Lanterns on the river

The river at Hội An has silted, so our ship anchored off the coast and a small boat brought me in. Fewer ships come now. The town feels like a house after the guests have left: everything still in its place, and very calm.

At dusk the shopkeepers light silk lanterns along the river. Each one glows a different colour. From the bridge the water looks full of small fires. A spice seller gave me a curl of cinnamon bark and a star anise, and I held them all evening while I drew.

A tea merchant from Hanoi was lodging in the same house. He told me how, in summer, his family rows out on West Lake before dawn and tucks tea leaves inside open lotus flowers. The petals close over the tea for the night, and in the morning they collect it. He made me a cup from his last tin. It tasted of cool water and pollen.

I painted a lotus for him as thanks. He said the stamens were wrong. He was right.