With hues of blue above my head
I wandered through his painted field
The dappled sky throws soft the light
Upon the ground scattered bright
Of yellow and blue and poppy red
His flowers of summer strewn.
My thoughts of brush and palette fed
He had dabbled and daubed to blend
With perfection on his canvas bear
One day filled with summer fair
My mind was distant thinking be
As I walked in Monet's field.
How sweet the night and tender day
When in that meadow I did see
Birds were fleeing from distant trees
That drifted on a summer breeze
Wafting perfume through the air
As I walked in Monet's field.
Shadows formed upon the flowers
From blue and white scudding clouds
Floating above his poppies of red
I stooped to pick when butterflies fled
His flush of flowers they did bloom
As I walked in Monet's field.
Night drops upon the robin's breast
Shadows form as day has flown
Not yet as his intrepid hand
Still forms its perfection sound
Warm the day was long and carefree
As I walked in Monet's field.
Tread softly as the night comes nigh
Upon his flowers before me shed
For they must remain for all to see
To capture its essence of summer feel
Through half the day I did saunter
As I walked in Monet's field.
The clouds above I did follow
White tipped grey with blue behind
Becoming part of Monet's art
Drifting slowly white as wool
Sweet meadow here with flowers full
As I walked in Monet's field.
Few birds float upon the air
To glide and disappear from here
I'm lost in Monet's painting be
Don't find me where I can see
What now will those clouds behold
As I walked in Monet's field.
If I should slow and tarry here
Leave me in that painting free
A starry night above most bright
Deliver thee from this artist's light
Summer's breath upon me breathing
As I walked in Monet's field.
Into evening's slumber be
Shadows casting ere sun has gone
Clouds hung loose above my musings
Lest I forget this tranquil blessing
Captured blues and reds so vivid
As I walked in Monet's field.
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
Monday, 27 January 2014
Miss Peabody's Dilemma - (for children)
Miss Peabody woke one morning, with two Labrador dogs, the colour of creamed honey, licking her face. Their tails were wagging furiously. 'Oh, you naughty dogs,' she murmured, wincing slightly while still half asleep.
The end of summer weather outside was sultry. Dry leaves rustled as a breeze blew stronger, the loneliness of it, sighing through apple boughs in her garden. For Miss Peabody loved growing and eating apples, big red juicy ones, crisp and crunchy, that ripened in the autumn. Overhead, large puffy, dark blue clouds were gathering, as she gazed sleepily out of her bedroom window. It looked and felt like a storm was brewing. It had been quite a warm and dry summer, most of the time. She much preferred the coolness of autumn, even winter had its good points, its charm when it snowed.
Miss Peabody particularly loved the snow, as she would delight in watching it fall, slowly mounting up in her garden, its whiteness when the sun shone, causing it to glisten and sparkle, like jewels scattered on a lake. The snow could be fine and dry when it was very cold, but at other times, it would fall in large puffy flakes, that fluttered down slowly and sat on the end of her nose. This always made her laugh. She wore glasses and the snow would often block her vision, when she wished they were equipped with tiny windscreen wipers to brush it away.
Miss Peabody lived alone, in a small thatched cottage, vaguely in the centre of England, apart from her two playful dogs. She was a retired schoolteacher and now wrote children's books that sold well. She had enjoyed teaching children, finding each and every one having their own imagination in some form or another. She would sometimes ask if the children wanted to share what they thought, which was great inspiration for her books.
From time to time during the winter, snow would fall and she, not being very old as yet, loved to walk in it, kicking it into the air, watching it scatter around her feet. It always looked pretty when the sun shone. Her two Labrador dogs, Molly and Mindy, accompanied her everywhere. The snow in winter was always a joy to them, as they bounded playfully between the trees, when it fell throughout the woodlands; and everywhere else for that matter. They would bark, chasing each other through the trees, biting at large puffy white flakes, drifting slowly to the ground from grey clouds overhead. Miss Peabody would laugh, trying in vain to call them to attention, but failing. Molly and Mindy would pretend to squabble, ending up rolling around, getting utterly covered in snow, until they suddenly stopped still, shook themselves, then continued with their game.
She thought many times of her dilemma whenever it snowed, the temperature low, air sharp and frosty. Sometimes it was so cold, icicles would form, hanging from the thatched roof of her cottage.
It was at those times, Miss Peabody's imagination would get the better of her, when her mind always drifted to a far off land made completely of ice. She couldn't help it! The people living there, were well able to cope with the cold, as they were not ordinary people like she was. They had no dogs like Molly and Mindy, but a type of moose with horns instead. These animals were strong, hardy and very amiable, almost pets. Instead of cars, the moose pulled a sled, gliding over ice and snow with great ease. Their houses were made of ice too, living a strange imaginary existence. Fish were caught and eaten by digging deep down into the snow and ice, where they knew underneath, fish swam freely. These people, with Miss Peabody's imagination, were very special, always kind and considerate to each other, always happy, sharing what little they had and never squabbled amongst themselves.
A prince ruled their kingdom. Although he lived in a tall castle built of ice, a moat filled with snow surrounding it - he was like one of them, never to judge another, never to be cross and impatient when things went wrong. A prince who often spent time with his people. Together on special occasions, they would magically light a bonfire and join in eating and making merry.
Suddenly, a storm broke outside. Thunder boomed loudly, causing Molly and Mindy to bark briefly. 'Hush you two. It's only thunder, probably a brief storm, that's all. Nothing for you to worry yourselves about!' Miss Peabody was wide awake now. Getting out of bed, she heard rain starting to fall, but upon her roof, being built of a special thatching straw grown only in summer and very thick, it was fairly quiet.
She flapped her hands, so her dogs knew it was time they left they vacated her room, to join her in the kitchen for breakfast. At that moment, rain was falling heavier, splashing against some of the windows as the wind grew stronger.
Another crash of thunder sounded. 'Oh dear', Miss Peabody uttered to the dogs. She always fed them first, as they were more lively than ever first thing in the morning. She placed some food in each of their bowls, which was instantly gobbled up. 'That's not good for you,' she remarked, shaking her head slightly and frowning at them. 'You should eat more slowly, as it would be far better for your digestion,' she retorted, waving a finger in their direction. But they just looked up at her, wagging their tails, expectant.
Still frowning, shaking her head and muttering to herself, Miss Peabody paced the kitchen preparing her breakfast. She continued muttering about her dogs a short while, for she loved and cared for them dearly. They were great company to her and looked after things in the house, trying to help wherever they thought necessary, but often making things far worse.
'Oh my, oh my,' exclaimed Miss Peabody, as lightning and thunder were heard directly overhead. She never really fancied storms, nor did the dogs. They barked when they heard thunder in particular. Miss Peabody knew the storms would eventually pass though, the air often fresher and calmer afterwards, the garden receiving a good soaking, saving her the trouble when it was unusually dry.
Soon summer passed into autumn, when the leaves on her apple trees changed colour, turning from green to yellow and rich red, before floating down, littering the ground below. The autumn nights would grow darker, earlier in the evenings, than in summer. Sometimes there were mists shrouding the garden, causing trees to look ghostlike and mysterious in the quietness of the countryside. The days would slowly become colder, as winter was not far away. Frost appeared on the tips of plants and trees, all around her garden and beyond. Small spider webs formed and hung in the hedgerows, lace-like after a dewy night.
When winter arrived, her imagination would run wild once more. In fact, it was not always in winter, did she think of that far off land, but also during other seasons of the year. She often wondered why this happened - a bit of a dilemma for her, until she suddenly smiled to herself, realizing how much she loved the winters, even the ice was never a problem to her. The crisp white, newness of snow lying on everything in sight, sparkling in winter sunshine, or making everything light and bright in the middle of a long, dark, winter. It captured her imagination, exhilarated and stimulated it, until she just had to write things down in a new story. All the fresh new thoughts roaming in her active mind. Miss Peabody would think of her land of ice, a very long way away, for it was only in her imagination, and no one else's. But nonetheless, it persisted. She wondered what triggered it off, thinking perhaps it was something to do with her childhood. She had been brought up in a warm country and only experienced ice and snow in her later years. This fascinated and indulged her senses, so much so, that it almost became an obsession.
Winter in England, was a season when a few berries still clung to holly bushes. Many plants died off or went to sleep under a snowy blanket, only to awaken when the spring arrived and days became warmer once more. The high banks or hedgerows beside English country lanes, were sometimes piled with snow, the wind causing it to drift across the roadside or fields. When you walked in it, you had to step over or through it, the drifts became so high! Piles of fluffy snow were kicked to and fro into the air. Her two dogs delighted in it, playfully barking as they bounded this way and that. In the fields, snow would lie untouched over hillocks and small valleys, ice forming beside the small stream at the bottom.
Then the wind would blow the powdery flakes into mounds. Miss Peabody's dogs, Molly and Mindy, loved scattering them, as they walked and played excitedly along the quiet country lanes and over fields. They all walked daily, squeezed through gaps in bare hedgerows, hopped over five bar wooden gates, crossed fields of white if it had been snowing heavily, where never a soul had been before. They always made fresh tracks in the snow, delighting if the sun shone after a good fall, causing it to glisten brightly. The thick snow would become icy on the surface after a freezing night, crunching underfoot the next day traipsing through it, boots becoming white, snow sticking to the soles.
Pheasants would call out as they swooped low over the fields, in a passing fog, before returning to the woodland below her cottage. At times they would wander through her garden, where the dogs would bark playfully at them. They'd flap their wings squawking, before departing to a more peaceful scene elsewhere.
As soon as Miss Peabody was well into experiencing a cold winter, her thoughts immediately turned to her imaginary land, ruled by its prince. It was entirely constructed of ice, magical with its castle built high upon a hill, the walls gleaming, appearing endless as they disappeared into a silvery mist in the distance. There were conical shaped rooms built on the corners of the castle, reaching to the sky, bridges crossing the snow-filled moat, that looked as if they were made of sugar crystals.
The prince lived in a smaller room of the castle, for he wanted to appear ordinary to his people, not wanting to put on airs and graces. He was tall and quietly charming, owning a large sled pulled by a moose, often helping his people fish below the ice and only kept what he needed for his own use. He was a much liked prince.
One very icy day in that far off land, a stranger appeared in the midst of its people. He had wandered from afar, stumbling upon this beautiful village made entirely of ice, in search of a gracious lady he had always cared for. The folk of the village had not heard nor seen the lady he spoke of. At least, they didn't think so. Instead, they all shook their heads, looking from one to another in wonderment. They thought the stranger might feel rather out of place in their icy existence and were not keen to encourage him to stay. Hoping he would soon wander off further seeking his lady friend, they turned slowly, not wanting to put their backs to him as it would appear rude and impolite, returned to what they had been doing before the stranger had appeared.
But the stranger didn't wander off, but persisted for some time, becoming bewildered as to what to do next.
Just at that moment the prince happened to be passing the stranger. He paused, asking the stranger the reason for his visit to their land. The stranger explained his reason, giving his name, while the prince listened thoughtfully, patiently biding his time. Then, when the stranger had finished his explanation, to his sadness, learned that the prince had once married the lady he still cared for. Gently he was told, that some time ago, after becoming lost, the lady had wandered amongst them. She had stayed, managing to exist in their land, married the prince, but unexpectedly, died suddenly one day. The last word on her lips at the moment of her death, was that of the stranger, but the prince knew not at that time, to whom she referred.
The stranger left saddened, but satisfied he had learned the whereabouts of this lady, her end being a happy and perhaps peaceful one as far as he was concerned.
Many things happened in that far off land of ice, an imaginary existence that appeared only in the mind of Miss Peabody. She couldn't help it after all. It never entirely left her, but became quite a dilemma really, appearing at the oddest of times and often when it was most inconvenient!
Although she hoped the world would always be a satisfactory place in which to live, she would sometimes revert back in her thoughts to that special place of ice, where the people were pleasant, never to anger or squabble amongst themselves, for they saw no reason in it, being very patient indeed.
Suddenly a dog barked. Miss Peabody put down whatever she was doing, shook her head slightly, leant down and patted both Molly and Minty lovingly. Her mind had been a very long way off, where a prince lived, sharing a strange land built only of ice. 'My goodness! she exclaimed out aloud. 'What a dilemma! I must have been dreaming or something. All these thoughts about a castle so high, it reached the sky. And people living in ice houses, that caught fish under the snow, a moose animal that pulled a sled. Whatever next!'
She glanced out of a window at the snowy scene outside, her dogs wagging their tails, hoping for a walk. 'Oh alright then,' she smiled. 'You win!' Looking down at their expectant faces, she gathered their leads after donning her coat and scarf. Together they scampered through the front door, almost tripping over each as they went. Miss Peabody laughed as Molly and Mindy bounded past her.
The morning sun sparkled on the snow, air sharp with winter's frost. As they passed below the overhanging thatched roof, an icicle plopped down onto the snow at Miss Peabody's feet. She smiled again, thinking of her very special imaginary world, as the three of them wandered off down the snow-covered garden, feet making fresh tracks as they went.
The end of summer weather outside was sultry. Dry leaves rustled as a breeze blew stronger, the loneliness of it, sighing through apple boughs in her garden. For Miss Peabody loved growing and eating apples, big red juicy ones, crisp and crunchy, that ripened in the autumn. Overhead, large puffy, dark blue clouds were gathering, as she gazed sleepily out of her bedroom window. It looked and felt like a storm was brewing. It had been quite a warm and dry summer, most of the time. She much preferred the coolness of autumn, even winter had its good points, its charm when it snowed.
Miss Peabody particularly loved the snow, as she would delight in watching it fall, slowly mounting up in her garden, its whiteness when the sun shone, causing it to glisten and sparkle, like jewels scattered on a lake. The snow could be fine and dry when it was very cold, but at other times, it would fall in large puffy flakes, that fluttered down slowly and sat on the end of her nose. This always made her laugh. She wore glasses and the snow would often block her vision, when she wished they were equipped with tiny windscreen wipers to brush it away.
Miss Peabody lived alone, in a small thatched cottage, vaguely in the centre of England, apart from her two playful dogs. She was a retired schoolteacher and now wrote children's books that sold well. She had enjoyed teaching children, finding each and every one having their own imagination in some form or another. She would sometimes ask if the children wanted to share what they thought, which was great inspiration for her books.
From time to time during the winter, snow would fall and she, not being very old as yet, loved to walk in it, kicking it into the air, watching it scatter around her feet. It always looked pretty when the sun shone. Her two Labrador dogs, Molly and Mindy, accompanied her everywhere. The snow in winter was always a joy to them, as they bounded playfully between the trees, when it fell throughout the woodlands; and everywhere else for that matter. They would bark, chasing each other through the trees, biting at large puffy white flakes, drifting slowly to the ground from grey clouds overhead. Miss Peabody would laugh, trying in vain to call them to attention, but failing. Molly and Mindy would pretend to squabble, ending up rolling around, getting utterly covered in snow, until they suddenly stopped still, shook themselves, then continued with their game.
She thought many times of her dilemma whenever it snowed, the temperature low, air sharp and frosty. Sometimes it was so cold, icicles would form, hanging from the thatched roof of her cottage.
It was at those times, Miss Peabody's imagination would get the better of her, when her mind always drifted to a far off land made completely of ice. She couldn't help it! The people living there, were well able to cope with the cold, as they were not ordinary people like she was. They had no dogs like Molly and Mindy, but a type of moose with horns instead. These animals were strong, hardy and very amiable, almost pets. Instead of cars, the moose pulled a sled, gliding over ice and snow with great ease. Their houses were made of ice too, living a strange imaginary existence. Fish were caught and eaten by digging deep down into the snow and ice, where they knew underneath, fish swam freely. These people, with Miss Peabody's imagination, were very special, always kind and considerate to each other, always happy, sharing what little they had and never squabbled amongst themselves.
A prince ruled their kingdom. Although he lived in a tall castle built of ice, a moat filled with snow surrounding it - he was like one of them, never to judge another, never to be cross and impatient when things went wrong. A prince who often spent time with his people. Together on special occasions, they would magically light a bonfire and join in eating and making merry.
Suddenly, a storm broke outside. Thunder boomed loudly, causing Molly and Mindy to bark briefly. 'Hush you two. It's only thunder, probably a brief storm, that's all. Nothing for you to worry yourselves about!' Miss Peabody was wide awake now. Getting out of bed, she heard rain starting to fall, but upon her roof, being built of a special thatching straw grown only in summer and very thick, it was fairly quiet.
She flapped her hands, so her dogs knew it was time they left they vacated her room, to join her in the kitchen for breakfast. At that moment, rain was falling heavier, splashing against some of the windows as the wind grew stronger.
Another crash of thunder sounded. 'Oh dear', Miss Peabody uttered to the dogs. She always fed them first, as they were more lively than ever first thing in the morning. She placed some food in each of their bowls, which was instantly gobbled up. 'That's not good for you,' she remarked, shaking her head slightly and frowning at them. 'You should eat more slowly, as it would be far better for your digestion,' she retorted, waving a finger in their direction. But they just looked up at her, wagging their tails, expectant.
Still frowning, shaking her head and muttering to herself, Miss Peabody paced the kitchen preparing her breakfast. She continued muttering about her dogs a short while, for she loved and cared for them dearly. They were great company to her and looked after things in the house, trying to help wherever they thought necessary, but often making things far worse.
'Oh my, oh my,' exclaimed Miss Peabody, as lightning and thunder were heard directly overhead. She never really fancied storms, nor did the dogs. They barked when they heard thunder in particular. Miss Peabody knew the storms would eventually pass though, the air often fresher and calmer afterwards, the garden receiving a good soaking, saving her the trouble when it was unusually dry.
Soon summer passed into autumn, when the leaves on her apple trees changed colour, turning from green to yellow and rich red, before floating down, littering the ground below. The autumn nights would grow darker, earlier in the evenings, than in summer. Sometimes there were mists shrouding the garden, causing trees to look ghostlike and mysterious in the quietness of the countryside. The days would slowly become colder, as winter was not far away. Frost appeared on the tips of plants and trees, all around her garden and beyond. Small spider webs formed and hung in the hedgerows, lace-like after a dewy night.
When winter arrived, her imagination would run wild once more. In fact, it was not always in winter, did she think of that far off land, but also during other seasons of the year. She often wondered why this happened - a bit of a dilemma for her, until she suddenly smiled to herself, realizing how much she loved the winters, even the ice was never a problem to her. The crisp white, newness of snow lying on everything in sight, sparkling in winter sunshine, or making everything light and bright in the middle of a long, dark, winter. It captured her imagination, exhilarated and stimulated it, until she just had to write things down in a new story. All the fresh new thoughts roaming in her active mind. Miss Peabody would think of her land of ice, a very long way away, for it was only in her imagination, and no one else's. But nonetheless, it persisted. She wondered what triggered it off, thinking perhaps it was something to do with her childhood. She had been brought up in a warm country and only experienced ice and snow in her later years. This fascinated and indulged her senses, so much so, that it almost became an obsession.
Winter in England, was a season when a few berries still clung to holly bushes. Many plants died off or went to sleep under a snowy blanket, only to awaken when the spring arrived and days became warmer once more. The high banks or hedgerows beside English country lanes, were sometimes piled with snow, the wind causing it to drift across the roadside or fields. When you walked in it, you had to step over or through it, the drifts became so high! Piles of fluffy snow were kicked to and fro into the air. Her two dogs delighted in it, playfully barking as they bounded this way and that. In the fields, snow would lie untouched over hillocks and small valleys, ice forming beside the small stream at the bottom.
Then the wind would blow the powdery flakes into mounds. Miss Peabody's dogs, Molly and Mindy, loved scattering them, as they walked and played excitedly along the quiet country lanes and over fields. They all walked daily, squeezed through gaps in bare hedgerows, hopped over five bar wooden gates, crossed fields of white if it had been snowing heavily, where never a soul had been before. They always made fresh tracks in the snow, delighting if the sun shone after a good fall, causing it to glisten brightly. The thick snow would become icy on the surface after a freezing night, crunching underfoot the next day traipsing through it, boots becoming white, snow sticking to the soles.
Pheasants would call out as they swooped low over the fields, in a passing fog, before returning to the woodland below her cottage. At times they would wander through her garden, where the dogs would bark playfully at them. They'd flap their wings squawking, before departing to a more peaceful scene elsewhere.
As soon as Miss Peabody was well into experiencing a cold winter, her thoughts immediately turned to her imaginary land, ruled by its prince. It was entirely constructed of ice, magical with its castle built high upon a hill, the walls gleaming, appearing endless as they disappeared into a silvery mist in the distance. There were conical shaped rooms built on the corners of the castle, reaching to the sky, bridges crossing the snow-filled moat, that looked as if they were made of sugar crystals.
The prince lived in a smaller room of the castle, for he wanted to appear ordinary to his people, not wanting to put on airs and graces. He was tall and quietly charming, owning a large sled pulled by a moose, often helping his people fish below the ice and only kept what he needed for his own use. He was a much liked prince.
One very icy day in that far off land, a stranger appeared in the midst of its people. He had wandered from afar, stumbling upon this beautiful village made entirely of ice, in search of a gracious lady he had always cared for. The folk of the village had not heard nor seen the lady he spoke of. At least, they didn't think so. Instead, they all shook their heads, looking from one to another in wonderment. They thought the stranger might feel rather out of place in their icy existence and were not keen to encourage him to stay. Hoping he would soon wander off further seeking his lady friend, they turned slowly, not wanting to put their backs to him as it would appear rude and impolite, returned to what they had been doing before the stranger had appeared.
But the stranger didn't wander off, but persisted for some time, becoming bewildered as to what to do next.
Just at that moment the prince happened to be passing the stranger. He paused, asking the stranger the reason for his visit to their land. The stranger explained his reason, giving his name, while the prince listened thoughtfully, patiently biding his time. Then, when the stranger had finished his explanation, to his sadness, learned that the prince had once married the lady he still cared for. Gently he was told, that some time ago, after becoming lost, the lady had wandered amongst them. She had stayed, managing to exist in their land, married the prince, but unexpectedly, died suddenly one day. The last word on her lips at the moment of her death, was that of the stranger, but the prince knew not at that time, to whom she referred.
The stranger left saddened, but satisfied he had learned the whereabouts of this lady, her end being a happy and perhaps peaceful one as far as he was concerned.
Many things happened in that far off land of ice, an imaginary existence that appeared only in the mind of Miss Peabody. She couldn't help it after all. It never entirely left her, but became quite a dilemma really, appearing at the oddest of times and often when it was most inconvenient!
Although she hoped the world would always be a satisfactory place in which to live, she would sometimes revert back in her thoughts to that special place of ice, where the people were pleasant, never to anger or squabble amongst themselves, for they saw no reason in it, being very patient indeed.
Suddenly a dog barked. Miss Peabody put down whatever she was doing, shook her head slightly, leant down and patted both Molly and Minty lovingly. Her mind had been a very long way off, where a prince lived, sharing a strange land built only of ice. 'My goodness! she exclaimed out aloud. 'What a dilemma! I must have been dreaming or something. All these thoughts about a castle so high, it reached the sky. And people living in ice houses, that caught fish under the snow, a moose animal that pulled a sled. Whatever next!'
She glanced out of a window at the snowy scene outside, her dogs wagging their tails, hoping for a walk. 'Oh alright then,' she smiled. 'You win!' Looking down at their expectant faces, she gathered their leads after donning her coat and scarf. Together they scampered through the front door, almost tripping over each as they went. Miss Peabody laughed as Molly and Mindy bounded past her.
The morning sun sparkled on the snow, air sharp with winter's frost. As they passed below the overhanging thatched roof, an icicle plopped down onto the snow at Miss Peabody's feet. She smiled again, thinking of her very special imaginary world, as the three of them wandered off down the snow-covered garden, feet making fresh tracks as they went.
Friday, 17 January 2014
Summer Storm
The air was thick with summer. Day after day oppressive heat had raged, consumed, overwhelmed, frazzled the mind, sapped the body of energy, while inland countryside seared in a shimmering heat haze, bone-dry, devoid of any moisture.
Men sweated profusely inside their yellow suits, felt themselves almost melt as they dedicated themselves to fight out-of-control rampaging bush fires. They struggled against the confronting glow with its all consuming flames and radiant heat, unbearable as the fire front travelled fast and furious, threatening, devastating all in its path. Smoke rose high into the air, as trees, land and homes disappeared in thick choking clouds, billowing into the heavens.
Roadsides appeared molten, paths of bitumen and concrete cracked, opened up. Beside the park, tall seedy grasses waved back and forth in the heat of a hot north wind. Birds fled to escape the dryness, heat that was intolerable, the atmosphere feeling like a furnace burning wildly, furiously, uncontrollably.
Beside the sea, people fried their skin t0 dark pink and red in the intense heat of the day, before sizzling in the cool green sea. Soft golden sand was too hot to walk upon, so the beach people hurried to the water's edge and dipped toes and feet into incoming waves that felt cool. Young boys dived off the end of the pier into water that was a deep green.
Tess, a black Labrador dog, whimpered close to old George as he sat back in his worn chair and fanned himself. The heat was getting to him and he was not used to discarding many of his clothes, but the last few days he was forced to make an exception. He sat back with his face wet with sweat and uncomfortable.
There was a sudden rumbling sound in the distance.
'I know old girl,' he said, a wrinkled, weathered hand reaching down to soft furry ears. 'I think you heard that thunder in the distance as I did. Let's hope a storm is on its way, eh Tess?'
Inside George's house, darkness was gradually filling the room in the late afternoon. The long hot summer had made its presence known, as everything around them felt hot, the furniture, inside the cupboards, the floors even. Hot water flowed from the cold tap when old George tried to fill Tess's bowl with water. 'The air is so heavy, you could cut it with a knife, George muttered and mumbled to himself, extricating himself from the chair, shuffling to the kitchen sink.
Outside, clouds were grey, building up and becoming darker, thick with promising rain. The sun became obscured, its penetrating rays momentarily extinguished, having an immediate effect with the temperature, causing it to drop slightly. On a wall the barometer needle pointed to change, slowly moving toward rain.
A bright light forked the sky in the distance, lightning danced through the oncoming storm, darker, more threatening. Loud claps of thunder were heard as birds scattered to safety, screeching from the garden, trees swaying with the increasing wind, tossing their heads as dry leaves were torn from the branches.
'Looks like there'll be a storm alright Tess!' The black Labrador wagged her tail slowly, looking up at George through large brown eyes. She whimpered again, got up, stretched and settled back to try and sleep. 'It's getting closer too, by the sounds of it!' George continued. 'We'd better check a few things and batten down the hatches.'
George had been a tugboat captain in his day, now retired. He and Tess lived in a cottage style home close to the sea. His wife had died two years earlier and he was alone now with only Tess for company. George rose from his chair and went to the back door overlooking the small back garden. The black labrador followed close behind thinking they were going out walking. Her tail wagged in expectation.
'No Tess, not this time. Think its going to rain soon!' George turned and patted the disappointed Tess.
At that moment a large drop of rain fell on the path near the patio, followed by several more. His small garden was in desperate need of water. It had wilted and drooped in places, looking half dead.
'Ah, I was right then Tess. Long may it continue,' smiled George, as the rain started in earnest. Suddenly another boom of thunder sounded and old George reached down to comfort Tess.
'It's alright my Tess, don't you go worrying yourself. We'll be safe inside, but just look at that lovely rain falling!' George was delighted and signaled to Tess to stay put while he wandered out into the path of the rain. He looked up, smiling. 'God bless you,' he said to the rain, for he loved his garden and the plants had been suffering from the heat, which saddened George. Watering sometimes with the hose, was a losing battle, but this rain was heaven-sent. He put his face up to greet the cool drops splashing around him, soaking everything in its path as the heaven's descended, wetting his face, arms and body. It felt good.
Tess had followed George to the door and sat watching him getting wetter by the moment. She barked and stood wagging her tail as George laughed. With the storm, the wind had changed direction causing the temperature to drop considerably. The cloud burst had dumped plenty of cool rain on dry ground, eucalyptus trees lapping up moisture, the remaining leaves smelling fragrant, as did everything else in its path. Rain had sheeted down in torrents, glistening now on every wilted leaf, glad of its moisture. Thunder and lightning had crackled in the hot windless air.
Slowly the storm started to abate, the sun reappeared from the tips of passing clouds, sending fingers of sunlight streaking across the nearby park, a soft glow flickering through branches. The garden became drenched in the aftermath, the half dead plants of George's garden perking up, refreshed. George too, felt cool and refreshed as he ran his well worn fingers through thinning grey hair. The wind was dying as the rain ceased to a gentle pattering upon the roof of the house. He thought he heard the garden signing with satisfaction.
The air felt clean, cool, rain had soaked, splashed and puddled the ground as birds flew back to an old oak tree, chirping loudly. The wind became quiet as the sun filtered through remaining clouds far to the west. George wandered over to a seat on the small patio, called Tess to him and sat for a while in the early evening sun. The heat had disappeared with the storm and the tranquility of the moment was blissful to both. Summer was coming to an end and with the autumn, came cool nights and warm days, filling the air with coloured beauty that fluttered down, littering the ground. Mists would descend from the hills, summer becoming but a memory, as George would walk with Tess along the sea front, dreaming of tugboats and tall ships.
Men sweated profusely inside their yellow suits, felt themselves almost melt as they dedicated themselves to fight out-of-control rampaging bush fires. They struggled against the confronting glow with its all consuming flames and radiant heat, unbearable as the fire front travelled fast and furious, threatening, devastating all in its path. Smoke rose high into the air, as trees, land and homes disappeared in thick choking clouds, billowing into the heavens.
Roadsides appeared molten, paths of bitumen and concrete cracked, opened up. Beside the park, tall seedy grasses waved back and forth in the heat of a hot north wind. Birds fled to escape the dryness, heat that was intolerable, the atmosphere feeling like a furnace burning wildly, furiously, uncontrollably.
Beside the sea, people fried their skin t0 dark pink and red in the intense heat of the day, before sizzling in the cool green sea. Soft golden sand was too hot to walk upon, so the beach people hurried to the water's edge and dipped toes and feet into incoming waves that felt cool. Young boys dived off the end of the pier into water that was a deep green.
Tess, a black Labrador dog, whimpered close to old George as he sat back in his worn chair and fanned himself. The heat was getting to him and he was not used to discarding many of his clothes, but the last few days he was forced to make an exception. He sat back with his face wet with sweat and uncomfortable.
There was a sudden rumbling sound in the distance.
'I know old girl,' he said, a wrinkled, weathered hand reaching down to soft furry ears. 'I think you heard that thunder in the distance as I did. Let's hope a storm is on its way, eh Tess?'
Inside George's house, darkness was gradually filling the room in the late afternoon. The long hot summer had made its presence known, as everything around them felt hot, the furniture, inside the cupboards, the floors even. Hot water flowed from the cold tap when old George tried to fill Tess's bowl with water. 'The air is so heavy, you could cut it with a knife, George muttered and mumbled to himself, extricating himself from the chair, shuffling to the kitchen sink.
Outside, clouds were grey, building up and becoming darker, thick with promising rain. The sun became obscured, its penetrating rays momentarily extinguished, having an immediate effect with the temperature, causing it to drop slightly. On a wall the barometer needle pointed to change, slowly moving toward rain.
A bright light forked the sky in the distance, lightning danced through the oncoming storm, darker, more threatening. Loud claps of thunder were heard as birds scattered to safety, screeching from the garden, trees swaying with the increasing wind, tossing their heads as dry leaves were torn from the branches.
'Looks like there'll be a storm alright Tess!' The black Labrador wagged her tail slowly, looking up at George through large brown eyes. She whimpered again, got up, stretched and settled back to try and sleep. 'It's getting closer too, by the sounds of it!' George continued. 'We'd better check a few things and batten down the hatches.'
George had been a tugboat captain in his day, now retired. He and Tess lived in a cottage style home close to the sea. His wife had died two years earlier and he was alone now with only Tess for company. George rose from his chair and went to the back door overlooking the small back garden. The black labrador followed close behind thinking they were going out walking. Her tail wagged in expectation.
'No Tess, not this time. Think its going to rain soon!' George turned and patted the disappointed Tess.
At that moment a large drop of rain fell on the path near the patio, followed by several more. His small garden was in desperate need of water. It had wilted and drooped in places, looking half dead.
'Ah, I was right then Tess. Long may it continue,' smiled George, as the rain started in earnest. Suddenly another boom of thunder sounded and old George reached down to comfort Tess.
'It's alright my Tess, don't you go worrying yourself. We'll be safe inside, but just look at that lovely rain falling!' George was delighted and signaled to Tess to stay put while he wandered out into the path of the rain. He looked up, smiling. 'God bless you,' he said to the rain, for he loved his garden and the plants had been suffering from the heat, which saddened George. Watering sometimes with the hose, was a losing battle, but this rain was heaven-sent. He put his face up to greet the cool drops splashing around him, soaking everything in its path as the heaven's descended, wetting his face, arms and body. It felt good.
Tess had followed George to the door and sat watching him getting wetter by the moment. She barked and stood wagging her tail as George laughed. With the storm, the wind had changed direction causing the temperature to drop considerably. The cloud burst had dumped plenty of cool rain on dry ground, eucalyptus trees lapping up moisture, the remaining leaves smelling fragrant, as did everything else in its path. Rain had sheeted down in torrents, glistening now on every wilted leaf, glad of its moisture. Thunder and lightning had crackled in the hot windless air.
Slowly the storm started to abate, the sun reappeared from the tips of passing clouds, sending fingers of sunlight streaking across the nearby park, a soft glow flickering through branches. The garden became drenched in the aftermath, the half dead plants of George's garden perking up, refreshed. George too, felt cool and refreshed as he ran his well worn fingers through thinning grey hair. The wind was dying as the rain ceased to a gentle pattering upon the roof of the house. He thought he heard the garden signing with satisfaction.
The air felt clean, cool, rain had soaked, splashed and puddled the ground as birds flew back to an old oak tree, chirping loudly. The wind became quiet as the sun filtered through remaining clouds far to the west. George wandered over to a seat on the small patio, called Tess to him and sat for a while in the early evening sun. The heat had disappeared with the storm and the tranquility of the moment was blissful to both. Summer was coming to an end and with the autumn, came cool nights and warm days, filling the air with coloured beauty that fluttered down, littering the ground. Mists would descend from the hills, summer becoming but a memory, as George would walk with Tess along the sea front, dreaming of tugboats and tall ships.
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
The Half Dead Tree
A large magpie sat atop its branches, half flew to the very peak of the tree, cawing loudly to whoever was listening; but no one was listening, as hardly a mouse twitched or a butterfly descended, it was so early morning.
A soft breeze sprang from nowhere and sighed through what was left of the upper branches. One side of the half dead tree was totally dead, the other half, very much alive. There appeared a curious division from top to bottom, with no evidence as to what had killed off one half of the tree. The shape rounded like a pear as one gazed nonchalantly at its appearance, utterly mystified. The tree was tall, as the live half swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze, that whispered past its troubled boughs in the softness of the summer light.
The magpie gave another warble from on high, flapped its wings which were black as coal, its breast glistening, white areas clean and bright, swooped downward, then flew across towards the park where it soon settled on a tall eucalyptus tree. Being summer, the eucalyptus like many, had shed a large proportion of its bark which lay around its large peeling trunk. Along a path under the trees, was littered many twigs, branches and fallen leaves. But the half dead tree somehow remained half alive that summer, it was not a known fact it would remain so next summer or the one following.
An occasional storm presented itself in the form of darkening skies of deep blue and steel-grey clouds, white tipped, threatening the peace of shimmering heat that settled across the park and beyond, like night encroaching upon day. Native parrots screeched loudly as they passed above the half dead tree, fleeing from an oncoming storm, crossing native vegetation below and then over to the golf course on the other side of the meandering creek. Soon the rain came, sheeting down upon the tree, soaking its half dead branches turning them dark, the leaves on the other side glistening after the rain had passed, droplets of cool water dripping to parched earth below. The dead branches never swayed with the wind, but remained still, lifeless, glinting with raindrops.
When the summer evenings settled on leafy branches, a pale pink hue emanated from the setting sun, casting its magic through the leaves as if the tree was soaking up its warmth and life. It was resplendent in the late afternoon light, almost glowing as a clifftop beacon alerting passing ships, the tree gave off a peacefulness.
As the summer passed into autumn, days shortened, shadows lengthened, close to where the tree stood overlooking the native vegetation, where tall eucalyptus trees, acacias and other species grew larger with each passing year.
Mists formed above the mountain not far away, turning it from blue to mauve in the morning light, then hovered in the valley below, gathering in the park beside the walking path, settling along the surface of the creek where ducks idly paddled over its surface. Sometimes a damp and swirling mist blew mellow through the tree, partially enfolding it in dense moisture descended from the mountain above, where it took on a ghostlike appearance in the autumnal days.
The nights became bleaker as autumn slowly turned to winter, the last golden leaves fluttered to the ground and the tree soaked up any rain that fell upon its roots. The winter months were never cold enough to whiten the half dead tree with snow, neither did it grow when the weather was cold. In fact, after winter had long gone, warmer days arrived, the half dead tree still maintained one half adorned with leaves as it was not deciduous, while the other half still looked dead, forlorn.
As the years passed, seasons came and went, the half dead tree appeared to stay the same. The dead half remained dead, while the other half was healthy, unaffected by any further problems. It didn't resist the wind as the other half did, but eventually it grew further, strong and healthy, birds flitted through the boughs rejoicing upon its presence, they chirped to the moon and stars above during summer nights; blackbirds, doves and many native birds of the area, sang its song of life. its loveliness, beauty - its strength.
A soft breeze sprang from nowhere and sighed through what was left of the upper branches. One side of the half dead tree was totally dead, the other half, very much alive. There appeared a curious division from top to bottom, with no evidence as to what had killed off one half of the tree. The shape rounded like a pear as one gazed nonchalantly at its appearance, utterly mystified. The tree was tall, as the live half swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze, that whispered past its troubled boughs in the softness of the summer light.
The magpie gave another warble from on high, flapped its wings which were black as coal, its breast glistening, white areas clean and bright, swooped downward, then flew across towards the park where it soon settled on a tall eucalyptus tree. Being summer, the eucalyptus like many, had shed a large proportion of its bark which lay around its large peeling trunk. Along a path under the trees, was littered many twigs, branches and fallen leaves. But the half dead tree somehow remained half alive that summer, it was not a known fact it would remain so next summer or the one following.
An occasional storm presented itself in the form of darkening skies of deep blue and steel-grey clouds, white tipped, threatening the peace of shimmering heat that settled across the park and beyond, like night encroaching upon day. Native parrots screeched loudly as they passed above the half dead tree, fleeing from an oncoming storm, crossing native vegetation below and then over to the golf course on the other side of the meandering creek. Soon the rain came, sheeting down upon the tree, soaking its half dead branches turning them dark, the leaves on the other side glistening after the rain had passed, droplets of cool water dripping to parched earth below. The dead branches never swayed with the wind, but remained still, lifeless, glinting with raindrops.
When the summer evenings settled on leafy branches, a pale pink hue emanated from the setting sun, casting its magic through the leaves as if the tree was soaking up its warmth and life. It was resplendent in the late afternoon light, almost glowing as a clifftop beacon alerting passing ships, the tree gave off a peacefulness.
As the summer passed into autumn, days shortened, shadows lengthened, close to where the tree stood overlooking the native vegetation, where tall eucalyptus trees, acacias and other species grew larger with each passing year.
Mists formed above the mountain not far away, turning it from blue to mauve in the morning light, then hovered in the valley below, gathering in the park beside the walking path, settling along the surface of the creek where ducks idly paddled over its surface. Sometimes a damp and swirling mist blew mellow through the tree, partially enfolding it in dense moisture descended from the mountain above, where it took on a ghostlike appearance in the autumnal days.
The nights became bleaker as autumn slowly turned to winter, the last golden leaves fluttered to the ground and the tree soaked up any rain that fell upon its roots. The winter months were never cold enough to whiten the half dead tree with snow, neither did it grow when the weather was cold. In fact, after winter had long gone, warmer days arrived, the half dead tree still maintained one half adorned with leaves as it was not deciduous, while the other half still looked dead, forlorn.
As the years passed, seasons came and went, the half dead tree appeared to stay the same. The dead half remained dead, while the other half was healthy, unaffected by any further problems. It didn't resist the wind as the other half did, but eventually it grew further, strong and healthy, birds flitted through the boughs rejoicing upon its presence, they chirped to the moon and stars above during summer nights; blackbirds, doves and many native birds of the area, sang its song of life. its loveliness, beauty - its strength.
Thursday, 26 December 2013
A Christmas Remembered
Morning dawned warm, as a soft summer sun beamed pink above the distant horizon, close to the mauve-tipped hills, a promise of possible heat sent shimmering across native reserves, dewy from night that was quiet and still. The grass remained green until midsummer sun burned it brown, dry, lacking any moisture. Colourful parrots screeched among blue-green leaves of tall eucalypt trees in nearby parks, the creek flowing endlessly toward a lake.
Under the warmth of a blue summer's day in the southern hemisphere, thoughts turned to how green was the valley, my valley in an English spring, when the wildflowers graced the high banks of Dorset lanes and in May, cow parsley grew tall beside narrow winding roads. Owls hooted in the still night air hunting for food, farm animals wandered in the higher lush field above the cottage in lengthening twilight of summer, munching on sweet grass, their udders swinging to and fro through the greenness.
But as the year passed and autumn turned into winter, chestnuts having dropped in the lower woodland, lost amongst fallen leaves, pheasants swooped squawking over the garden and hedges, Christmas was imminent. The garden was going to sleep having been carpeted with the first of winter's snow, buried in frosty nights when the moon cast silvery beams over snowy fields, glistening like diamonds.
Another gentle snowfall came quickly, unexpectedly, clouds scudded across the moon, shedding their whiteness falling softly upon the countryside, large flakes cascaded down from above where a darkened sky emptied itself upon the earth below. The snow-laden clouds spilling white crystals fluttering across small hills in my valley, forming a virginal carpet of winter whiteness, a unique beauty heralding Christmas that year.
Snow sat thickly on tall pine trees and between them, pathways sprinkled with a dusting, looked peaceful, untouched except for small footprints of a passing fox, slinking through the night.
Christmas, cold and frosty, the nights long, days short, with snow forming in the garden quietly, a turkey sizzled softly in the Aga, stuffed with great Granny's stuffing recipe. The pudding just made, awaited custard or cream to be poured over it. Outside, the air was sharp, but inside the cottage was warm, homely, with a crackling fire, carols were heard drifting from the radio. The children laughed and played with newly acquired games close to the Christmas tree, twinkling with small lights. Many greeting cards hung around doorways while holly and ivy adorned the old Welsh dresser and elsewhere. Tinsel and pretty silver baubles were entwined amongst the ivy, while a smell of pine wafted through the air from the tree in the corner of the sitting room. Coloured paper lay around the floor where the children had unwrapped their presents.
That particular Christmas brought memories flooding back, never to be experienced in the southern hemisphere where the warm sunshine never felt like Christmas in England and never would, but a different atmosphere was created, of childhood memories spent at the seaside, where the white sand met a pale green sea, the tide having gone out leaving pools and a sandbank to walk upon. A few shells were left close to the water's edge, bending now and picking one up, Christmas in England was but a distant memory.
Under the warmth of a blue summer's day in the southern hemisphere, thoughts turned to how green was the valley, my valley in an English spring, when the wildflowers graced the high banks of Dorset lanes and in May, cow parsley grew tall beside narrow winding roads. Owls hooted in the still night air hunting for food, farm animals wandered in the higher lush field above the cottage in lengthening twilight of summer, munching on sweet grass, their udders swinging to and fro through the greenness.
But as the year passed and autumn turned into winter, chestnuts having dropped in the lower woodland, lost amongst fallen leaves, pheasants swooped squawking over the garden and hedges, Christmas was imminent. The garden was going to sleep having been carpeted with the first of winter's snow, buried in frosty nights when the moon cast silvery beams over snowy fields, glistening like diamonds.
Another gentle snowfall came quickly, unexpectedly, clouds scudded across the moon, shedding their whiteness falling softly upon the countryside, large flakes cascaded down from above where a darkened sky emptied itself upon the earth below. The snow-laden clouds spilling white crystals fluttering across small hills in my valley, forming a virginal carpet of winter whiteness, a unique beauty heralding Christmas that year.
Snow sat thickly on tall pine trees and between them, pathways sprinkled with a dusting, looked peaceful, untouched except for small footprints of a passing fox, slinking through the night.
Christmas, cold and frosty, the nights long, days short, with snow forming in the garden quietly, a turkey sizzled softly in the Aga, stuffed with great Granny's stuffing recipe. The pudding just made, awaited custard or cream to be poured over it. Outside, the air was sharp, but inside the cottage was warm, homely, with a crackling fire, carols were heard drifting from the radio. The children laughed and played with newly acquired games close to the Christmas tree, twinkling with small lights. Many greeting cards hung around doorways while holly and ivy adorned the old Welsh dresser and elsewhere. Tinsel and pretty silver baubles were entwined amongst the ivy, while a smell of pine wafted through the air from the tree in the corner of the sitting room. Coloured paper lay around the floor where the children had unwrapped their presents.
That particular Christmas brought memories flooding back, never to be experienced in the southern hemisphere where the warm sunshine never felt like Christmas in England and never would, but a different atmosphere was created, of childhood memories spent at the seaside, where the white sand met a pale green sea, the tide having gone out leaving pools and a sandbank to walk upon. A few shells were left close to the water's edge, bending now and picking one up, Christmas in England was but a distant memory.
Wednesday, 4 December 2013
A Brief Encounter
Laura gazed toward the window in the early morning, stretched luxuriously, then realized the date. She glanced toward the dawn seeping between the slats in the blinds knowing the sun must be over the horizon by now, judging the time by the amount of sun filtering into her room. She watched the sun's rays as they crept across the end of the bed to where her toes were wriggling under the covers. Only a few more moments, then she must arise out of her bed for the last time, not to return for many weeks. The airport beckoned and being a good hour's journey away, she needed to get her thoughts together before leaving. She sighed gently to herself, padding softly to where her clothes were hanging. Last minute checks were necessary, bills paid, the frig cleared out, taps turned off properly, the kitchen left clean and house locked.
Laura had been through this many times in the past and enjoyed travelling, seeing a little of Europe, visiting her friend in England and arranging all this herself wasn't too difficult. The thought of travelling on her own was never daunting, in fact she relished it as she was able to enjoy most things at will.
Being interested in photography played a large part of her travels as did other things, but she liked to spend as much time where possible, concentrating on this aspect of the adventure and it was an adventure, as she never knew exactly what would happen or whom she would meet along the way.
It was usually necessary to alter the camera settings carefully before taking each photo, but there were times when luck played a part. She would have fun clicking the shutter after guessing the settings, when she saw a good light opportunity or subject not to be missed, taking her chances. This, she found could be rewarding and very creative depending on where she was, the subject matter, the execution thereof. She smiled to herself. Once she found some tall grasses growing alongside a path and slowed the shutter speed down, then jerking the camera to one side at just the right moment. This resulted in unusual shapes and colours. Yes, those shots could turn our very interesting indeed, she thought.
The trip to the airport was uneventful, arriving in plenty of time for her afternoon flight to the other side of the world.
After a long plane journey, Laura was delighted to arrive in London again. A few days to overcome the worst of jetlag, then on to visit her friend in the West Country for a few days. The time spent there was always like returning home, a feeling of belonging, sheer joy of seeing the hilly countryside again, woodlands with air spiced with a rich aromatic smell of earthiness, cows grazing nonchalantly in fields chewing on sweet smelling grass, was exhilarating. She relished it as before when living in the vicinity, breathing in the countryside and all it offered, its peace and tranquility overwhelming the senses. She missed it, the same sense of homeliness always returned when she drove down the narrow country lanes, the familiarity was there to be experienced again, a blissful awakening that this part of England was unchanged, unspoiled. If it was May, the cow parsley would be flowering, almost meeting as it spilled onto the narrow lanes, dropping tiny white spent flowers scattering across the road. If early April, she may hear the first cuckoo deep in the woods at the bottom of a field, a small stream flowing through, gurgling as it passed the spruce trees in rows like marching soldiers. They whispered white in mid winter, quiet as door mice sleeping through cold snowy weather. She remembered the hedgehog that slept peacefully under a pile of leaves in her garden. Her thoughts were indulged with the familiar environment, it never seemed to change, thankfully.
Soon it was time to move on, hire a car, driving wherever the will took her.
Time and chance took her in a vague north easterly direction toward the Cotswolds. Finding herself in the lovely cathedral city of Wells in Somerset, she came across the magnificent cathedral, its pretty setting with swans gliding around the moat near the entrance. The early English Gothic architecture of the cathedral was impressive, the size not as big as perhaps Lincoln or York, nonetheless worth a visit.
Laura decided on a pub lunch first, her time then free to explore the cathedral afterwards. With her last visit being year's ago, this was another opportunity to capture the famous scissor-like structures of the interior; an unorthodox solution of support after the central tower was heightened between 1315 - 22 topped with a spire. This evidently caused the piers to show signs of stress, thereby low arches were inserted, adding inverted arches of similar dimensions, she learned; there being no better time to photograph them than now.
Later, lunch completed, she entered the cathedral, quietly moved around to the Well's astronomical clock, with its surviving mechanism dating back to between 1386 - 1392. Laura paused nearby. She didn't have her heavy tripod with her, so resourceful as she was, took several things from her bag to prop up the long lens of her camera on a low stone bench. Soon, two elderly ladies came into view and stood gazing at the mechanism of the old clock.
Laura enjoyed photographing the cathedral interior, lost in a haze of history.
Some time later, she was searching in her bag for something in a craft shop. With horrified shock, she realized her money purse was missing, the soft leather one she so carefully chose in a tiny shop in Rome, after losing another one she had had for many years.
'Oh damn and blast,' she sighed out loud, experiencing a slight sick feeling inside. I really can't remember exactly where I could have lost it, she muttered under her breath to no-one in particular. She had left a few pounds sterling in a pocket to pay for lunch, but now the seriousness of losing her purse started to dawn on her. Several of her important cards were inside, so she decided to back-track as quickly as possible, trying not to panic in order to think clearly.
Eventually she arrived back at the cathedral.
Being greeted by a tall gentleman wearing some sort of cross sash around his shoulder and over his chest, she tried to appeal to his patience, a little out of breath. The gentleman gave her a slight smile, a brief feeling of hope and told Laura to walk across the nave of the cathedral and knock on the verger's door nearby. She had only half heard where the gentleman directed, as by now she was becoming very anxious indeed. She scurried around a few corners, finding a small door in a very high wall and knocked hopefully. Eventually the door opened slowly, a face appearing above some sort of cassock.
'Yes?' asked the man slowly. 'Can I help you at all?'
Laura explained about the missing purse, finding it necessary to describe it in detail, as the verger wasn't at all impressed with her pleading. As she did so, the man facing her within the small cathedral room, calmly withdrew inside while Laura waited anxiously and a good deal of expectancy. The purse had evidently been found by two elderly ladies and handed in immediately. When the verger returned holding the purse, Laura sighed deeply, clasped it gratefully, with great relief, thanking the gentleman. She returned to the reception area and asked if was possible they knew the names of the ladies. who had found it.
'Well, we DID write down the names, but seem to have mislaid them somewhere,' explained a white haired lady with a sweet smile, sitting behind a desk. She rummaged in a draw of the desk a little longer, then said, 'I'm awfully sorry my dear, I can't find the note at all, but you must be very relieved just the same, to have your purse returned.'
'I am indeed.' Laura smiled back at them, about to depart, when two elderly ladies suddenly appeared around a corner.
'Oh!' cried the lady behind the reception desk. 'These are the very ladies who found your purse and handed it in.' She gestured to the two ladies who had paused by the reception desk.
Laura turned to face them, completely overwhelmed with gratitude and gave them both a hug with tears of joy in her eyes. 'I can't thank you enough for your kindness and honesty,' she said, smiling at each one in turn. 'I never thought I'd see that purse again. It's people like you who are very special indeed and the world needs more like you. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much time was spent finding that nice soft leather purse in Rome, after my other one was, er, mislaid. I'd had it for many years and still miss it, never wanted to lose another one. Quite silly I suppose, becoming attached to an old purse, but it's the shape, colour and softness of leather I liked. Very difficult to replace.' She rambled on in a flood of emotion.
The taller one of the two introduced herself as Charlotte, doing the same for her friend, Hetty. She was the first one to speak. 'You are most welcome. It was the obvious thing to do, handing it in immediately. We had done so quite some time ago after finding it on the floor near the old clock,' she added. 'It's a wonder you hadn't missed it sooner.'
Laura was still in tears, but smiling through them. 'I had left the cathedral and wandered through some shops. Then I suddenly missed it, had to back-track. You are both very kind indeed,' she repeated. 'I'd love to take you both for some tea or reward you with a little something for your good deed.'
'It was nothing really, but thank you, no, we must be getting back to our car now. We have a long drive ahead,' Charlotte explained.
'Oh, that's a pity, but I understand,' Laura said, still delighted with meeting the two elderly ladies. They chatted on a little longer and exchanged email addresses as only Charlotte and not Hetty, used a computer from time to time, as did Laura on a regular basis.
After an enjoyable discussion about what they found in common, Charlotte having collected many stamps over the years and Laura remembering she had kept an album since she was eight years old, they parted company after their brief encounter. Charlotte's last words to Laura were - 'send me a Christmas card my dear, I'd love a few stamps from your country,' smiling over her shoulder, waving goodbye.
Laura was determined upon returning home, to be sure and contact Charlotte, retrieve her old stamp album, and send off a few stamps she knew she had saved years ago. She seemed the most interested of the two ladies, in a possible communication at a later time.
Laura walked off in another direction, still emotional about finding her purse, not really believing she would see it again. The feeling of euphoria stayed with her for the rest of the day, the memory of meeting two very charming, interesting and delightful ladies would stay with her forever, their honesty commendable and very much appreciated.
She drove over many roads and lanes of England enjoying beautiful small towns, pretty villages, late wild flowers, cottage gardens, apart from the historic content of many places she found along the way. She often paused to take photos when she sensed an opportunity suddenly presented itself, relishing in the history of ancient castles in parts of Wales where she ventured for about a week.
The mists that hovered over the mountain tops often lingered, enchanting her, sometimes settling into deep valleys or over a river, before once again clearing or swirling rain clouds appeared, washing the countryside clean, leaving it adorned with late afternoon sunshine, air sweet with the remains of summer.
The weeks flew by quickly, the car had to be returned and finding herself in London again, Laura ventured into many places only visited briefly in the past. Wandering at will, taking the last photos before returning home, she often thought of her chance meeting with Charlotte and Hetty, giving her a quiet feeling of euphoria.
Upon arrival back in Australia, Laura dealt with the mundane things for a few days before deciding to send Charlotte the first email. Within no time, she had received a reply, telling her many things of interest after arriving back home where she lived, toward the north of England. She had been staying with her friend Hetty further south and was enjoying 'gallivanting' as she called it. Laura was pleased, delighted in fact, that her pen pal was so active, amusing and very interesting. The contact stimulated her into writing short stories again, as she had fallen into a sort of stagnation with it.
From then on, many emails were exchanged between the two woman, although they were not of similar ages, but both finding the exchanges great fun, indulgent and enjoyable, always learning from each other, with plenty to laugh about.
This lasted for many years, emails were sent back and forth between the two ladies, by now, close friends. Laura always took note of what her pen pal Charlotte told her, about England's history, its architecture. She described the local flora and fauna as the seasons came and went, the world about her, having many times been travelling around many parts of England and beyond, spending time with family. Her life had been a source of inspiration, Laura always absorbing the information and sometimes using it in a short story. Charlotte continued to collect stamps, Laura sending several in a Christmas card each year, delighting her friend.
Then suddenly, without warning, the correspondence from Charlotte ceased. Laura became very concerned, not knowing the reason why her emails were not answered, pondering over this for many weeks wondering what to do.
One day in late winter when the trees were bare, the wind crept around the house, while birds had ceased their morning song long ago, outside the garden silent and foreboding. Rain splashed down the windows falling into tiny pools below, when Laura reluctantly checked her letter box. She gingerly plucked an envelope from inside, noticing it had come from England, immediately puzzled as to who had sent it. These days she rarely received letters, only emails.
Laura made some strong coffee and sat down to read the letter. As she opened it, she glanced at the bottom, realizing it had been written by Charlotte's old friend, Hetty. Somehow Hetty must have been given her address and written a letter, which read as follows -
'My dear Laura, I have been aware for many years that you and Charlotte had become close pen pals and it is with deep regret that I now inform you of her passing some weeks ago. It had been difficult to retrieve your address, but eventually I was able to do so. I have lost a very dear sweet friend. We had been close since our school days and I'm sure you will be affected by her death also. Charlotte passed away peacefully in her sleep, evidently it was her heart that finally gave out. She had had trouble in the past, but didn't want to make much of it.
Like you I'm sure, I feel a gaping hole in my life and hope it will be possible for you to accept her death without too much sadness.
I know Charlotte had always enjoyed your communications and it was with great reluctance that I write to you. Try not to be too sad dear Laura, Charlotte had enjoyed her life to the full. It was as she had wanted and what she made of her life, giving freely of herself with a kind gentleness and thoughtfulness, endeared her to everyone around her.
There are things I must do now and I felt it only right to inform you about Charlotte. Take care my dear.
I remain yours sincerely, Hetty B.'
Laura slowly placed the letter on the table, tears flowing down her cheeks. Life would never be quite the same without Charlotte, who would be greatly missed. It was difficult to think of anything else for a while, as Laura sat pondering on all she had learned of life from her pen pal, living in the north of England.
That brief encounter in Wells cathedral had been one of life's blessings and would remain with her forever.
Laura had been through this many times in the past and enjoyed travelling, seeing a little of Europe, visiting her friend in England and arranging all this herself wasn't too difficult. The thought of travelling on her own was never daunting, in fact she relished it as she was able to enjoy most things at will.
Being interested in photography played a large part of her travels as did other things, but she liked to spend as much time where possible, concentrating on this aspect of the adventure and it was an adventure, as she never knew exactly what would happen or whom she would meet along the way.
It was usually necessary to alter the camera settings carefully before taking each photo, but there were times when luck played a part. She would have fun clicking the shutter after guessing the settings, when she saw a good light opportunity or subject not to be missed, taking her chances. This, she found could be rewarding and very creative depending on where she was, the subject matter, the execution thereof. She smiled to herself. Once she found some tall grasses growing alongside a path and slowed the shutter speed down, then jerking the camera to one side at just the right moment. This resulted in unusual shapes and colours. Yes, those shots could turn our very interesting indeed, she thought.
The trip to the airport was uneventful, arriving in plenty of time for her afternoon flight to the other side of the world.
After a long plane journey, Laura was delighted to arrive in London again. A few days to overcome the worst of jetlag, then on to visit her friend in the West Country for a few days. The time spent there was always like returning home, a feeling of belonging, sheer joy of seeing the hilly countryside again, woodlands with air spiced with a rich aromatic smell of earthiness, cows grazing nonchalantly in fields chewing on sweet smelling grass, was exhilarating. She relished it as before when living in the vicinity, breathing in the countryside and all it offered, its peace and tranquility overwhelming the senses. She missed it, the same sense of homeliness always returned when she drove down the narrow country lanes, the familiarity was there to be experienced again, a blissful awakening that this part of England was unchanged, unspoiled. If it was May, the cow parsley would be flowering, almost meeting as it spilled onto the narrow lanes, dropping tiny white spent flowers scattering across the road. If early April, she may hear the first cuckoo deep in the woods at the bottom of a field, a small stream flowing through, gurgling as it passed the spruce trees in rows like marching soldiers. They whispered white in mid winter, quiet as door mice sleeping through cold snowy weather. She remembered the hedgehog that slept peacefully under a pile of leaves in her garden. Her thoughts were indulged with the familiar environment, it never seemed to change, thankfully.
Soon it was time to move on, hire a car, driving wherever the will took her.
Time and chance took her in a vague north easterly direction toward the Cotswolds. Finding herself in the lovely cathedral city of Wells in Somerset, she came across the magnificent cathedral, its pretty setting with swans gliding around the moat near the entrance. The early English Gothic architecture of the cathedral was impressive, the size not as big as perhaps Lincoln or York, nonetheless worth a visit.
Laura decided on a pub lunch first, her time then free to explore the cathedral afterwards. With her last visit being year's ago, this was another opportunity to capture the famous scissor-like structures of the interior; an unorthodox solution of support after the central tower was heightened between 1315 - 22 topped with a spire. This evidently caused the piers to show signs of stress, thereby low arches were inserted, adding inverted arches of similar dimensions, she learned; there being no better time to photograph them than now.
Later, lunch completed, she entered the cathedral, quietly moved around to the Well's astronomical clock, with its surviving mechanism dating back to between 1386 - 1392. Laura paused nearby. She didn't have her heavy tripod with her, so resourceful as she was, took several things from her bag to prop up the long lens of her camera on a low stone bench. Soon, two elderly ladies came into view and stood gazing at the mechanism of the old clock.
Laura enjoyed photographing the cathedral interior, lost in a haze of history.
Some time later, she was searching in her bag for something in a craft shop. With horrified shock, she realized her money purse was missing, the soft leather one she so carefully chose in a tiny shop in Rome, after losing another one she had had for many years.
'Oh damn and blast,' she sighed out loud, experiencing a slight sick feeling inside. I really can't remember exactly where I could have lost it, she muttered under her breath to no-one in particular. She had left a few pounds sterling in a pocket to pay for lunch, but now the seriousness of losing her purse started to dawn on her. Several of her important cards were inside, so she decided to back-track as quickly as possible, trying not to panic in order to think clearly.
Eventually she arrived back at the cathedral.
Being greeted by a tall gentleman wearing some sort of cross sash around his shoulder and over his chest, she tried to appeal to his patience, a little out of breath. The gentleman gave her a slight smile, a brief feeling of hope and told Laura to walk across the nave of the cathedral and knock on the verger's door nearby. She had only half heard where the gentleman directed, as by now she was becoming very anxious indeed. She scurried around a few corners, finding a small door in a very high wall and knocked hopefully. Eventually the door opened slowly, a face appearing above some sort of cassock.
'Yes?' asked the man slowly. 'Can I help you at all?'
Laura explained about the missing purse, finding it necessary to describe it in detail, as the verger wasn't at all impressed with her pleading. As she did so, the man facing her within the small cathedral room, calmly withdrew inside while Laura waited anxiously and a good deal of expectancy. The purse had evidently been found by two elderly ladies and handed in immediately. When the verger returned holding the purse, Laura sighed deeply, clasped it gratefully, with great relief, thanking the gentleman. She returned to the reception area and asked if was possible they knew the names of the ladies. who had found it.
'Well, we DID write down the names, but seem to have mislaid them somewhere,' explained a white haired lady with a sweet smile, sitting behind a desk. She rummaged in a draw of the desk a little longer, then said, 'I'm awfully sorry my dear, I can't find the note at all, but you must be very relieved just the same, to have your purse returned.'
'I am indeed.' Laura smiled back at them, about to depart, when two elderly ladies suddenly appeared around a corner.
'Oh!' cried the lady behind the reception desk. 'These are the very ladies who found your purse and handed it in.' She gestured to the two ladies who had paused by the reception desk.
Laura turned to face them, completely overwhelmed with gratitude and gave them both a hug with tears of joy in her eyes. 'I can't thank you enough for your kindness and honesty,' she said, smiling at each one in turn. 'I never thought I'd see that purse again. It's people like you who are very special indeed and the world needs more like you. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much time was spent finding that nice soft leather purse in Rome, after my other one was, er, mislaid. I'd had it for many years and still miss it, never wanted to lose another one. Quite silly I suppose, becoming attached to an old purse, but it's the shape, colour and softness of leather I liked. Very difficult to replace.' She rambled on in a flood of emotion.
The taller one of the two introduced herself as Charlotte, doing the same for her friend, Hetty. She was the first one to speak. 'You are most welcome. It was the obvious thing to do, handing it in immediately. We had done so quite some time ago after finding it on the floor near the old clock,' she added. 'It's a wonder you hadn't missed it sooner.'
Laura was still in tears, but smiling through them. 'I had left the cathedral and wandered through some shops. Then I suddenly missed it, had to back-track. You are both very kind indeed,' she repeated. 'I'd love to take you both for some tea or reward you with a little something for your good deed.'
'It was nothing really, but thank you, no, we must be getting back to our car now. We have a long drive ahead,' Charlotte explained.
'Oh, that's a pity, but I understand,' Laura said, still delighted with meeting the two elderly ladies. They chatted on a little longer and exchanged email addresses as only Charlotte and not Hetty, used a computer from time to time, as did Laura on a regular basis.
After an enjoyable discussion about what they found in common, Charlotte having collected many stamps over the years and Laura remembering she had kept an album since she was eight years old, they parted company after their brief encounter. Charlotte's last words to Laura were - 'send me a Christmas card my dear, I'd love a few stamps from your country,' smiling over her shoulder, waving goodbye.
Laura was determined upon returning home, to be sure and contact Charlotte, retrieve her old stamp album, and send off a few stamps she knew she had saved years ago. She seemed the most interested of the two ladies, in a possible communication at a later time.
Laura walked off in another direction, still emotional about finding her purse, not really believing she would see it again. The feeling of euphoria stayed with her for the rest of the day, the memory of meeting two very charming, interesting and delightful ladies would stay with her forever, their honesty commendable and very much appreciated.
She drove over many roads and lanes of England enjoying beautiful small towns, pretty villages, late wild flowers, cottage gardens, apart from the historic content of many places she found along the way. She often paused to take photos when she sensed an opportunity suddenly presented itself, relishing in the history of ancient castles in parts of Wales where she ventured for about a week.
The mists that hovered over the mountain tops often lingered, enchanting her, sometimes settling into deep valleys or over a river, before once again clearing or swirling rain clouds appeared, washing the countryside clean, leaving it adorned with late afternoon sunshine, air sweet with the remains of summer.
The weeks flew by quickly, the car had to be returned and finding herself in London again, Laura ventured into many places only visited briefly in the past. Wandering at will, taking the last photos before returning home, she often thought of her chance meeting with Charlotte and Hetty, giving her a quiet feeling of euphoria.
Upon arrival back in Australia, Laura dealt with the mundane things for a few days before deciding to send Charlotte the first email. Within no time, she had received a reply, telling her many things of interest after arriving back home where she lived, toward the north of England. She had been staying with her friend Hetty further south and was enjoying 'gallivanting' as she called it. Laura was pleased, delighted in fact, that her pen pal was so active, amusing and very interesting. The contact stimulated her into writing short stories again, as she had fallen into a sort of stagnation with it.
From then on, many emails were exchanged between the two woman, although they were not of similar ages, but both finding the exchanges great fun, indulgent and enjoyable, always learning from each other, with plenty to laugh about.
This lasted for many years, emails were sent back and forth between the two ladies, by now, close friends. Laura always took note of what her pen pal Charlotte told her, about England's history, its architecture. She described the local flora and fauna as the seasons came and went, the world about her, having many times been travelling around many parts of England and beyond, spending time with family. Her life had been a source of inspiration, Laura always absorbing the information and sometimes using it in a short story. Charlotte continued to collect stamps, Laura sending several in a Christmas card each year, delighting her friend.
Then suddenly, without warning, the correspondence from Charlotte ceased. Laura became very concerned, not knowing the reason why her emails were not answered, pondering over this for many weeks wondering what to do.
One day in late winter when the trees were bare, the wind crept around the house, while birds had ceased their morning song long ago, outside the garden silent and foreboding. Rain splashed down the windows falling into tiny pools below, when Laura reluctantly checked her letter box. She gingerly plucked an envelope from inside, noticing it had come from England, immediately puzzled as to who had sent it. These days she rarely received letters, only emails.
Laura made some strong coffee and sat down to read the letter. As she opened it, she glanced at the bottom, realizing it had been written by Charlotte's old friend, Hetty. Somehow Hetty must have been given her address and written a letter, which read as follows -
'My dear Laura, I have been aware for many years that you and Charlotte had become close pen pals and it is with deep regret that I now inform you of her passing some weeks ago. It had been difficult to retrieve your address, but eventually I was able to do so. I have lost a very dear sweet friend. We had been close since our school days and I'm sure you will be affected by her death also. Charlotte passed away peacefully in her sleep, evidently it was her heart that finally gave out. She had had trouble in the past, but didn't want to make much of it.
Like you I'm sure, I feel a gaping hole in my life and hope it will be possible for you to accept her death without too much sadness.
I know Charlotte had always enjoyed your communications and it was with great reluctance that I write to you. Try not to be too sad dear Laura, Charlotte had enjoyed her life to the full. It was as she had wanted and what she made of her life, giving freely of herself with a kind gentleness and thoughtfulness, endeared her to everyone around her.
There are things I must do now and I felt it only right to inform you about Charlotte. Take care my dear.
I remain yours sincerely, Hetty B.'
Laura slowly placed the letter on the table, tears flowing down her cheeks. Life would never be quite the same without Charlotte, who would be greatly missed. It was difficult to think of anything else for a while, as Laura sat pondering on all she had learned of life from her pen pal, living in the north of England.
That brief encounter in Wells cathedral had been one of life's blessings and would remain with her forever.
Friday, 8 November 2013
Remembering an Abbey in Anjou
Warm sun beat down upon the Anjou day, the morning still early, the sky a crisp blue while thin white clouds tipped with grey, flitted across like birds soaring endlessly high in the heavens above a quiet scene of peaceful historic contemplation.
The Abbaye de Fontevraud lay gleaming in the sunshine, its roof glinting like dull gold, reflecting the late summer, its quiet beauty of Romanesque architecture resplendent.
Approaching the western façade, the arched doorway through which a faint light appeared and filtered down to the four effigies that lay close together toward the end of the long aisleless nave and transepts with chapels - two kings, a queen and the wife of another king, all from the same Plantagenet family. The whereabouts of their bones still unknown.
Richard I, once King of England, Duke of Normandy, supposedly lay at rest here in Fontevraud Abbey not far from the Loire river in France, who, after twice rebelling against his father, became a king, a crusader of renown and gifted military leader of men, a warrior who had led his army against the Muslim leader Saladin. He had left the ruling of England to others while his younger brother John, schemed in his absence, to claim England's throne for himself, but only achieving that after the death of Richard.
The walls of the abbey soared high above where Richard lay. He had taken an unfortunate arrow in the shoulder that ended with his untimely death. The proud face of his effigy enlightens the onlooker of his past abilities, conquering the Muslim leader, but never Jerusalem, of his travels far and wide beyond the shores of England, where he had not spent the majority of his life, but it had been a life of achievements, adventures, battles and confinement. Upon his return from the third crusade, he was captured and held for many months until his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine paid a vast ransom for his release.
There are other so-called graves in the abbey, all close together, effigies once adorned in colours of red and blue, now worn with age over the centuries. Lives that had been lived in the mists of time, of sadness, splendour, the high walls each side of the nave mainly bare of adornment, encompassing the stillness and stark beauty of the interior. The sun streaming gently through a window above, reflecting down softly upon the faces of a king, his queen, their effigies side by side. Eleanor of Aquitaine, an open book in her hands, is raised a little higher than her lord King, Henry II of England. He died nearby at Chinon, his life having been in turmoil at times, their family spread far and wide.
The walls echoed the silence and peace of the moments spent there and beside Richard was Isabella of Angouleme, wife of Richard's younger brother John, who finally became King of England but losing most of the Angevin empire before he died.
Beyond the vast nave are the cloisters, built around a simple garden where perhaps Eleanor of Aquitaine strolled from time to time, the quietness reflecting her ghost as she swept the length of them, her skirts brushing the simplicity of low plants growing there.
The sun now behind a cloud, the cloisters eerily empty of who went before, where once the nuns and Abbesses living here within the vast walls spread around from the church, were to be seen walking quietly to and from their various duties. Off one of the cloisters, an archway beautifully decorated with intricate carvings, lead to the Chapter House where wall paintings are to be seen.
A garden lay beyond the towering architecture of the kitchens to one side of the Abbey buildings, still growing a few vegetables and flowers, where a brace of workmen tended the end of summer beds. Two butterflies blundered into the garden border, alighting on the remaining lavender, their colours vivid as the sun appeared once again, warming the flight of a bee, swarming around the center of various flowers.
The vast complex of buildings was once a prison. Perhaps the inmates were never free to roam in the garden, never free of their bondage to feel the warmth of the sun on their faces, see the bees and butterflies fly freely in and out of the flowers, unfettered. Their lives had been harsh, cruel, unbearable.
But the Abbey of Fontevraud is tranquil now, where only visitors stroll, its simple beauty encompassing all who enter here, inspiring, captivating the imagination generated from within its walls, hidden in the depths of history for all who seek its origins, remembering its grandeur.
The Abbaye de Fontevraud lay gleaming in the sunshine, its roof glinting like dull gold, reflecting the late summer, its quiet beauty of Romanesque architecture resplendent.
Approaching the western façade, the arched doorway through which a faint light appeared and filtered down to the four effigies that lay close together toward the end of the long aisleless nave and transepts with chapels - two kings, a queen and the wife of another king, all from the same Plantagenet family. The whereabouts of their bones still unknown.
Richard I, once King of England, Duke of Normandy, supposedly lay at rest here in Fontevraud Abbey not far from the Loire river in France, who, after twice rebelling against his father, became a king, a crusader of renown and gifted military leader of men, a warrior who had led his army against the Muslim leader Saladin. He had left the ruling of England to others while his younger brother John, schemed in his absence, to claim England's throne for himself, but only achieving that after the death of Richard.
The walls of the abbey soared high above where Richard lay. He had taken an unfortunate arrow in the shoulder that ended with his untimely death. The proud face of his effigy enlightens the onlooker of his past abilities, conquering the Muslim leader, but never Jerusalem, of his travels far and wide beyond the shores of England, where he had not spent the majority of his life, but it had been a life of achievements, adventures, battles and confinement. Upon his return from the third crusade, he was captured and held for many months until his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine paid a vast ransom for his release.
There are other so-called graves in the abbey, all close together, effigies once adorned in colours of red and blue, now worn with age over the centuries. Lives that had been lived in the mists of time, of sadness, splendour, the high walls each side of the nave mainly bare of adornment, encompassing the stillness and stark beauty of the interior. The sun streaming gently through a window above, reflecting down softly upon the faces of a king, his queen, their effigies side by side. Eleanor of Aquitaine, an open book in her hands, is raised a little higher than her lord King, Henry II of England. He died nearby at Chinon, his life having been in turmoil at times, their family spread far and wide.
The walls echoed the silence and peace of the moments spent there and beside Richard was Isabella of Angouleme, wife of Richard's younger brother John, who finally became King of England but losing most of the Angevin empire before he died.
Beyond the vast nave are the cloisters, built around a simple garden where perhaps Eleanor of Aquitaine strolled from time to time, the quietness reflecting her ghost as she swept the length of them, her skirts brushing the simplicity of low plants growing there.
The sun now behind a cloud, the cloisters eerily empty of who went before, where once the nuns and Abbesses living here within the vast walls spread around from the church, were to be seen walking quietly to and from their various duties. Off one of the cloisters, an archway beautifully decorated with intricate carvings, lead to the Chapter House where wall paintings are to be seen.
A garden lay beyond the towering architecture of the kitchens to one side of the Abbey buildings, still growing a few vegetables and flowers, where a brace of workmen tended the end of summer beds. Two butterflies blundered into the garden border, alighting on the remaining lavender, their colours vivid as the sun appeared once again, warming the flight of a bee, swarming around the center of various flowers.
The vast complex of buildings was once a prison. Perhaps the inmates were never free to roam in the garden, never free of their bondage to feel the warmth of the sun on their faces, see the bees and butterflies fly freely in and out of the flowers, unfettered. Their lives had been harsh, cruel, unbearable.
But the Abbey of Fontevraud is tranquil now, where only visitors stroll, its simple beauty encompassing all who enter here, inspiring, captivating the imagination generated from within its walls, hidden in the depths of history for all who seek its origins, remembering its grandeur.
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