Of Txacoli rosado, picnics and Primrose Hill denizens
One cynical writer, probably British, scathingly declared that the Modern British Novel could be distilled down to an examination of sexual mores in Primrose Hill. The hill (or the island as it is known to its hoary residents) is not only a metaphor for the state of the British novel but is also a hotbed of (so the stereotypes go) of middle class lab-liberalism, Brit popery, promenading hillbillies, painful faux artistique types; a place where vegans rub holey-knee dungarees with yummy-mummies in their triple-parked four-by-fours, where fanta-skinned euro-clones perch on chairs outside cafes gorgonising the hoi polloi with contumely from behind their ludicrously expensive designer wraparounds, where the greengrocer sells exotic flowers and even more exotic smoothies and the strawberries looks as if they have an honours degree from Oxford, where there is a pet accessories shop and various places to kit out your designer kitchen or bathroom, but no butcher, baker or candlestick-maker.
A steep-gradient tummock, signally bereft of primroses, the Hill has glorious views over central and southern London. As you climb it your spirits become lighter as your legs become heavier. Some claim that the hill focuses energy and that ley-lines meet near its summit. In days of yore (about ten years) a druidical gent called King Uther Pendragon would celebrate the summer solstice in full regalia at the hub of the hill.
On hot ‘n’ sunny days the grass is an orgy of flesh. If Britain is an obese nation no-one informed the honed, toned, tanned, gyminy-spick-and-spanned bodkins of Primrose Hill. Never might one witness a more prodigious flaunting of designer abs and go-faster haircuts nor a greater air of collective self-satisfaction oozing over the green, green grass like a slick of sun tan lotion. Male bonding occurs over Frisbees, cricket, keepy-uppy, racquet games; the athletes strut, saunter, float and flex.
Our small company staggers onto the hill weighed down by wine and dragging a formidable amount of food. The military efficiency of some parties highlights our meagre picnicking flair. Whereas these cohorts pull an arsenal of chairs, tables, tents and marquees, braziers, balloons (everything except performing monkeys) out of their back pocket us puffers and wheezers, admittedly provisioned for a ten day siege, bring very little of the concomitant paraphernalia of alfrescodom with us. We look hot, rattled and unrelaxed. Everyone else looked cooler than the other side of the pillow.
My wife made a homity pie - she likes baking bread, making pizzas, tarts and all things pastry. We also prepared lamb kofte with mint with a yogurt and goat’s cheese dip, some stunning pork and fennel sausages, marinated chicken with lemon and thyme, an asparagus salad dressed with extra virgin olive oil and lemon and I whipped up a saffron alioli to go with it, frittata, flavoured Japanese rice balls, various types of peppery saucisson, plenty of cheese, tapenade, bunches of baby carrots, baby vine tomatoes, mollet eggs etc etc. And loads of fruit: delicious strawberries, raspberries, blackcurrants and blackberries.
After a slow start corks are eased. The humungous mound of food is shrinking. I open a bottle of Txacoli rosé. It is as refreshing as the day is hot, a purée of pithy, pippy red fruits with some sparkling fresh spring water. This wine begs to be mercifully dispatched. Another bottle is opened almost immediately and disappears with alacrity. Bring on the glittering jewels. Nothing says summer than the plop of a champagne cork. The wine, Philipponnat Non Dosé, whispers in the glass. The Malvasia Frizzante from Donati is so gorgeous I could weep with pleasure. The nose has that autumnal whiff of warm russet apples and small pears and that rasping cidery gush. It’s all about the quench. There is nothing like drinking wine like water.
You know you’ve arrived at a picnic when you feel the sun warming your skin, you are as bubbly as the champagne and when you pop a strawberry in your mouth it explodes with flavour begging to be washed down by a cool draught of anything-to-hand. You know you’ve arrived when, by the time you should be leaving, you have settled into a groove and your limbs have unfurled to a state of blissful relaxation lubricated by the sheer excellence of fine weather, tasty food and delicious wine. It is that Txacoli moment.