Sri Lanka in the Mist

Sri Lanka was somewhere to port all afternoon, hidden behind the same woollen sky that has accompanied us into the Laccadive Sea. Knowing land is there without being able to see it produces a rather childish urge to peer harder. I gave in to this several times. The mist remained unimpressed by the quality of my attention.

For ten minutes I could smell rain on land, or imagined I could. There was a damp, earthy suggestion in the air that seemed different from the ship and the sea. I would like to claim a finely developed traveller's instinct, but longing for a change of scenery is probably the more reliable explanation. Either way, I stood breathing it in.

France arrived at dinner with considerably greater clarity. Elena served beef bourguignon, potatoes and a tarte tatin she described as slightly overdone. The rich smell from the plate restored confidence in the existence of a world beyond grey water. There are moments when potatoes perform a more useful emotional service than any amount of determined optimism. This was one of them.

The tarte tatin was perfect. Elena's assessment remained that it was slightly overdone, and nobody argued with her. This was not agreement so much as a sensible recognition of jurisdiction. The caramel warmth and yielding apple required no defence from me, particularly while I was eating them. Outside, Sri Lanka continued its refusal to appear. Inside, we had found a perfectly adequate alternative means of making contact with land.