I also always include Frank Zappa's 'Hot Rats' in my list - not perfect, but close. My list of favourite albums could fill a book, but tonight we were watching a Netflix documentary on the inception and formation of Led Zeppelin, and I remembered how bloody influential the first [eponymous] Led Zeppelin album was on me and my mates. The first time I heard it was on the John Peel programme on Radio One immediately after its release in the UK; when the estimable Mr. Peel played the entire album, end-to-end, with no break or commentary, so gob-smacked was he - as were we - with the record. A tr...

As promised, a cooking aftermath post. Pictured, tonight's repast of mutton chop, very slow-cooked with potatoes and carrots, etc., finished with some cream, olive oil, more paprika, and parsley. All served with a couple of hunks of halfway decent bread. Not bad, if I say so myself and I have to say the mutton really does have some heck of a flavour to it; and cooked for so long and so slowly - absolutely obligatory - it falls off the bone like chuck steak. The potatoes and carrots are soft but hold their form, and the sauce has most of the flavours I intended it to have. However, I won't finalise this recipe and post it until I've done some tweaking, as there are definite improvements I want to make to it. However, it wasn't a bad meal: the aftertaste of the thing is a good indicator of its potential to enter my roster of staple go-to's. The only thing that would stop me making it regularly is the absolute dearth of mutton available from normal outlets these days. ...