The first clue should have been the unmistakeable evocation already of ramps, the wild garlic, whiffs of which we got in spring tramping through wet woods in Wales. The second was less ignorable: a few snips on some corn chowder for lunch and we stank until the next morning.
I have only now learned of the death, over a year ago, of Fr. James Coutts, former vicar of St. Mary’s, Monmouth. The news brings a rush of memories of a most gentle and saintly man, and a reminder of a debt.