For nectar and ambrosia, there was Paul's cider, light and sweet, made the traditional way, layered and pressed with fresh straw, and for breakfast, as we looked down to the sea, the pure apple juice, and a jelly made from it with the consistency and taste of honey. And Yvette gave us piles of home-made warm crêpes, as well as good bread, and soft, fresh creamy cheese she made with the milk from the goats in the paddock we could see from the breakfast room. A kid had been born the day before we arrived, it nestled in the bank, a scrap of black silk, small and point-eared as a cat. Then there was very yellow butter made on the farm, and raw milk in big white jugs, warmed for breakfast coffee, and some cold in a smaller jug to take to the fridge in our room for tea when we wanted. I skimmed the cream off it each time and ate it with a spoon.
We were sometimes joined for breakfast by an attendant spirit.
There were hedges foaming with blackthorn blossom, alive with insects, which promised a wealth of sloes for the autumn,
and there was blue.
Blue boats on blue water,
and blue bluebells, with violets, in the fields.
There was that perfume of wallflowers, in gardens and on the face of cliffs, which marries so oddly well with the pungency of seaweed and iodine of the seashore.
And there was this,
So that it was necessary to do this.