A sunny Sunday morning. The leaves just beginning to sway over the rug in the yard. The sun still climbing so the flints in the wall seem to take on a chalky extra dimension. The sky an unimpeachable blue, the curtains more thrown back than drawn. You can almost smell the silence.
And then Ben Webster some time in the early sixties, with Stan Tracy on piano. Somewhere over the rainbow, at the far end of the very blue sky, moving over the waters of the north Norfolk coast, in a place where the smoke is eternally clearing.