Rustic

There's something about a bitter, black brew with a dribble of milk and some chewy, dense heavily-crusted bread that screams autumn at me. I think it stems from late nights in strange country houses and early bitter mornings huddled over tea, the teabag sitting innocently at the bottom of the cup, opressing the sugar cubes whilst getting stronger and sweeter the further you drink down. The toasted bread would be home baked, yeasty and bland so as not to interfere with the teacup's plans. On a good day perhaps a little jam, on a lunch outing - sandwich spread. Or fish paste, tinned anchovies, lettuce so fresh it was still gritty and wriggling.

Never did like the countryside.