HERE we are doing a passable imitation of the Waltons: scratching, if not a living, at least a bit of Sunday dinner, from the soil. Toiling in the vineyard of the railway enthusiast-cum-gardener who has managed to produce a fine crop of potatoes and – well, several onions. But we won’t mention the onions, which frankly I thought were a bit on the small side.
Not so the spuds – dug up by Charlie, washed and roast to perfection by Beth to accompany her lemon roast chicken, and eaten even by me, who’s still weight-watching. But I only had three and they were quite small. Sorry, cut quite small.