I woke up to a faultless blue sky, and a low blanket of sea mist carpeting the grassy area that sits behind the beach opposite our home.

The top of a small hillock stood above the ghostly covering, an island on a shifting sea of matt grey, something clearly freaking out the seagulls parked on it.

Then, as the sun began to nervously peep out from behind the neighbouring buildings, the fog slid back towards the sea, like watered down milk being tipped off a giant green saucer.

I made myself a pot of Silver Needle white tea.

I was all out of green tea. We’ve a two week long trip coming up, and I didn’t want to go to the bother of sourcing and purchasing a replacement before our return.

As nice as it was, it felt a tad overindulgent to be drinking that particular tea in the breakfast time slot.

I sipped my first cup as I watched the ferry from Germany glide in on a sea as flat and perfect as an antique mirror.

I think I’ve become used to my normal green tea’s utilitarian feel, the no-nonsense, up-and-at-’em approach of a green gunpowder, or a Chun Mee.

If I was to consider a white tea for the breakfast gig, then I think it would have to be something with a darker, tougher aspect to it, something like a Bai Mudan, or a Shoumei.

That’s for the future though. For now, I’ll just have to enjoy that extra touch of early morning luxury…