Tangier takes the long way round the Mediterranean, and then keeps going.
Moorish arches and gilded palace ornament. Tilework laid out in concentric medallions. Leopard warmed to honey and banded in gold; zebra painted in loose black brushstrokes rather than photographed. Further west, agave and adobe archways under a pale desert sky. Further under, whole reefs — coral, sea fans, jellyfish drifting through kelp.
Made for heat, and for people who don't mind being looked at.
Palmera is the garden, and it grows in two directions.
Palms first. Fronds and trunks rising out of black. Botanical plates in green and bronze on white. Cobalt fans blazing against scarlet. Then the jungle closes in — at full noon in emerald and tangerine, and again at dusk in ochre, olive and burnt orange.
The other half is painted rather than drawn. Washes of colour bleeding through weightless organza. Cerise dissolving into cornflower. Scarlet opening across the silk and cooling to sage at the edges.
For long lunches, longer evenings, and the walk back down to the water.
Wellington begins where the season does — at the rail, in the yard, on the long drive up to the house.
The prints come from sporting art and saddlery. Hunt scenes streaming beneath ribbon stripes. State carriages and coaching parties. Bits, buckles, braided reins and stirrup chain. Horses drawn as fine engraving rather than illustration, set into cartouches and framed borders the way a good scarf is composed.
For the part of the year that starts early and ends late.