Ever since I was sick in bed, I haven't been able to stop thinking about the smell of camomile. About a week ago J picked up some movies from the library, and one of them happened to be The Camomile Lawn, a British TV mini series which was based on the novel by Mary Wesley.
I don't know if it twas the barf fumes getting to my head or what, but the vibrancy of some of the images were extremely affecting while I was lying there, and they have since retained their brilliance. It was the glowiness of the moon on the sea, the comfort of a fresh, steady breeze, the thought of laying down at twilight on a camomile lawn, and the beautiful nostalgia of the 1940s that enchanted me the most as opposed to the actual plot of the show. The story was set mostly in Cornwall and London. I've never been to Cornwall, but it looks like an awfully amazing, romantic place.

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