When you wholeheartedly love a place, you can slip back into it as if you had never spent a moment away. It has the power to almost erase your life established elsewhere, it is so ready and familiar; encircling its arms around you sweetly and drawing you back into its comforting embrace.
I know that on this blog I have had very little to say regarding London so far but I feel of sorts, that I'm still collating pieces to make up a bigger picture. I'm still sowing seeds shall we say, and I'm yet to lose my heart to it. I cannot wholly identify myself in a landscape so broad and sprawling.
It needs time, and layers of skin, tears and dreams shed into a dust that I can kick up as I walk down familiar lanes.
At the weekend past, I brought my favourite pieces of London to Kent with me and decided to show them a world that holds a wealth of times past and where dust swirls in raspy songs around my feet: the Garden of England.
Staying with Mulberry Cottages at Higham Farmhouse just outside of Canterbury, we were nestled atop a valley that rolled down into gnarls and tangles of green, thick with snaggle-toothed brambles, swampy earth and dotted with heaving cows dressed in their plush conker coats.
The air was damp with misty rain in our pretty little garden, clinging to tendrils of our hair and to the flowers as we ran circles around them, throwing up the scent of sodden grass and mud.
By day we delighted in adventures.
Tasting tart little blackberries, not quite ready to meet their fate, resisting the burst against our teeth and tongues.
We reached and stretched our arms into the treetops, plucking small yellow cherries and laying them out flat to examine them closely.
By the fading light of the afternoon, we dawdled by the fire, drying our feet.
Playing games until the light all but disappeared.
Dinner was served around a large table lit by candles, shadows dancing on the faces of our beloved.
And to bed we went that night, our tummies full and lungs drunk with country air, just waiting for the sun to rise before embarking into the city of Canterbury, where words, faces and bodies awaited us- stories were waiting to be told.