West Berkshire, September 2024
Making charcoal, harvesting fennel pollen and a bottle of fennel twig vinegar.
It could certainly be taken for granted that seeing as the best part of a whole week has passed, the kiln might have snuffed itself out by this point.
You’d be wrong to assume such things.
Never trust nature to stick to the rules.
It hasn’t had any inclination to do what is expected of it.
It has reignited itself.
Twice.
There is a pile of tall weathered steel pipes spread out on the grass in a disorderly heap as they cool, pulled upwards from their slots with gloved hands, burning hot, heavy and dirty with the resinous stains of smoke and rust. Each chimney is around eight feet tall and heavy, their surfaces oxidised after years’ worth of standing in rain and bad weather.
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