“The honey appears on an oval tin tray, craggy blocks of honeycomb oozing their sticky cargo onto the tray. We scoop the honey up with forks (I looked in vain for a spoon), trying hard not to drip on the tired pink carpet that covers the floor of the tent. The honey is not as sweet as that at home, more liquid, and its fragrance is both floral and resinous.
Perched in the tent on a mountain, surrounded by tall pines, the scent of woodsmoke and the sound of the distant water rushing over rocks like the laughter of happy children, this could well be the breakfast of dreams.”