It is oh so about to be Spring here. Everywhere I spot flowers that open up to the sun. Frontrunner this spring is the scurvy grass. The leaves are of shiny green and vary from kidney-shaped to a broad-bosomed mother's heart. The flowers are petite white and, quivering in the wind, grow in twinkling communities. For fragrance you have to bend your knees as they are shy in offering their nose of honey. Oddly they celebrate close to, and some even inside my kitchen hole as if to remind me to top up my vitamin C. The leaves provide this in abundance and used to be stocked by ships to prevent scurvy.
Vitamin Sea washes up invitations, but the sky over Fanore is smiling grimly and still a cold wind is blowing to my Valhalla. As I adjust the bus to the ever turning wind, my view changes kaleidoscopically. In their silence you can listen to the stones speak. Nature's on the verge of her miraculous rebirth. However much she cries or does with laughter roar, the pram rolls on.
Daisies have popped up in plenty, enough to string them into a necklace like we used to do for Mother’s Day and solitary dandelions, of which we split the stalks so they would curl, afloat in water.
It is a time so tender yet. This floral treat is only heralding the immense multitudes to come.
And warming up, so ardently yearned for, relaxes the caution for cold and hands the soul back to its being. None too early, as my thermal stamina begins to wither. In human respect I'm a certified exceptionalist, but Nature only goes for the survival of the hardy.
Yet those of you who mostly know Nature as a source for concern of the media, regard her as stripped to the bone, an inevitable burn-out, the sinister setting for the quietus of mankind.
Call me naive, but when I cast an eye outside I see nature in its beauty and hardly a soul enjoying it. And I'm living in the most beautiful place in the world!
Evidently we rather tell each other about the mess we've made, than to linger in its generous allure.
Up with Nature! The waves have something festive today. There's quite a swell rising and the wind is offshore. The moment a wave wants to roll over it is briefly held by the wind. This is how for a second or two it's topped with a translucent frill. Then the brow is puffed off and flies like a streamer from its crest. The water is so clear that you can see the bed just before the wave tumbles with a growl. And all this in a colour between emerald and azure. This is why it's called the Rockièra!
A whinger who laments the rain.