Over two consecutive summers in 2017 and 2018, I lived in a shed at the bottom of a boat builder’s garden. It was in the valley (or so I call it) of Trewardreva Mill in Constantine, near Falmouth, a ten minute drive from the silky Helford River. It was here that I cooked countless meals for myself and others, drawing upon the local produce our allotment, garden and green house (handily attached to my shed) had to offer.
It had a tiny hob oven, with only one working hob, and a wood burner that I used for cooking quite often. But it was summer and everything was about chopping up fresh herbs, tearing mozzarella, whipping ricotta, making toast and assembling various vegetables, doused in peppery olive oil. I mined my old shed suppers folder for these two dishes. If I was lucky, someone else (not me!) would have caught some fresh mackerel and bring it to my shed. And there were always peaches ripening on my counter, not to mention a block of feta in the tiniest fridge that I installed next to the stable door, which was always flung open, ready to welcome guests (and dogs).
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