Wednesday, March 23, 2011
frieze, hawthorn, incense
From the train we see a long hedge composed entirely of mature hawthorn trees stretching out beside a field in the sun.
Back after a long winter, we sit in the sun opposite the sea outside the restaurant called Pasta Pasta in St Leonards-on-Sea.|We telephone, Manina, the owner, from the train as usual and ask her to reserve our favourite table for us. "Right on time," she says when we arrive. "How do you manage it?"Before we leave a smell drifts across from the house next door. It is vaguely familiar but neither of us can quite place it. "It's incense," Manina says. "They burn it sometimes."