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Category: landscape

Stan’s Side

Stan’s Side

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For the last few days I’ve been getting to know an old friend, Standard — Stan for short.

I haven’t seen him since March, but here he is again, and up to his usual tricks: early mornings, early evenings, a sense that darkness is winning. In a way, it’s not his fault. He arrives on the scene just as the light is fading, and departs when it’s coming into its own. He’s left holding the bag.

Some people want to banish him forever. Others think we should get rid of his flashy cousin. Until we do one or the other, Stan will be the sober fellow who says “you really should go home now, it’s getting dark” or “early to bed and early to rise.” 

If you happen to catch him in the morning, though … it’s a different story. Trust me, I know.  

(Two sunrise photos in a row? Stan made me do it.)

Endless Summer

Endless Summer

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There was a freeze warning last night, and the furnace is humming as I type these words. Time to remember warmer weather. 

I’m thinking of a beach: salt air, gentle surf, an inquisitive egret strolling through the waves, eyeing the bait bucket as he passes a fisherman on the shore.

I’m remembering the way my body feels in the sun, loose and warm and grateful to be alive.

I’m reliving walks under palm trees, fronds clicking in the breeze and the air heavy and full.

As the season turns, the mind can mutiny, can claim for itself an endless summer. 

Bridge at Sunset

Bridge at Sunset

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The Port of Savannah is the third largest in the U.S., plied day and night by colossal container ships. But when I snapped this shot it seemed to be holding its breath, and the Talmadge Bridge seemed delicate as lace.

Today we leave this city for its cousin across the river — Charleston, South Carolina, with its French Quarter, waterfront and Rainbow Row.

We may take another span to get there, but a bridge will be involved, just the same. 

(As it turns out, we took this one.)

Down of a Thistle

Down of a Thistle

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Several days during the trip last month the air was filled with flying fluff. It took a while to determine the source, to realize that the fluff was the down of a thistle, the national flower of Caledonia.

Here’s a perfect example of vacation thinking. Were I at home, I would find the thistle a weed and the fluff frustrating evidence of its spread. But in Scotland, I found it enchanting, winged messengers of hope and beauty.

Watching the gossamer stuff float through a heathered Highland landscape was a magical experience. It brought the Clement Clarke Moore lines to mind:

“He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle/And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle …”

And that’s just what we did — fly away, that is.  I miss that magical vacation thinking. 

(I saw a lot more heather than thistles.)

Kerrera to the Rescue

Kerrera to the Rescue

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One of the things I like best about travel is that it shakes you out of your routine. In fact, sometimes it flips you over and turns you upside down. But when it just jostles you a bit, the sensation can be pleasurable.

The main reason we traveled to Oban was to explore the Inner Hebrides. We were excited to see the birthplace of Christianity (Iona) and Fingal’s Cave (Staffa). Instead, as soon as we landed I learned that the ferry and boat tour was canceled. Bad weather was moving in. 

After being in Scotland four days, I can safely say that bad weather is always moving in. But good weather is, too. And with Mull, Iona and Staffa out of the picture, we needed an island to explore. 

Kerrera to the rescue! This small island is a five-minute ferry ride from Oban and basically car-free—a walker’s paradise. We skirted Horseshoe Bay, lunched at the Kerrera Tea Garden, and marveled at the ruins of Gylen Castle. We met some fascinating people. It was not what we planned to do, but it was just right.

Rosy Glow

Rosy Glow

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There are stands of ancient hemlocks in New Germany State Park, an oasis of green trails and lofty heights. A cathedral of a forest.

And then… there are the streams, and the late day sunlight slanting on them.

In some spots the light struck the creek at such an angle that it gave the water a strange, rosy glow, as if it were blushing or bleeding. As if it were lit from within.
Scenic Hospitality

Scenic Hospitality

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I made my first trip to Florida at the age of 10. It took us three days to drive from Lexington to Miami. 

It was January. We’d left the cold behind by day two of our drive, but even so the balminess of the Florida air was a surprise. It was nighttime when we finally pulled into our motel near Biscayne Bay, and the combination of darkness and sultriness has stayed with me all these years, potent memories of a place different from any other I’d visited. 

Florida has changed drastically since then, but it retains that other-worldliness. Like the lush Northwest, Florida is its own place, and it’s a privilege to spend a week a year savoring its big sky, palm trees and sugar-sand beach. It’s a combination I’ve come to think of as scenic hospitality, and this morning, back in Virginia, I’m appreciating it all the more.

(A picket fence I walked by every morning on my way to the beach. It’s decorated with pineapples, the symbol of hospitality.)

Afterglow

Afterglow

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I felt like a commuter walking against the throng. Everyone was leaving. I had missed the sunset, one of the chief entertainments around here.

Taking myself to task as I watched the darkening sky, I wished I’d spent less time searching through the t-shirts and trinkets.

But light was lingering in the west. I could still enjoy the afterglow. Which is what I did … and what I plan to do as this beach trip becomes another beautiful memory. 

I’ve Got Rhythm

I’ve Got Rhythm

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A walk by the sea provides its own ceaseless beat. In and out. Strike and pause. The rhythm of the surf is the rhythm of life, more or less. 

As I’ve walked the strand these last few days, I’ve thought about family and friends, about how grateful I am for them — and how grateful I am for this time apart in which to appreciate them. 

Just as a wave rolls to shore before being absorbed back into the ocean, so does all life pulse with this ebb and flow. We are not inert creatures but products of movement and motion. 

I’ve got rhythm. We all do. 

Storm Dodger

Storm Dodger

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Storm chasers are bold (some would say foolish) folks who race to observe a hurricane or tornado. I’ve become just the opposite, a storm dodger. Afternoon showers are such a common occurrence here that I plan my days around them. 

I walk the beach in the morning. At 3 p.m. I’m scanning the sky. Are those dark clouds forming in the west? How quickly are they moving? When do I leave the beach and head for shelter? 

There’s an art to this. Depart too soon and I’ll miss out on precious time in the sun and surf. Leave too late and I’ll be drenched. 

In fact, I’m writing this post while waiting for some storm clouds to pass so I can take a dip in the pool. Another day in the life of a storm dodger.