After last night's rain, the morning sun gilds the branches of trees, evergreen leaves and even the black paintwork of railings.
The cafe owner prompted by the sun, which shows up the dirt, spreads soap and water over the window making a lace-like pattern. Watched from the inside his shadow, wielding the squeegie, dances for a moment before clearing the soap with broad sweeps, and becomes the man again.
In the cafe I hear: " A bacon sandwich on brown bread with brown sauce". Not my cup of tea, quite. But the words have a ring about them, which are for ever England.