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Category: landscape

Threatened Tidewater

Threatened Tidewater

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I’ve certainly been posting a lot about a three-day-trip, but the Virginia Tidewater is a magical place … and a place now threatened by Dorian.

The National Hurricane Center predicts flash floods, high winds and a strong storm surge in southeastern Virginia and the southern Chesapeake Bay. That means that the bucolic landscape we toured last weekend could be drenched and battered today.

It’s one reason to scotch dreams of home ownership in that area, which I’ll admit were percolating in my brain as we spied one gorgeous inlet and quaint town after another.

Probably better these days to lust after cottages on safer, higher ground. But oh, there is something special about landscapes where land and water meet.

End of the Road

End of the Road

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It happened often while traveling in the Northern Neck. We’d follow the road to a cove or point only to find that the pavement literally dead-ended into the water. No parking lot. No gracious circle in which to turn around.  Just land … then water.  Sometimes there would be a sign. The one above for the Sunnybank Ferry was a bit misleading. It wasn’t closed for lunch but closed for the weekend. Still, what can you expect? It’s free!

Other roads were more like this one at Windmill Point: a clear signal (as if you needed one) that if you want to go further, you’ll be needing fins or flotation devices.

The road to the village of Weems ended at this overlook — well, not exactly an overlook, more like a backyard with a world-class view. You can see the big bridge to the Middle Peninsula from here.

When land meets water, roads and cars take a back seat to boats and bridges.

ROVA

ROVA

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It’s the morning of a four-day weekend and we’re off soon to Virginia’s Northern Neck, a spit of land that lies between the Potomac and the Rappahannock.

It’s a land of marsh and water fowl, of water vistas and sailing ships. Known for its oysters and wineries — also the birthplace of five early presidents.

I know far too little of this state that I call home. To be a resident of Northern Virginia (NOVA) is often to be far less familiar than one should be with the Rest of Virginia (ROVA).

Today we put that at least partially to rights.

Moving Image

Moving Image

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When I woke up this morning I was dreaming I was snapping a picture. I was a passenger in a moving car, and the terrain we were driving through was like an ancient Chinese painting.

There were human-sized hills, a winding stream and perfectly coiffed trees. There was a sense of scale that made me think I could capture the landscape quickly from a vehicle.

The dream probably augurs nothing. But if it does, could it mean that I’ve become less of a words person and more of an image one? It’s happening to many of us these days.

Of course, there’s the fact that I’m writing about this experience, not illustrating it. And I’m doing it on an outmoded platform that is anything but image-friendly.

Whew! I’m probably safe — at least for the time being.

Holding On

Holding On

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What helps the beach state remain? I’m asking myself that question today, as I feel it slipping away.

I was off to a good start on the way home: a plane so empty that each passenger had his or her own row of seats.

Then a late-day landing that showcased the Washington Monument and the Capitol, the graceful spans across the Potomac, the compact graciousness of the place.

But today there was the long commute into Arlington, the work call that came in before I reached the office, the emails, the to-dos that piled up when I was gone.

Welcome back, they say.  I try not to listen. I hold onto the beach state for dear life!

Beach State

Beach State

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Today I leave the beach. That much is indisputable. But I hope to keep the beach state.

The beach state, as you might suspect, is the habit of pondering clouds and palm trees. It’s also the habit of not caring as much about every little thing. It’s the habit of letting go.

Beaches, after all, are receptacles. Onto them is thrown the flotsam of the sea, and from this random collection of shells and plastic bits comes sand both smooth and powdery (depending upon how close it is to the ocean). The beach, in short, is accomplished at acceptance.

This is something I would like to emulate, the beach state of acceptance. So it’s that I would like to take home with me.

It’s easy to think about retaining the beach state with the smell of sun on my skin and a tropical breeze moving palm fronds to and fro. Much more difficult when I’m standing on a crowded Metro train or sitting at my office desk, up to my ears in work.

But that’s when the beach state is needed most of all.

Beach Clouds

Beach Clouds

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Beach clouds differ from their mainland cousins. They cluster in the distance, looking gray and ugly. They throw down sheets of rain, giving themselves away.

Sometimes they scoot over the beach, leaving just droplets in their wake. We beach-goers take the brief pelting and shrug. We can see the sun breaks up ahead. We know we will have blue skies again soon.

I used to dread clouds at the beach; now I welcome them. They block some rays, cool me down, let me stay a few more precious minutes on the shore.

I’ve Got Rhythm

I’ve Got Rhythm

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It’s the rhythm that does it to me, the waves lapping, advancing and retreating, moving in and out.

It’s the palm trees swaying and the birds here, different from the ones back home.

It’s the landscape. Semitropical, lush — hot, yes, but where isn’t it hot these days?

The rhythm of Florida has become the pace of relaxation for me.

Bach to the Beach

Bach to the Beach

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One of the joys of a beach vacation is how few decisions need to be made. I love the hustle-bustle of a traveling getaway, one where you must decide which states or countries to visit, which sights to see, where to stay, which routes to drive.

But on a beach vacation you know what you’ll do. You’ll walk, read and swim. You’ll look at the ocean and marvel at the immensity of it all.

Yes, you must decide how to divvy up your days. Beach in the morning, pool in the afternoon — or vice versa?

And what you must also decide is what to listen to while striding down the strand. Yesterday, it was Bach. To “Sleepers Awake” I watched gulls swoop ands swerve. To “Sheep May Safely Grace” I dodged lizards in the dunes. To the “Toccata and Future in D” I saw thunderheads pile up in the east.

They almost chased me inside, but I kept walking and they blew over … for a while, at least.

Small Fry

Small Fry

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I tore through Lisa Brennan-Jobs’ memoir Small Fry in a few days. It’s honest and it’s titillating, since Lisa’s father is Steve Jobs, and his paternal behavior is quite strange, to put it mildly.

Steve has little to do with Lisa and her mother (who he never married) in the beginning, and only acknowledges paternity under duress. Eventually, he has a relationship with Lisa, albeit an unusual one. They skate together, have dinner together and in high school Lisa even lives with Steve and his wife and son. But it’s a relationship fraught with uncertainty and even meanness. Steve won’t admit he named his Lisa computer after his daughter. He belittles Lisa and refuses to pay for her last year of college. Lisa has the final word, though, in the way of all memorable memoirists.

What I liked best about Lisa’s writing was when she described the California of her youth, the sights and smells of the land she came alive to: “Here the soil was black and wet and fragrant; beneath rocks I discovered small red bugs, pink- and ash-colored worms, thin centipedes, and slate-colored woodlice that curled into armored spheres when I bothered them. The air smelled of eucalyptus and sunshine-warmed dirt, moisture, cut grass.”

It reminds me of George Eliot’s line: “We would never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it.”