Saturday, July 12, 2008
wild, wine shield, aged
These wild strawberries are a permanent feature of a shady slope in our small front garden. They came unbidden and are always welcome. The harvest is little more than a thimble full.
We are sitting with a glass of Sancerre rosé under an umbrella in the courtyard outside the bar of a favourite London hotel. It is raining. The waitress, when she brings another glass of wine, shields it with her hand. I think of G K Chesterton:
"...And Noah often said to his wife when he sat down to dine,
I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine."
As the bus in which I am sitting passes, I catch a glimpse of an elderly, white bearded man, leaning on a walking stick, outside the Help the Aged charity shop in Tonbridge High Street .