I grew up in Western Australia. We may have had a deciduous tree with changing leaf colour on my home farm or local town but I don’t recall it. Once I found a few red leaves beneath a eucalyptus. Such excitement! I did see autumnal colour before adulthood but never more than a few trees together.
I moved to England several years ago and began to see what all the northern hemisphere books of my childhood were on about: pale yellow leaves en masse; the occasional – and, hence, for me, sought after – red-leafed tree; a dash of orange perhaps. It’s a pleasurable way to mark the transition to colder months but, at least where I live, leaves are brown and crunchy by the time they fall to the ground – or become so very quickly. The real beauty lies in the dark intricacies of bare winter trees. Autumn is a passage more than a destination.
In Norrkoping, Sweden, I finally got autumn.
This, as I alighted from the train:
Some arrive in Sardinia by ferry on the fifty minute route from Corsica. ‘Diverse and pretty’ was the verdict on Corsica from one couple we talked to; diverse enough, at least, to breed Napoleon, Henri Padovani (original guitarist for Police) and Cap Corse Mattei, the ‘legendary’ aperitif.
I’m flying over Russia.
Surreal words. They warp me to a time where this was impossible. (It is a strange feeling to be grappling with an outdated mindset obtained second-hand.) Continue reading
Posted in Russia
Tagged architecture, colour, contrasts, daily life, life, Moscow, Russia, seasons, time travel, travel, vehicles
What’s black and white and red (and green) all over? A Yorkshire sheep.
It's a sheep's life.
Narrow, glossy boats Line the edges of canals Like coloured pencils on slate
The sky possibly was ‘cornflower blue’ on our final day in the Pyrenees.
I have read the phrase often in novels (usually heralding happy fortune for the protagonist), but had taken it as poetic licence.
The heroes and heroines carry on oblivious but, in real life, sky of that colour is literally mesmerising.
One of the books I remember with pleasure from my childhood was set in the Camargue, the Rhone delta near Arles in the south of France. The geography was of little importance then. What mattered was the story of horses fording the waters from their island to the mainland.
Knowing we would need to spend the night in that area on the way from Switzerland to Spain, the part of me that kept the book in memory wanted to see the Camargue and the horses in it. I also read on the Arles website that the fighting bulls are bred there and that flamingos inhabit the area. White, black, pink – that would be a pleasing trio to sight. Continue reading