I am standing in the shadow of a medieval Swedish castle that looks like the building lovechild of Disneyworld and the Taj Mahal. Simon Irvine—nephew of famous lost mountaineer Andrew Irvine—is pushing a handful of hot compost under my nose.
It smells, as all great compost heaps tend to do, like digestive biscuits, hay, snapped matches, and just a hint of hot neck. As Irvine kneads this handful of gently rotting grass, leaves, and old vegetables below my nostrils, his dog Ulig rubs … (View original article)