It would of course be wrong to suggest that the highlight of a quick 48 hours in Eindhoven was the bottle (or was it two) of what some would say is the world’s best beer but it was certainly up there in the top five highpoints of the weekend.

The beer came from a Trappist Abbey near the French/ Belgium border and is so exclusive that it is almost impossible to get hold of. I almost wrote “buy” there but it is not supposed to available to be bought unless you are personally invited to go to the Abbey in which case you may be permitted to make an appropriate donation and come away with a small crate of the precious brown liquid.

For reasons that I was not quite able to get to the bottom of Roger’s neighbour had a close enough connection with the good monks who make the beer and was able to secure a supply. For reasons more unaccountable the only safe place in Waarle for these precious beers, the only place maintained at the proper temperature was Roger’s cellar. It was under lock and key for the whole weekend.

Before the locks were put on a few bottles were put in the fridge. There were no labels and all the necessary information was carefully marked with the name of the Abbey, Westvleteren, and the alcohol content. The was a grading in colour to tell the beers apart.

It was beer to be treated with respect. There were a dozen or so flavours that came out of each mouthful and by the time the bottle was finished a faint feeling of floating a few inches up from the chair I was sitting in.

Late on Saturday evening I found myself talking to the same brave neighbours who trusted Roger’s cellar with their beer. They had a key to the cellar and they kindly handed over one of the bottles which is now waiting to be ferried over to England over Christmas.

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There is of course something reassuring in finding yourself back where you have may have been before and so this evening I found myself yet again pulling up on a stool next to the bar in Morito.

I have been in London for a conference on the law around property litigation. There may be some defeat in the fact the conference took place in the same building where nine months ago I went to see various talks put on by The Guardian on how to start a food business. At least this time I didn’t turn up there suffering the lingering after effects of a super duper hot mackerel curry – no doubt a relief to those people sat close to me.

All this gave rise to me having a bed for the night in more or less central London. Having misread the placing of a semi-colan in the weekends paper I thought this would give me an opportunity to see Julia Holter in concert. Having started to plan for this it transpired that the semi-colan was there to tell me the concert was on Thursday night instead.

So I was left with fingers to twist. I kept them occupied with a walk to Exmouth Market.

Morito was full when I got there and I left my number and went to have a pint nearby. Just as I was contemplating a second pint a buzz went off by my leg and a minute later I was sat at the bar in Morito perfectly situated about two foot back from the grill and just in front of the terracotta plates of nuts, seeds and saffron there to be picked at and sprinkled over the dishes before they were handed up to be served.

There was a sign up for a vermouth called Cora. I felt bound to ask if they had some – fortunately they didn’t as I might otherwise have been tempted with a bottle to take home with me.

So I twisted the paper menu through my fingers and made my way through it.

The highlights came at the beginning and the end. I started with two Gildas. A cocktail stick threaded with a pickled chilli, a baby pearl onion, a sliver of anchovy and an olive. It came in a burst of taste and heat that lingered on the tongue.

I finished with a lemon posset. Lemon and cream topped with burnt orange and a crunch of nuts.

All the while through eating I was able to watch the food being cooked. Most of it was done by one woman who had some hell with the deep frying and the assembly. I was able to marvel at how she seemed to manage effortlessly cooking for for the thirty or so people in the room with hardly a word being said whilst whenever I do the same at home it is normally for the family and lots of words are said.

Is there any more comforting food than smoked haddock.

We had some last night with potatoes and spinach. The potatoes came from the garden. I had dug them up a month ago and since then they had kept themselves hidden in a paper sack in the cellar.

The potatoes were parboiled and drained.

I then cooked the haddock, bringing some water to a simmer in a large pan, and then sliding in the fat haddock and letting it warm through until I could peel away its skin.

The pan was then drained and the haddock put to one side whilst in the same pan I sweated away an onion and a leek. I was careful to keep the water. I may have stirred in a crushed clove of garlic but it wasn’t needed. I managed to find some saffron lurking in the cupboard and I crushed this up and added it to the pan.

Once the onion and leek had started to take on colour I stirred in the potatoes and then the water in which the haddock had cooked. Once that was simmering it was left for a few minutes more to take on its flavours. I then added the spinach, it had been drained, cleaned and chopped, it had to be pushed down amongst the potatoes so it could start on its disappearing act.

A pot of double cream was then added and stirred in along with the flaked haddock.

It all deserved a good bottle of white wine and it had it!

Thursday evening was bonfire night and we went to watch our fireworks in Birkenhead Park. We had to wait for an hour for the fireworks to start. With the rain that had been coming down all day it could have been a case of damp matches. There were a few thousand people gathered round in a great circle to watch. For most of the hour all we could see were a few men in high visibility jackets waving torches and the green light of mini lasers sweeping round blinding the odd passer by. There were plenty for fireworks in the distance but none in Birkenhead Park.

As we waited one the children started to complain and worry about the cold and her homework that apparently still needed to be done. She kept counting diown the minutes before she would be off storming up the hill to be home but then halfway through one of her minutes the fireworks started and the sky erupted into light. She was quiet then but behind us a far younger child decided that he needed to be home in bed and a long way from all the loud bangs. He wailed all the way through. A high pitch moan of “I don’t like it I want to go home”.

The fireworks were still pretty good.

Saturday morning and slightly unexpectedly I found myself giving advice on the proper construction of a chestnut roaster. I was in the grocers and Kazim had had a go trying out his new roaster earlier that morning. He had not been able to get it hot enough and the chestnuts had taken too long to cook.

I peered at it as if peering into the bonnet of an unfamiliar car, I poked at the metal and put my fingers to the holes that had been punched into the metal fire pit on legs and the round sheet metal lid.

“It needs more holes” I said as if there was a danger I knew what I was talking about. “It needs more holes and they need to be bigger”.

Kazim and I stroked our chins and discussed the merits of gas against charcoal and the cooking time for chestnuts. He hopes to have a better go of it next week. In the meantime a small pressure cooker bubbled behind us – a lunch of stewed onions and tomatoes.

Saturday afternoon and we spent twenty minutes in a dark room watching a naked marble statue talk us through her starkersness lips and eyes fluttering light as she clothed and undressed herself and her soft voice went on, asking us questions about what we were watching. We were in the Williamson Gallery and almost missed what we had come to see – mostly because we didn’t have much idea of what it was. It transpired it was a light projection onto the marble statue that made her eyes and lips move as she spoke. There was something spooky about being in the room with her. She kept perfectly still but the flickering light brought her to life and it felt as if there was someone else in the room with us. I hope they don’t turn her off at night and she can continue talking after we have all gone home.