I had a dream last night that I was in Fascist Italy, cresting limestone hills on a brown Harley-Davidson in flight from my oppressers. In my sleep I felt the surge of power as the bike kicked and roared beneath me. I heard pebbles spit and skitter from the wheels. But what I dreamed clearest was the smell of fresh wild thyme as the thick tyres surfed over tiny green buds of the herb that covered that imagined hillside.
Asian squid porn is equally evocative of cherished memories but that's a story for an entirely different website
That smell, for me, is redolent of a lazy summer evening in Malta. My friends and I rolled up to a cliffside perch, drunk on hot sunshine and bad wine, and lay there smoking cigarettes as the sun set amongst chattering dolphins. Every time one of us so much as lifted our smoking arm the air filled with the fresh, earthy aroma of thyme.
My friend Julian once told me that I was a good cook but that I always have to put a thing inside a thing. This was either a veiled suggestion that I should retreat to a monastery in the hills and live an ascetic & celibate life or a comment on my culinary habits.
On this evidence one probably shouldn't take anything Julian says too seriously
He told me that in Croatia, in blazing sunshine and under the influence of the 70% raki we were given (I assume) to strip any paint that might have developed in our throats overnight. At 10am. It was either that or the totally delectable honeyed liquor Medica, which is like mead but from the Balkans and therefore heinously strong.