It was late afternoon in June and the tide was down so the black rocks and their weed were exposed to the sun and the shallow pools were dried out and empty.

Miss Sarah Carmichael from Dublin sat by the round table on the lawn in front of the Cottage. She was by herself and waiting for tea. She wondered why she was here and she thought of the boy who had come into class late that morning his hair still wet with the sea, dried salt on his skin and his white shirt stained with pale traces of blood.

She tried not to think on the talk in the kitchen behind her. Miriam Black-Fore and Bridget her cook were boiling the kettle and settling the tray and to Sarah Carmichael and their voices were quiet.

The was a breeze blowing now and it moved through the fuschia hedge with a quiet rustling sound. On the lawn in front of her two yellow wagtails crossed to and fro darting across the grass.

‘Miss Carmichael I am so glad we have you at last. We can talk about books.’

Sarah turned at the voice and watched as Miriam came out of the kitchen carrying a tray. She half rose from her chair as Miriam put the tray on the table. There was a pot, two cups and their saucers, milk and sugar, all, Sarah saw, good china.

‘Sit down. Sit down’ Miriam said.’ Now what shall we call you. Miss Carmichael can be left in the schoolroom. Tell me what is your name and then we can get to know each other.’

‘Sarah, Miss Black-Fore, my name is Sarah. And Miss Black-Fore thank you for this. Your house, the Cottage and the garden it’s beautiful. The place is beautiful but here hidden away with the sea…’

Sarah stopped after the rush of words and the two women looked out down the garden out over the beach and onto the sea. The light caught at the water and Sarah lifted her hand to her eyes to cover them from the glare.

‘Call me Miriam. Black-Fore’s an old name. Now let me pour you the tea. Milk? Sugar? And you can tell me why you are here.’

‘But before that I must tell you. I have a friend. She is a writer from London. She is coming to stay for a month this summer and I am sure she would want to meet you.’

Sarah caught at this. They had only just met. How would her friend this writer know enough about her to want to meet her. What would they talk about. She thought on the small pile of books she brought with her, romantic novels, she had six of them, by various authors, and she picked through them re-reading those bits that she liked over and over and then stumbling upon a passage forgotten. They were her books. She could not talk about them.

She turned and smiled at Miriam and started to tell her just why she was here.

Even in the early morning the sun beat down hard on the water. It lay flat and calm across the bay as he rowed out the oars clunking in the green metal rowlocks and the quiet splash as they broke the surface and lifted again. The quiet and the stillness drew in the hills on the other side and they looked close now, close enough to row to. He carried on thinking on the journey back and the walk up to school later that morning. He thought on the desk he would sit in and the look of Miss Carmichael from Dublin as she turned from the white writing on the blackboard to ask him a question.

He stopped at the rowing and pulled in the oars so they were crossed over the top of his knees and the water dripped down onto his legs and felt cold and clean under the sun. The boat drifted on circling slightly in the tide. He looked over the side and could see brown trails of weed on the bottom twenty feet below and there on the water an insect press against the surface so it dimpled and bent and held it up dry.

He rowed on and muttered against his breath for leaving the line behind. He could have it out now and be catching fish. He pulled out past the island and into the sweep of the bay so that it opened up and he could see the mountains of the Mizen and the Sheep’s Head come down into the ocean and that point at the horizon where the milky run of the sky merges with the sea.

There was still no wind but there was movement in the water. There was a swell in the bay coming in from the sea and it lifted the boat slightly and let it down as he rowed. His thoughts now were away from school and all he could think on was the light on the water and the movement of fish underneath.

Out there he felt he could do anything with the time that he had. There was heat in the sun now and he felt his shirt scratch across his back. He pulled in the oars again and looked down into the water. It was deep now and dark. The bottom lay far underneath and he thought on what was down there.

He took off his shirt and his shoes so he sat in the boat in his shorts. The sun was warm against his skin but he knew the water was cold. He took the oars out of their rowlocks and stashed them in the bottom of the boat. Then he stood up and dived awkwardly into the water. The boat shoved away from him as he went in and the cold caught him like a hard fist tight around his head. He came up and shook his head in the air and looked back at the boat. Seeing it raised in the water he wondered if he was going to be able to reach up to be able to grab at the side and pull himself back in.

He turned away from the boat and swam out in the water. It still felt cold around him but as he moved he could feel his legs and arms loosen with the activity. He lay on his back and kicked at his legs and watched as the spray lit the air and wondered at the noise that was so close to him out there in the bay where there was no-one else to hear.

He swam back to the boat and tried to reach up the side to pull himself back in. It was too high and even as he kicked hard in the water he could not get his hand over the side to pull himself in. He moved down to the back and there it sloped slightly towards the water. He got  grip there and hung on for a minute floating in the water before he kicked again to pull himself in grazing his leg against a splinter as he tumbled in. The blood was pale and watery on his skin.

He rubbed himself down with his shirt and threw it back into the bottom of the boat. He then picked up the oars and put them back into the rowlocks to row himself back. He looked over the bay as he went watching the water and the light that it made.

Those who do Twitter and Facebook may have picked up already on the story behind the good news involving mackerel I mentioned just over a week ago.

For those lucky enough not to do Twitter & Facebook follow this link

http://www.bigissueinthenorth.com/2013/09/new-writers-award-finalists/8663

I will be going. Tickets are available via the web site if anybody fancies keeping me company!

There is a danger that Diane Henry is going to turn into one of my favourite cooks.

Despite the misgivings of various children her chicken steeped in tea was a big success this evening.

I think I have bought all of the books of hers that I have from the Good Things Cafe. The first was Crazy Water Pickled Lemons from which I first started to learn about Persian rice.

Earlier this year I picked up Food From Plenty from which I cooked a brilliant plate of grilled squid with peppers and chickpeas.

Today it was the turn of Salt Sugar Smoke. I bought it over the summer when we went to the Good Things Cafe for lunch. It is always difficult to resist a good cook book after a good three course lunch.

The chicken was supposed to have come from the stall on the Farmer’s Market but having got my days wrong it came from Edge & Sons. I had made the brine the evening before. Eight Earl Grey tea bags, salt sugar and hot water.The chicken was in there most of the day before I poured off the the thick brown liquid.

I roasted it as normal smeared with butter.

There was an added pungency to it when it came out of the oven and the cook’s treats tasted rich and sweet.

We are it with roast potatoes and salad from the garden.