The first pheasants arrive at the market in October, and by November the stall has grouse and partridge too, hanging in a row with their feathers still on, looking like a painting from another century. I buy a brace when they're going, roast them simply, and then the carcasses go into the pot. This is the soup that follows.

Game broth is not a recipe you plan. It's a recipe that happens because you kept the bones. That's the kind of cooking I trust most: the meal that builds itself from what's left over, from thrift and instinct and the knowledge that a carcass still has something to give. Two hours of gentle simmering turns stripped bones into a stock that smells of woodsmoke and cold weather and something ancient. Pearl barley swells into it, the leeks soften, the carrots and parsnips bring a sweetness that balances the deep, mineral savour of the game.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: game broth, pearl barley, rain against the window. That's all I needed to remember. The rest is just paying attention. This is a November supper for when the evening comes early and you want something in the bowl that feels like it belongs to the season. Right food, right evening.