In The Pantiles an overwhelming smell of spices floats out of a shop. It is the a shop called Pollyfield and sells masses of pot-pourris and the like, dried flowers woven into curious bouquets and emblems., packed into bags and cachets. Cinnamon, cloves dominate but there must be every spice in the orient lurking among the petals and hanging in the air.
Last year and the year before I referred to the deserted garden next to the plot where I grow my vegetables, and posted photographs of the old house gradually falling to pieces. The melancholy charm of those days has this year been replaced by the brutal activity of a building site. A five bedroom house with an underground car park built into the basement is under construction. But it disturbs me less than I might have expected. Preparing the beds for peas and salad, beans and sweet corn creates its own peace.