Dolphin Address 11
September 2th 2007
A dense foggy rain has turned the clover on the meadow into silver. I hasten to my cookery hole where everything has kept as good as dry. The sheets of marine plywood that I have taken from the shed lie sloping and overlapping over the rock nest. Eventually I want to put soil on top of them, so next year camomile and trumpet flowers will grow on it and at a distance will veil the rigid outlines of the sheets. I would never get planning permission for this.
The morning-glory has boldly wound itself around the gas hose to my cooker. Its flowers, which we used to call ‘pee-pots’, have shrunk and nearly all the leaves show glutton holes, like a calendar stating autumn.
Meanwhile everything has found its place in cracks and on ridges. The coffee and sugar I hid behind a carton of rice, the lighter and pan-handle in a crevice, covered by a trivial stone.
The rest of my cooking things are sheltered in cut open water bottles, open to the curious eye and hopefully protected by a notice saying:
‘High tech stone age dwelling, please do not disturb’ with my website address. Small spiders have meticulously webbed the ventilation holes, so I am spared from the midges. Here I drink my coffee and sing my song. What rhymes with ‘hyena’?
Here too small plants are growing in the chinks of merciless rock blocks. They add a soft green whisper to the harsh greys that, shining wetly, reflect the cirrus-clouded light.
Yesterevening it was already dark when I got round to cooking. With my headlamp on, that shines wherever I look, I sliced my garlic, chopped my onions, quartered my pepper and squared my ham. Not a bother.
After that in the bus, at the light of my recently acquired red candle and three old nightlights, I spooned it in. A glass of water to cool the crushed chillies.
As cosy as one can be on one’s own.
Jan Ploeg, meadow Fanore, September 2st 2007
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