Monthly Archives: July 2015

The ephemerality of elderflower (and a champagne recipe)

One of the great delights for me this time of year is remembering the vats of elderflower champagne I lovingly tended back at the beginning of June, now stashed in my father’s spacious fridge. The flowers were late this year, so my brewing frenzy went on well into the month with an increased sense of obsessive, protective attention to the beautifully simple but elegant alchemy of this best of homemade summer tipples. Making the champagne can be as intoxicating as drinking it. Within 24 hours the brew releases that  distinctive, heady elder aroma which has intensified during the initial steeping process. Each morning I check on the muslined buckets and jugs ranged in my study, fingers crossed for the cauldron bubble which means it’s doing its thing; each evening release the pressure every once the precious stuff is in bottles, treating it with all the care of a proud gardener whispering to his prize tomatoes and measuring the length of his beans every hour (although I could get quite into that as well).


The thing is, the hedgerow brew’s always a bit hit-and-miss – you just never know what the yeast content is like in any given year; how the weather has affected the flower’s scent; whether the liquor will ferment from the natural yeast or not; whether you ought to add a pinch of artificial yeast, and if yes, ensuring it’s just the right amount. It’s why I make up batch after batch, stripping the hedgerows bare in the fields around, initially because I plan to drink lots, but ultimately because they won’t all work out. It’s part of the great pleasure of this drink though: there are no guarantees, every ‘vintage’ tastes slightly different, and that unpredictability suggests something of the delicate flower itself – blooming for just a short few weeks in early summer. That’s what you’re trying to bottle, to pop open that musky, elegant, last-week-of-May fragrance just late on enough in the summer that you’ve forgotten all about it.

Here’s my recipe. The basic measures originally came from a kindly and eccentric chap who runs the Slatemill Lodge B&B in Marloes, Pembrokeshire. His brew is wonderful and there’s always some ready if you go and stay, whatever time of the year! I think I’ve just about got this right now after two years’ of trialing. Even still, I needed to tweak things a little this year when the first attempt turned out very yeasty. I’d added literally a few grains of the dried stuff to help things along, but it completely ruined it – perhaps there was a high yeast yield in the flowers this year? No doubt next year will require a little adjustment too.

1. Pour 1 litre of boiling water into a suitably large sterilised bucket/jug/bin.
2. Dissolve 600g sugar in this water. Then add 4 litres of cold water to make 5 litres in total. Leave to reach blood temperature (use a thermometer or just your finger to ensure it is tepid).
3. Add the zest and juice of 2 lemons, 1.5 tablespoons of cider or white wine vinegar, 20-25 heads of elderflower (checked thoroughly and cleaned of insects, although don’t worry too much – you can strain any remaining bugs out when you bottle!). If adding artificial yeast, do so now (which is why the water needs to be tepid). A few grains is all. Bread yeast is fine, but brewer’s or champagne would no doubt be better if you’ve got it.
4. Stir gently, cover with muslin or a tea towel, and set aside somewhere to do its thing (not somewhere cold).
5. After 24 hours, wherever you’ve stuck your brew should smell wonderfully of elderflower. After 48 hours, it should be starting to bubble. If it’s not doing this, add a few more grains of yeast – this has done the trick for me before.
6. 5 days after you first set your brew aside (6-7 if it took a while to get going), fermentation should be well underway, and now is the time to gently strain the liquid through muslin pulled over a sieve and pour into your bottles. A kitchen funnel is very useful at this stage. If you want it to look fancy, swing top champagne bottles are great, but I mostly use plastic fizzy drinks bottles.
7. Whatever bottles you are using, release the pressure once a day to avoid explosions. After a week you can stick your valuable champagne into the fridge to stop fermentation (because the yeast becomes dormant) and your champagne will be ready and chilled for whenever you require it. Even months later.



Landmarks in Islay

From where I am resting on the sofa with my broken leg propped up, to the north I can see the whole of Laggan Bay curving away up Loch Indaal towards the Point. I have the view in miniature laid out below me in intricate OS detail, and I  can check off the landmarks by looking up and craning over the window sills: the Kintra River flowing out into sand and sea; the Machrie just a little further north; Knockangle Point; then at the far end, Laggan River, substantially larger than the other two burns. To the south, behind me, is The Oa where, I’m told, there are choughs and golden eagles. Sitting here just moments ago, watching a buzzard along the conifer tree line a short distance behind the cottage, a superb silver male hen harrier angled past, not twenty feet from the doors.

What the map cannot convey is the sound map of wave, bird and wind – the elementals that give vitality to what I can see, in the full sense of that Latinate noun: both necessary and indispensable, and literally with life, with being. Oystercatchers burst and then settle on the rocks (even they are named – Rhuba Glas) immediately north-west from the windows – piebald flurries that patrol the shoreline continuously. Even at night I hear them. There are always flotillas of eider close into shore, males shabby and patchy now they are in their dark eclipse plumage, ducklings closely attended by their mothers in the rough surf. As is typical in these isles, weather fronts come and go quickly – rain and blue-black clouds hurtling across the bay, and then sun five minutes later.


I have had it in mind to get onto the dunes this afternoon, but my leg is preventing me from my usual exploratory holiday forays. Even short excursions are tiring. I may try stumping up to the Kintra outflow and look for brown trout. I’ve started reading Robert Macfarlane’s Landmarks, bought months ago but whimsically saved for a suitably inspiring environment. The chapters are built around nine glossaries of dialect words from all over the British Isles denoting phenomena of the natural world, particularly physical, topographical features. What is most exhilarating and striking about these terms, and what seems to bind them as a collective, is their great specificity; ‘finely particular phenomenon’ as Macfarlane puts it himself. I have been searching the categories to illuminate and more precisely express my view from where I write. How much more vivid and shared the world becomes when you have words like these at hand, inaccessible and absent to most in the modern world because they are the local, imaginative inventions of the ordinary, unacknowledged man and woman giving voice to the finest of observations relating to their lives working on and with the land, now and in centuries past, named and spoken  in their land-rooted, down-to-earth vernaculars. Part of what Macfarlane laments and aims to recover is the loss of such rich testament to to our earth-belonging and -being: as we lose so much of the natural world to intensive agriculture and urban developments, so we lose these languages, for if the land is not there, or not there to be wondered at, at least, what purposes do such words serve beyond eulogy?


This view does not ignore or dismiss the fact that landscapes have always been affected and managed by human civilisations. The ‘scape is not a geological or ecological entity, is not untouched or ‘wild’ (an explosive word in today’s conservation scene, particular since the rise of the ‘rewilding’ concept) as it might be imagined in some idyllic, Arcadian vision. The term itself tells us this: in the sense that we popularly refer to the word today, associated with the artistic or picturesque, landscape comes from Dutch landschap, a term deriving from late 16th century Dutch painters. But the preceding and cognate Old English word landscipe (Middle English landschippe) also carries the meaning of land that has been ‘shaped’ or constructed.

The view does, however, argue that such places can easily be dismissed as redundant, as terra nullis, to borrow another of Macfarlane’s phrases, as blank spaces that must be filled somehow with something ‘useful’. Governmental policy refers to ‘natural capital’, a thoroughly prosaic term that is acutely at odds with the rich and nuanced language in Macfarlane’s glossary. This, surely, is where the grievous losses are now – the land uses which pay little or no heed to biodiversity; to the role of place for species other than the human; to the possibilities of all-species engagement with environments that creates sensitive and crucial relationships of the sort that allows the human species (as just one) to know land so intimately – through belonging, loving and observing as much as harvesting and controlling – that it is possible for one to witness the most intricate and particular of objects and occurrences and name them. The feadan (small stream running from a moor or loch); the bàrr fhàd (topmost layer of peat cut); the raon (wide flat area of moorland); the af’ rug (reflex of a wave after it has struck shore); the bretsh (breaking of waves on a rocky shore); the baa (sea rock as may be seen at low tide); the faoilinn  (strand between a shingle beach and a loch) – to offer a few Gaelic examples that relate to my window experiences here on Islay. And my favourite, for its extended precision which seems comical for such a brief word: èit (practice of placing quartz stones in moorland streams so that they sparkle in moonlight and, therefore, attract salmon in late summer and autumn!) These are terms that do far more than locate or possess. They speak of intimate and enduring relationships and affairs with the land – local and exact, knowledgeable and meaningful.