The cliff path at noon

Walk the coast path above Zennor in late May and the gorse is loud. It runs yellow on both sides of the track, over the field walls, down to where the granite gives up and the sea begins. By noon the flowers are dry and warm, and they give off that sweet, slightly oily note people compare to coconut. It is not quite coconut. It is closer to a biscuit left in the sun, with something green and sharp behind it.

The salt arrives on the wind in gusts. Some days it is barely there; on others you can taste it before you see the water. Bergamot was our way of standing in for that brightness: a citrus that leans bitter, the way sea air does when it has been blowing all morning.

We gather a few handfuls of gorse in the hottest hour, when the scent sits highest, and tincture them the same afternoon in the net loft. It took three summers before the flower would hold still in alcohol. The driftwood came last: a grey, dry base for the yellow to rest on, with a little ambrette to keep it from going stiff.

If you go, go at midday, and go in May. Stand with the sun behind you and let the wind do the work.

Salt & Gorse is that hour, as near as we could keep it.