figs and honey

Grey skies, dark morning, a chill in the air: all counteracted by a ray of the Mediterranean for breakfast.

Fat figs, split open, flesh bursting forth, under a hot grill with a dab of brown sugar for a couple of minutes. Then drizzled with 'caerlaverock honey' (not for sale yet, people, but take a look at the bee-keeper's book) and indulged in. The gent, living up to his name, spooned the seedy flesh up, whilst I became sticky of finger and juicy of face.

There was a small dish of plain yoghurt each, and a pert espresso of Monmouth coffee to wake our senses.

Then away on our bicycles, like a two-man fleet of earnest Londoners, sweeping south across the city, to work.