Behind the cold room, down seven stone steps, there is a small cave where our cheeses sleep. The walls drip. The air is cool and a little earthy, and in the dim light you can hear the wheels settling, like a congregation at rest.
We keep forty wheels there at present. The oldest is a wheel of hard goat cheese named Reginald, aged fourteen months and growing dignified. Each wheel is turned by hand every second day, and rubbed with a cloth dipped in brine. A cheese, Ottoline says, likes to be remembered.
We will open Reginald in November, with a small ceremony. Bring a hat. Bring a saucer.
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