Samphire

We ate Samphire.  Fresh from the rocks.  Collected in bowls boiled and coated in butter.  Collected in sandals that slipped on the rocks after a long drive to the sea.  Free from London free from everything.  The feel of the fresh air the smell of the wind in from the Atlantic the English summer evening heat the sound of the waves on the rock, and the scurries of crabs and crayfish in rock pools.  We ate Samphire from white plates sitting at a kitchen table covered in ’70’s coloured plastic.  Crowded together in the kitchen.  High Mass of English summer.