Ramson kimchi

200g Freshly picked ramson leaves, washed
35g Glutinous rice flour
100g Gochugaru (Korean red chilli powder)
25g Salt
35g Sugar
2 Garlic cloves, roughly chopped
A thumb-sized piece of ginger, peeled and roughly chopped
1 Small apple, cored and roughly chopped
1 Small onion, roughly chopped

1 Add the rice and 250ml water to a small pan, then bring to a bubble over a medium heat; whisk regularly until it thickens to a paste. Leave to cool to room temperature.
2 Blitz the cooled rice paste, gochugaru, salt, sugar, garlic cloves, ginger, apple and onion in a blender. Don’t worry if there are a few rogue chunks of apple or onion in the paste, nothing too big though.
3 In a large bowl, use your hands (I recommend wearing rubber gloves) to massage the kimchi paste into the ramson leaves. Careful not to crush the leaves but ensure that they all get a good coating. Transfer to a large jar, top up with 150ml water (boiled but then cooled) and leave to ferment out of direct sunlight for 3-5 days, depending on how you like your kimchi. Refrigerate once you’re happy to halt further fermentation – it should keep for a few months if kept chilled.

Mussels steamed in cider with hop shoots

This is our first spring in the new house. The garden cautiously brushes colour onto the bare branches and weather-beaten soil; previously concealed Primroses, Crab apple blossom and Sweet violets emerge in a gentle April flourish. Part of the joy of being new to the area is discovering what the nearby hedgerows have to offer; this morning Amelie and I found an expanse of hop shoots growing just yards from our front door; hence their inclusion in this quick mussel recipe...

1.5kg Fresh mussels, rinsed and de-bearded
A good handful of fresh Hop shoots
2 Banana shallots, finely chopped
A wine glass of dry cider
Olive oil
Finely chopped Ramsons to serve (optional)

In a large pan, soften the shallots in a little olive oil for about five minutes, then stir in the hop shoots for a further three. Tip in the mussels, pour over the cider and then pop the lid on the pan. Cook for about six minutes, until all of the mussels have opened. Serve with a sprinkle of finely chopped Ramsons and crusty bread.

Griddled chicory with lemon bittercress dressing

I keep finding lunch between the cracks of the cobblestones in the back garden. Slender, peppery rocket leaves have appeared not far from where the salad box sat last year, while a lone strawberry pokes up cautiously next to Amelie's tricycle by the back door (I fear that its days are numbered). Hairy bittercress has sprung up too, which is a joy.
Many wild herbs and greens suffer from unfortunate titling; odd names that might unfairly cast them into the realm of pejorative subjectivity. There's Hogweed and Dead nettles to name but two, not to mention Bastard balm. It's the "Hairy" element of Hairy bittercress that seems to raise an eyebrow, although to me it seems to be one of the least follicaly-blessed plants in the garden. Hairy bittercress tastes not entirely dissimilar to cultivated cress, but has stronger, peppery notes. This simple side dish is great with roast pork.

3 to 4 Chicory heads, chopped in half lengthways
The juice of one lemon
Extra virgin olive oil
One large garlic clove, finely grated
2Tsp Chopped Hairy bittercress leaves
Salt and pepper
Hairy bittercress leaves, to garnish

1 Heat the griddle pan/BBQ until scorching hot, brush the chicory with a little olive oil, then place flat side down on the heat. Don't move them for about five minutes, then flip onto the rounded side for a further three. Leave to cool.
2 Squeeze the lemon juice into a glass or jam jar. Eye-up the level of juice; add the olive oil, at a ratio of two parts lemon to 3 parts oil. Stir in the the garlic, chopped bittercress and a good grind of salt and pepper.
3 To serve, toss the chicory in the dressing and serve with young bittercress shoots.

Foraging in the Forest of Dean

A violet-grey mantle of fog prowled through the trees as we drove deeper and deeper into the Forest of Dean. It cleared briefly on the crest of a small hill, then hurriedly gathered us back into its murky moth jar, adding three new specimens to the dawn collection as it did so. At the moment at which we reached our destination (the aptly named Clearwell) - it was gone.

Our guide Raoul Van Den Broucke opens the boot and checks his kit. Walking stick. Hat. Knife. Basket. Hand-held vacuum cleaner? He explains that its primary use is to gather Garlic mustard seeds once they have fallen to the ground; the dry pods are so fragile that even the the slightest of touches sends them scattering. The thought of an unassuming pair of ramblers chancing upon Raoul as he hoovers the forest floor with a vacuum cleaner keeps me amused for the rest of the day. Raoul has a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a gift for anecdote; its easy to warm to his enthusiasm for life, wild food and the natural world.

Over a pint of ale in the village pub, we examine our bounty. Wild garlic, Hop shoots, Nettles, Wild onions - more than enough with which to fashion a tasty lunch. The pub overlooks an old churchyard filled with Yew; Raoul explains that unlike the deadly poisonous needles, the berry (Aril) flesh is sweet, and edible (always spit out the seeds though). As we walk quietly around the church afterwards, sunlight glances through a stained-glass window, covering a nearby tomb with kaleidoscopic patterns of gentle colour.

Rabbit, mushroom and ramson bulb pate

The Ramsons are so abundant along this riverbank during the spring; digging up a small handful of bulbs in the winter months won’t upset the balance in the slightest. A summer spent swelling gently in the soil leaves them plump and juicy - that garlic flavour is distinct as ever. If you'd prefer your pate to be really gamey just use rabbit; I like to tone down the strong flavour a touch though, so go 50/50 with chicken livers.

200g Rabbit livers

200g Chicken livers

100g Chestnut mushrooms, roughly torn

100g butter

3 bacon rashers, chopped

4 Large ramson bulbs

Fresh thyme leaves

Bay leaves

A splash of sherry

Salt and pepper

Fry the bacon in an oiled pan until crispy, then add the mushrooms to soften. Stir in the livers, brown for a few minutes (try not to cook them all the way through) then add the thyme, bay, chopped garlic and butter. Season, get a splash of sherry on the scene and stir through until the butter has melted. Spoon into a food processor, give it a brief blitz (I don’t like it too smooth), then spoon into ramekins. Create a seal with some clarified butter and a couple of bay leaves.

My foraging companion

Ramson butter

Wild garlic

Every time I put this old coat on I forget that the lining in the right pocket's completely worn through. The story unfolds in a similar fashion each time - absence of small change, no oyster card, notes jotted on paper gone; to an observer the trail in my wake must look like a poor, Hansel and Gretel-inspired means of finding the way back home. Rage ensues, invariably vocal and with reference to "That bastard coat" - yet still, a year or so will pass, I'll see it on the hanger and think, "I haven't worn that in ages!".

There's spot by the Whitewater River that I head to each year when the Wild garlic is in full swing. Cross the old moss-covered bridge and a familiar garlicky hum drifts out of a small patch of woodland by the riverbank; closer inspection reveals clusters of green, ribbon-like leaves unravelling across the ground towards the water's edge. I parked the car by the roadside and made my way through the trees, basket in hand. Having gathered a few large bunches, cut cleanly at the base with a knife, I headed back to the car.

Could I find the (only set of) car keys? Reader, it took me twenty five minutes to find those bloody things in the woods, rifling frantically through the Ramsons as if foraging for some rare, key shaped truffle. I eventually found them, concealed from the eye by a heap of broken branches - by which point my nerves were shot to bits.

I like to keep things simple with wild garlic - last night I stirred a finely-chopped handful through a block of softened butter, wrapped it in foil, then rolled it into a cylinder shape. Kept in the fridge, a couple of pound coin-sized slices melting on a juicy steak are a thing of wonder. The coat is back on the coat rack, after a good bit of stitchwork.