Wild roses grow in tangles beside the river and imbue the air with sweetness. Their scent is soft, mellow, friendly—it does not have the sharpness of manufactured perfume or the saturation of cultivated roses.
The flowers are five pink petals open wide around a sunburst of yellow. They do not grow in tight, layered spirals on rigid stalks. Instead they climb in laughing sprays of leaves and buds, their winding vines bursting with the excitement of bumblebees.
They are a secret folded into the curves of the river, a delight as I glide past in the grey, early hours.