The kitchen smelt of elderflower, until the grill warmed to cook sausages, until the boiled water hit the coffee grounds.
Outside we ate breakfast, seated over new mown grass. A pink rose, open, bowed a stem.
Later, where there is a shallowing over the brown shaded rocks, the river was forded. An elder bouquet, plucked and fetched home.
A bucketful of perfumed, foamy flower heads stands ready for brewing.
Now, rose tea steams in the pot.
Sweet spiced vegetables simmer on a slow cook. Under the petal scents, too, mouthwatering fat-blobs linger in the grill pan.
Somewhere in the sky an aeroplane carries Boy away, from Heathrow to New Delhi.
Ten days to wait before we hear those stories. I can't help but think of the market in Singapore, where the smeech of deep-frying ducks made his eyes water. We went to a café for breakfast then instead, went busily about our day. When we walked from an air conditioned shopping centre past a sizzle of food stalls he said in sweetly youthful innocence, with much feeling and fantastically clear diction: 'I hate that Chinese smell!'
We have teased him about it ever since.