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The English mornings were always the sweetest. The fresh scent of evaporating dew clinging to the cool breeze of early morn, the first small piteous strands of light peeking over the hilltops for a first look at the Earth after a well deserved rest. The resounding crash of azure waves thumping against the shore, glimmering with an ivory white foam and faint traces of ginger light, and the snap, crackle, pop of the first roasted pig on the spit, combining for the ideal atmosphere for this, the year of o...