Take two banks – preferably of a similar size,
and line thoroughly with hazel, willow and hawthorn.
Place the banks side-by-side in a weather-proof valley,
and ladle soft moorland rain on.
Once your liquid reaches the desired height,
stir in some fragments of pottery, an Anglo-Saxon coin and your sister’s shoe.
Add in a tin bath of wild brown trout, a summer’s worth of watercress
and the phone your Grandma lent you.
Once thoroughly combined, spoon on tractor noise and the click of a male pheasant.
Next, fold in the smell of wild garlic and a few drops of the memory of a duck race.
You might also like to bury a broken heart at the cow-crossing place.
If you want to include fishermen, do so at this point.
Wrap each carefully in leak-proof layer and place at regular intervals along the bank.
They work equally well individually or as two together.
Heat with weak sun, soak liberally with strong tea, and repeat until they weather.
Allow the preparation to rise periodically.
When it does, simply spread the excess out across the banks and wait until it reduces in size.
This technique may cause wildflowers to grow and a heron to appear on either side –
this is perfectly normal.
Please note, otters may also occur.
If the liquid begins to brown, remove any debris that floats to the surface and check your mixture has adequate levels of ranunculus weed.
Continue to sieve until the water runs clear,
setting aside any good sticks for making rope swings later in the year.
Finally add a handful of birdsong, fifty toads and some strands of fleece caught on barbed wire.
Crisscross several times with a quad bike
and finish with a den at one end and a small dam at the other.
It’s best to use the kind you built with your brother.
This recipe can be made in advance and enjoyed for millennia.
To serve, sprinkle with paths, bridleways and wild geese.
Always ensure it’s lukewarm before swimming, and feel free to freeze.