Under the fig tree

The fig tree was the spot. 

It's where the aunties and uncles gossiped over a beer escaping the blinding Hawkes Bay sun. The thick green canopy overhead providing refuge from Tamanuiterā. 

I used to like sitting at thier feet, digging at the hard compacted dirt with a twig pretending not to hear juicer gossip then any woman's magazine could deliver. 

Under the fig tree. 

Avaliable on Wūru Waru Marino with 220m per 100g.