Greetings from: SISSINGHURST

People say -- and I have no idea who these people are, other than vague shadows who appear only to spout generalizations -- that relationships are all about compromise. And to whatever extent that’s true, let’s look at it in travel terms: Matthew certainly has spent his fair amount of time waiting inside, outside, and in the general vicinity of music stores; and today, he has a chance to visit Sissinghurst. (On the way there, he tells people that he’s wanted to visit since he was a child. This surprises me. I haven’t wanted to go anywhere since I was a kid except to sleep.) The cab driver explained: the hurst part of Sissinghurst and Staplehurst (the nearest train stop) is an old word for a clearing of trees. Who, then, I wanted to ask, was this Mr. Sissing to name the town after himself?

I’m sure Matthew will wax eloquent about the gardens on his own, but suffice it to say: there were a lot of plants, second only to the number of tourists. Any attempts at scenic, panoramic photographs will result in shaped hedges blighted with elderly tourists, doddering along the pathways. In a few years, of course, that’ll be me, and I’ll have earned the right to say: Screw your shot, I’m going to see what I want to see.