Every now and again, I go through Ursula Le Guin’s book on writing Steering the Craft and do some of the exercises in there.

It was the first fine day since he’d arrived on the island, his first chance to get out and breathe. To walk, and think, and escape the suffocating care of his newest attendant.

Once out of the inn, Samuel made for the maze of streets heading to the edge of town. Most would assume he’d head for the centre, and the market square, but he had been through markets aplenty at home, he wanted to see something different, something fresh, something green and growing.

The buildings ended, a single step between walls and an open grove of trees. Olive? Orange? He knew nothing of orchards, simply assumed this was one, and followed the path that made its way beneath the branches.

He thought back to his studies, sunlight slanting through the tall windows of the library as he breathed in the scents of ink and paper, explored the texts, and dreamed of faraway lands. Here, the scents were of damp earth, a tang of salt from the sea, hidden for the moment, and another, unfamiliar smell he could only describe as deep green. His books had said that olive trees boasted narrow leaves of a dusty hue. These must be orange trees then, with their broad, shiny leaves a colour he could only liken to wet jade.

They were supposed to put forth white blossoms at the right time of year. Tiny flowers with a scent far greater than their size, a scent the perfumers of his home city paid gold to get their hands on.

Maybe he’d be here long enough to see them, and then watch the resulting fruit grow into rich golden orbs, bursting with juice, and an intoxicating scent of their own. Or maybe he’d be off again, to another strange place, with strange trees, and strange scents.

It would be nice to stay for a while.