Somerset Cider
"Traditional cider maker Gwen runs the last scrumpy barn in Somerset. When London drinks writer Hugh arrives, she shows him what 'real' actually means."
The barn had been making cider since the 1700s—proper scrumpy, not the fizzy rubbish supermarkets sold. My family had run it for generations, and I'd taken over when Dad passed. Most years, we sold to locals and festivals. Most years, nobody from the outside bothered to notice.
"This is incredible."
The man in my barn was clearly not local—London accent, expensive casual clothes, the kind of person who wrote about drinks rather than making them.
"It's cider. Nothing incredible about it."
"Cider that's been fermented using methods that haven't changed in centuries. I'm Hugh Pemberton. I write about traditional drinks for—"
"I know who you are. Your pieces always sound like you've never actually drunk what you're describing." I handed him a glass of last year's vintage. "Let's see if you can write about this."
His face when he tasted it was worth the rudeness. Shock first, then understanding, then the particular glow of someone discovering something real.
"This is—there's complexity here that I've never—"
"That's because it's actual cider. Made with actual apples by actual people who actually know what they're doing."
He stayed all afternoon. Helped me with pressing, asked questions that showed he was genuinely learning, got covered in apple mush without complaining. By evening, the London veneer had worn off considerably.
"Why did you stay?" he asked. We were sharing dinner—my stew, his wine he'd brought—in my farmhouse kitchen. "You clearly could have done anything. Why Somerset?"
"Because the orchard needed someone. Because I couldn't let the methods die. Because—" I shrugged. "Because this is who I am. Some people are shaped by places. This place shaped me."
"That's profound."
"It's practical. Profound makes it sound fancy." I refilled his glass. "Why do you write about drinks instead of making them?"
"Because I don't know how." He said it simply, without embarrassment. "I've spent years describing things I can't do. It's starting to feel hollow."
"Then learn."
"Will you teach me?"
"Cider takes a year. You'd have to stay."
"What if I stayed?"
The kiss happened over the remains of dinner, tasting of wine and cider and something that felt like possibility. His city hands were soft but willing; his body against mine was warm despite never having worked.
"The bedroom's through there," I said.
"Is this appropriate?"
"I'm fifty-six. You're fifty-two. We're both single and clearly interested." I pulled him to his feet. "Appropriate is for people who have time to waste."
We made love in a room that smelled of apples, even in seasons when there weren't any. Hugh touched me with writer's attention—noticing details, finding metaphors in skin. His body was softer than farmers', but his enthusiasm was genuine.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for pressing apples."
"You're built for strength. For endurance." He kissed down my body. "The most beautiful things require both."
We came together while the orchard slept outside, waiting for another year of fruit. When I gasped his name, it was with the same voice I used to call workers during harvest—strong, certain, expecting response.
"Stay," I said afterward.
"For the year?"
"For the cider. For me. For whatever this becomes." I touched his face. "You said your writing felt hollow. Maybe making things would fill it."
He stayed. Learned cider properly—not just tasting but making, understanding the rhythms of fermentation, the patience required for good scrumpy. The articles he writes now are different—informed by hands-on experience, by living what he describes.
"This is what I was missing," he said one night.
"The cider?"
"The doing. I spent years observing from outside. You pulled me in."
We're partners now—in the barn, in the house, in the life we've built around apple trees and ancient methods. His words sell our cider to a wider world; my expertise makes sure it's worth selling.
That's what scrumpy teaches—patience and partnership. The apples take a year; the cider takes another; the love takes however long it takes. You can't rush any of it. You just put in the work and trust the process.
Hugh trusts it now. So do I. And together, we're making something that's better than either of us could manage alone—cider that carries centuries, and a life that's finally full.