Red earth. Willow trees shimmer, green flashing silver, fish shoaling in the sunlight. ‘Obviously Carols got a few problems’, she says. Borage bees blue buzzing. The sea arcs away to the headland. Joan’s painting on the wall, a gift to the village. ‘Is that the salt ? Don’t have too much’. The harbour silent, the edge of things here. Cow parsley nods in the hot breeze. Small clouds float over felt roofed sheds. Dust rises from the path along the field as skin touches nettle. ‘She’d be better packing it in but that leaves her forever and ever feeling lost.’ The heat heavy scent of gorse, thick, sleepy. Birdsong tunes of then, not now, crackle high in the air suspended on cobweb threads. I look up.