David Robbins: I got a real raw deal when I couldn't resist tasting the fat of the land
It was at the top of the fridge, unobtrusive in unmarked Kilner jars. It was the dairy equivalent of the top-shelf magazine -- illicit and reputedly a risk to one's physical and moral well-being. It was raw milk.
We were in east Cork, on the lush pastures of the Ballymaloe farm and gardens. We had just toured the herb garden, the hen runs and the glasshouses.
The experience had left us in that life-on-the-land frame of mind where it wouldn't have taken much to persuade us to sell up and buy 50 acres of pasture and a herd of rare-breed cattle.