Published: February 17, 2019
The author is a long-time wine lover. Here, she shares her cellar secrets and reflects on how Britain finally succumbed to the grape
Every winter, the writer Helen Macdonald comes to visit me in the Cotswolds. She brings her parrot and her closest friend. Her friend travels over from Australia with a Japanese knife in her luggage; she loves to chop vegetables and needs the best knife to enjoy doing that. So while the parrot eats some finely sliced kale from my garden, we toast our yearly meeting with some wonderful wine. This time it was Krug 1988 followed by Lynch-Bages 1996.
I don’t plan ahead on the wine. I think about what I have in boxes around the place, and what the mood feels like.
Continue reading...from The Guardian http://bit.ly/2IsxarM
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