Saudade and marmalade

Kinsale harbour

Time passes.

The clocks change, and after a Sunday of wild weather lashing at the windows and ruffling the plants, calm descends in the evening. The light seems immediately richer; more golden. Cherry blossom falls like snow, and plays in the empty street, whipped into frosty whirlpools. Leaves unfurl and change the London skyline. April is, the internet agreed, the longest month on record. The key to this waiting with no Godot in sight, I note, is to maintain a routine: the same alarm settings, the same workday, the same drinking hours. Billy’s anniversary passes. May arrives, and with it, my 35th birthday. Time slithers on, flaccid, marked by Thursdays at 8pm, and memories of anniversaries in other lands. On the other side of the world my granny stops eating, and gently dies. We mourn; disparate, alone.

I play music as a distraction from the saudade I feel for all the people I miss and the places I remember, but when I listen to Graceland, I recall the joy I shared with my friends as we drove, singing, through the Atlas mountains from Marrakech to Imlil, and it twists cruelly and lands like a concrete kick in the chest, and I have to stop the music.

Lockdowns come and lockdowns go, Paul Simon didn’t sing. What are you going to do about it, that’s what I’d like to know.

I listen to Legend again and again. I think of good friends I’ve had, and good friends I’ve lost along the way. I hear sounds I never noticed before. A train chuntering over the old arches, way down the road; usually too far to be heard over the roaring planes. Laughter from neighbours, suspended above the absent traffic. My heartbeat, pounding like that of a frightened, solitary creature. Birdsong.

I make Maangchi’s kimchi, and put in too many red pepper flakes, but it is still not spicy enough. But this pleasant activity reminds me of long afternoons spent cooking with my friend Simon, and it's not the same without him.

I eat a lot of jam. A quince paste, so thick and creamy it more resembles caramel, which I bought on Croatia’s tiniest island, Vis. My mum’s apricot jam, the squashy fruits bright with the happiness of a hot French summer. My own quince syrup made last year, which had been on the way to perfect quince jelly until I accidentally made another gin and tonic and upset my careful measurements at the last minute, rendering it exquisitely molten, perfect for pancakes and large spoons. Dark, burnt marmalade, as bittersweet as the saudade I feel.

A bird in the cherry tree cackles, rat-tat-tat-tat, and the military drill reminds me obliquely of sunlit harbours in other lands. Split and Nice, Kinsale and Cannes; the masts of gin palaces and fishing boats, slapped gently by their halyards, chiming in the sea breeze. I dream of fish and chips and vinegar fumes from Dooly's, and a bracing walk along the long Tramore sands. A cool Aperol spritz on the Riva at sundown, the day's Mediterranean heat rebounding off Diocletian’s Palace. Komiza, Vis: a rich strawberry gelato, feet in the sea, splashed by playful bronzed men diving from the harbour walls into waters clearer than air.

I think of Annapurna South every day, and the way the light played across her capricious façade. The low wall in Tadapani on which I sat to watch my private Himalayan sunrise, the cold stone chilling my buttocks, while a bluebird flitted from tree to tree, seeking early worms.

Annapurna South

Mountain Bluebird

Lemongrass clams in the soft night of Hoi An's silk lanterns; bánh mì by day. Grilled sausages under the old city walls of Dubrovnik. A Greek chardonnay, all sunlight and friendship. Nachos by the Avon in Christchurch, and milkshakes by the sea. All the summers at La Fenellerie. Khachapuri and sublime orange Georgian wine. Frites in Brussels; mussels in Ghent. Oh, the places I went! The Mekong - my Mekong; and cold beers to satisfy the soul, with Vietnamese phở in an oversized bowl. Coffee and cold winter rain in Venice.

These are a few of the things I miss.

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