There is a place where cheese grows on trees. Great protuberances of Stilton bursting from bark, tendrils of Lancashire spun silk-slim from branch to bracken; Cheddar hidden treasure beneath soft soil.
There is a place where bread flutters on cracker wings, skittling from perch to nest, bearing crumbs for baby buns; where sourdough loaves, too dense to fly, bustle through the undergrowth.
There is a place where rivers run red, where in the height of rainy season rivulets of sticky wine stain windows claret.
It is one of the great cruelties of being that these places are not the same.