As a lad, my father often brought me on a duck hunting trip up to a friend of his, who lived in an old house on the banks of the Shannon. He had no electricity, no running water, and hiis only form of transport was a boat. He'd go into town once a week for canned foods, powdered milk, and a pint. He grew all his veg, and shot all his meat, and net his fish.
Anyway one time on our arrival, he had some stew ready in a big pot. Whole spuds and onions the size of your fist, and whole birds that were somewhat plucked. We had just finnished a morning flight in bitter cold conditions, and we we