There is one wild bed in the vegetable garden, where weeds and last year's vegetables are having a party. I stand in the middle of it and make a list of what I can see and identify: a parsnip plant six foot tall, umbels on the verge of flowering; sow thistles, stately and challenging; sticky rollicking, goosegrass ; herb Robert peeping between more strident herbs; nettles with thin green beards; wild clematis or bind weed, creeping and twining and binding on a shopping spree. And one noble foxglove, queen of the ball.
In the High Street this afternoon a wedding party of suited blokes and girls in their best pour into Sopranos, the tapas bar, and spill out on to the narrow pavement with champagne (cava?) glasses, drinking and nattering and nibbling.
In the corner of a bench, a barbie doll - short skirt, thin legs like a starved fashion model's and bare feet, stands pale and forgotten.