Whenever we are here I always tease, what a stupid place to build a city, but really I love it here, this portion of the earth, the way the islands here slump out of the water and in again, unwilling to decide whether they are swamp or soil; everywhere you look are bright stars of Michaelmas daisies, fleshy leaves of mallow, a few russeted grapes still hang on salt-washed vines. The island of Saint Erasmus is famous for its market gardens, you see it noted