Wednesday, 15 December 2010

the garden of England

Being back in Europe is odd. After six months in Mongolia I found myself wandering giddily around Morrison's supermarket buying up far more fruit and vegetables than I could possibly eat and purchasing more prawns and squid than I could possibly want. As for fresh cream profiteroles... Scoffed the lot.
I am staying with my old next door neighbours in deepest darkest Kent. I had forgotten just how lovely a corner of the world Kent is. It is truly, quintessentially English and that is no bad thing, and I say that as a Scotsman. Kent also has what is undoubtedly my favourite beer in the world. Sitting in The George last night I enjoyed more than my fair share of Master Brew, seriously good ale.
Walking up on the Weald this morning the bracing views reminded me why I spent so many years living here. It may only be 50 miles from London but it remains unspoiled. Once can easily imagine stagecoaches passing by en route to Paris. The sound of spitfires flying overhead on their way to the Battle of Britain can be heard if you listen closely enough. On a clear day you can almost make out France some 60 miles south.
Kentish of the day:- blouse :: sweat profusely