Thursday, March 26, 2009
fairy story, almonds, repairs
This door over the moat at Groombridge Place, makes me think of secret coming and goings in the middle of the night, of fairy tales, and escaping prisoners.
"The first almond trees in blossom, on the road and in front of the sea. One night suffices to produce their delicate snow. One imagines, that the flowers find it hard to survive the cold, and the rain which soaks their petals." From the notebooks of Albert Camus, written I guess, at about this time of year.
Round the corner from where I live there is a small car-repair workshop. It has been there since the early years of the last century. Passing the open door you hear hissing pneumatics, the hum of a hydraulic platform, and metal clinking against metal. There is a sharp, oily smell, not altogether unpleasing. Like the peaty smell of Islay malt whisky.