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 .
2 comments:
I love Sancerre rosé - perhaps the best rosé there is. It's pretty rare in France, rarer still in Britain. When I left MHN I was treated to lunch at the Manoir aux Quat' Saisons and asked to choose the wine. Later, Raymond Blanc came round and asked if all was well. I said, yes apart from the lack of Sancerre rosé despite its inclusion on the wine list. His brow darkened and he turned threateningly towards the sommelier.
I should imagine the wild strawberries might go well with the Sancerre rose, which I shall now look out for...
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