Citrus, I like to think of them as the flowers of Spain -from the Valencian oranges that meander infinitely down the coasts or a lonely lemon tree like this one in a field further north. Yellow runs into orange and they sit next to dark greens that match the hot sun shadows. Have you ever eaten an orange fresh from the tree? It’s wonderful, a pulpy delicious mess running down your chin, sticky fingers and nothing but the dirt to rub it away. Lemons are just as wonderful, pulling one from the tree, squeezing it onto crushed ice with a splash of water – there is nothing more simply refreshing. Growing up in this country, my love affair with citrus was a compulsory one – but at 26, I carry it with me wherever I go, quite literally too – with an orange, clementine or three bouncing around in my bag for when hunger calls. I like simple things like this. I savour simple days like this – with nothing but a white broderie dress on my shoulders & espadrilles slipping off my feet in a field where there is fruit, where there is sunshine and above all, sustenance under a tree, with hands dirtily full of flowers and a basket to throw them all in. On days like this, I feel like tossing city life to the wind and letting that very gust sweep me right off into a field with a house made of very old stone to call my own.