"Smell my hands", he says. Not usually an auspicious start, but I lean in and sniff. His hands smell deeply of wood-smoke and charcoal. It's a clear, still evening, so we've put a little rolled rump roast of Highland beef into the Weber, and Paul's just put a big handful of woodchips in to give a bit of smoke to the bark.
"This is the smell of my childhood". We drink wine and watch the smoke curl out of the vents and he tells me stories. About his uncle Mees, and the rows and rows of vegetables he grew; how he'd dust the potatoes off and bring them inside just in time to be cooked for dinner. About his labrador Suzie running on the beach and looking like a seal as she swam. About fishing in the brackish water of Stanford, just up the river from Hermanus - spoilt by progress on waterskis now.
After about 35 minutes we brought the meat in to rest and finished the veg - the fondant potatoes sadly represented the whole of this year's crop. A very special dinner.