Jamran paints pictures, literally and in his diaries, figuratively. The delicacy of his chosen words is astounding, I have been transfixed in his perceptions of his world. 
Then there is the rich seam of botanical adulation and adoration underscoring his life. 

On our way back to Lancashire from France, we stopped at Dungeness, Derek long gone, Prospect Cotrage looking crumpled, the garden a fraction of its former self. We absorbed the poem in the wall, imagined how it would’ve looked with all the letters present, what may happen to the place. As we walked clumsily in the flint beach we were drawn to the chaotic hut covered in found flotsam and jetsom. Dolls heads, witches glass, rope in meaningful knots all wrestled in the space. The fisherman whose hit it was talked to us of Jarman, with warmth. Told us of the day Jarman was carried to the sea on a sedan chair with people dressed as nuns worshipping him. The fisherman grew up with his neighbour and clearly missed him.