Over dinner we discuss new restaurants ideas, St Helena’s natural beauty, football, and the local coffee, which is renowned as one of the purest strains in the world. But three bad seasons have seen stocks dwindle to barely a cup, meaning I’ve struggled to find any to take home as a souvenir.
Derek disappears into his kitchen and returns with a packet, offering it to me without hesitation. I’m momentarily stumped by his generosity, knowing 100g of the delicacy would set me back £60 in London. Then I realise there’s only one thing I can really say.
“Thank you very much,” I begin as we shake hands. “You’re a saint.”