When I was about four or five, we lived in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t even in the middle of nowhere, it was on the dim outskirts of nowhere, at the end of a dirt road going to the middle of nowhere.
I couldn’t be further from this place if I tried, but for some odd reason, the smell of Buckinghamshire in May is giving me olfactory nostalgia. There’s this insistent scent of mown grass, daisies, slow moving water, and, perhaps most mystifying of all, pomegranates.
Pomegranates.
Inexplicable.
2 comments:
Who groes pomegranates in Buckinghamshire?
I think it might be my imagination!
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