Diary of a Goatkeeper, 10th April
I hadn’t seen the white-haired couple in their matching green raincoats since January, but I recognised them immediately. I have a poor memory for names, but a good one for faces. And an excellent one for customer requests. Their enquiry about Paddy Westray rice was one that I’d never forgotten – though I hadn’t been able to source it for them. Strange that. So I was pleased to see them back, as it suggested that they hadn’t given up on the shop entirely. They rustled straight to the cheese counter.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the man.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘How are you today?’
‘We’re very well,’ said the woman. ‘In fact, we’re quite excited, aren’t we Creighton?’
‘We are, Elsbeth. At last, local produce for the sophisticated palate!’
‘Are you talking about pattie suppers?’ I said.
‘Patty who?’ said Elsbeth. ‘Is she Orkney food ambassador we’ve heard so much about?’
‘No, that’s Rosemary,’ I said. ‘And she super rather than supper. Whereas a pattie supper is…’
‘Never mind,’ said Creighton, ‘It’s cheese we’re after. The one you advertised on Facebook the other day.’
‘Remind me,’ I said. ‘We do posts about lots of different cheeses: new arrivals, special offers, serving suggestions...’
‘Why, it was your own cheese, of course,’ said Elsbeth. ‘In fact I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be out milking your herd or something.’
‘Ah-ha!’ I exclaimed, and laughed. ‘You’re talking about Goatie Buckie!’
‘That’s the very fellow,’ said Creighton. ‘At last, someone has the sense to make an Orcadian goats’ milk cheese. So much better for the environment, and for one’s cholesterol.’
‘What could be more delicious with a nice glass of well chilled Sancerre,’ said Elsbeth, ‘Than a slice of Goatie Buckie on a lightly toasted crouton?’
‘You could rub the crouton with garlic,’ said Creighton. ‘That would be better.’
‘It would, my dear,’ said Elsbeth. ‘You’re such a clever man. So, shopkeeper, you take your slice of baguette, cut on the bias, and pop it into your AGA wire toaster. When it’s nicely brown, you rub it with a freshly cut garlic clove…’
‘Rub gently,’ said Creighton. ‘You’re just caressing the bread really.”
‘Caress with garlic, then anoint with olive oil. And nestle your Goatie Buckie on top. Then slide the whole assemblage into your roasting oven for a few minutes till it starts to bubble. Heavenly!’
‘Food of the gods,’ said Creighton. ‘If your gods are Crottin de Chavignol and Rocamadour. I know mine are, ha ha!’
Elsbeth laughed too. ‘You’re such a witty man,’ she said.
I held my hands out in apology. ‘There’s just one problem,’ I said.
‘Don’t say you’ve sold out,’ cried Creighton.
‘It’s not that,’ I said. It’s just…I’m sorry to tell you this…that was our April Fool’s joke this year. Lauren made it up, with a little help from Tia. There’s no such cheese as Goatie Buckie. It’s a great name, I wish it were real. But it doesn’t exist.’
Creighton looked at me with something like disgust. Either that or cold fury. Elsbeth, on the other hand, looked appalled. Were those tears starting to form in her eyes?
‘That is a cruel, cruel trick to play on your customers,’ she said.
‘You’ve let us down,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘And you’ve let yourself down, Mr Kirkness. Or are you Mr Gorie? It doesn’t really matter, because you won’t be seeing us again for a considerable time.’
They pushed their chins out, turned their backs on me, and made for the door.
‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘What about our Mozza-rendall! And the Papa Wensleydale! And the Roquefirth, made from finest Finstown sheep’s milk!’
But it was too late. They were gone.
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 13th April. A new one appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.