Day Nine (2001)
Yesterday we planted a tree in the back, a beautiful red tree of unknown species and leaves that looked maple. We placed it almost on the very spot we exchanged vows. It is our hope that it will grow to shade the place with the best view from the entire farmhouse and that future couples may exchange their troths ‘neath our wedding tree. I finished my narrative last night by going out to see our hosts painting. They are marvelous. He paints with the eye of one who knows his subject. You can see in the hills he has painted a lifetime of walking the hills. The trees and bushes are painted with the practiced eye the see’s their beauty but nows that sometimes they must be trimmed or even destroyed. Our host is not afraid to face the truth of his paintings. He does not shy away from reality to cloak fact with beauty. Instead he incorporates truth into the beauty of an image, making the contrail of a passing jet as much a part of his natural scene as the hills and shrubs. We talked long into the night with our hosts. Today we went shopping with Danaide's father, then sent him on his way. Watching that man shop is eerily like watching glaciers grind rock, you know that some ultimate goal is being pursued but no movement is visible. Tonight we sampled the liquor cabinet, amply stocked but seldom touched. We were served with our hosts perpetual good cheer but even fortified by the laws of hospitality I could not bring myself to drink whiskey neat.
I must not forget the torrential downpour of the day. The little brook through the middle of the farm was changed to a raging stream and the gravel on the country roads was washed away. The dog found the weather to be a great game of fetch with the gods of the sky and chased every drop from the roof in a primeval dance.
Day Ten
A day for goodbyes. Today we said goodbye to the last remnant of our families. It was hard to part with my parents as the left for the south and eventually home. Never before have I been so completely cut off from familial support. Dad was stoic with a curt goodbye and a quick run to the car where none could see his eyes. Mom clung to me as though we would never see each other again. I will miss them yet am glad for the separation. Before they left they insisted on helping settle the bill and when it was lower than expected kept insisting to out hosts that we pay more! As though we were incapable of demonstrating gratitude in a proper fashion. Some distance will do us good. Our hosts have assumed a role as temporary parents making sure we know correct routes that we eat properly etc, even sowing flags to our panniers.
I feel a strange pressure on my writing here. As if because I am writing more constantly my writing should improve. That everything I write must be witty or profoundly insightful instead of the dry prosaic thoughts that fill my head or the mediocre everyday writing that flows from my pen. I feel that I should observe more but see only the world that is there and I am unable to write even that.
I saw Caer Caradoc today. I had envisioned it as a small fort atop a little rise off east of Church Stretton. Instead it is a great ring atop a rise more mountain than hill. It looks like a green crown atop a mighty rampart and except for the straightness of the ring walls would seem to be a natural feature of the landscape.
I am tired tonight and apprehensive about the morrow. How will we fare when testing our mettle against the pavement? We will grow from the experience or merely see it as another trip? Will we last or fold? So many questions that can only be answered by testing. At least we have packed and are ready to begin. The waiting becomes unbearable. What will tomorrow hold? I can hardly wait to see.
Yesterday we planted a tree in the back, a beautiful red tree of unknown species and leaves that looked maple. We placed it almost on the very spot we exchanged vows. It is our hope that it will grow to shade the place with the best view from the entire farmhouse and that future couples may exchange their troths ‘neath our wedding tree. I finished my narrative last night by going out to see our hosts painting. They are marvelous. He paints with the eye of one who knows his subject. You can see in the hills he has painted a lifetime of walking the hills. The trees and bushes are painted with the practiced eye the see’s their beauty but nows that sometimes they must be trimmed or even destroyed. Our host is not afraid to face the truth of his paintings. He does not shy away from reality to cloak fact with beauty. Instead he incorporates truth into the beauty of an image, making the contrail of a passing jet as much a part of his natural scene as the hills and shrubs. We talked long into the night with our hosts. Today we went shopping with Danaide's father, then sent him on his way. Watching that man shop is eerily like watching glaciers grind rock, you know that some ultimate goal is being pursued but no movement is visible. Tonight we sampled the liquor cabinet, amply stocked but seldom touched. We were served with our hosts perpetual good cheer but even fortified by the laws of hospitality I could not bring myself to drink whiskey neat.
I must not forget the torrential downpour of the day. The little brook through the middle of the farm was changed to a raging stream and the gravel on the country roads was washed away. The dog found the weather to be a great game of fetch with the gods of the sky and chased every drop from the roof in a primeval dance.
Day Ten
A day for goodbyes. Today we said goodbye to the last remnant of our families. It was hard to part with my parents as the left for the south and eventually home. Never before have I been so completely cut off from familial support. Dad was stoic with a curt goodbye and a quick run to the car where none could see his eyes. Mom clung to me as though we would never see each other again. I will miss them yet am glad for the separation. Before they left they insisted on helping settle the bill and when it was lower than expected kept insisting to out hosts that we pay more! As though we were incapable of demonstrating gratitude in a proper fashion. Some distance will do us good. Our hosts have assumed a role as temporary parents making sure we know correct routes that we eat properly etc, even sowing flags to our panniers.
I feel a strange pressure on my writing here. As if because I am writing more constantly my writing should improve. That everything I write must be witty or profoundly insightful instead of the dry prosaic thoughts that fill my head or the mediocre everyday writing that flows from my pen. I feel that I should observe more but see only the world that is there and I am unable to write even that.
I saw Caer Caradoc today. I had envisioned it as a small fort atop a little rise off east of Church Stretton. Instead it is a great ring atop a rise more mountain than hill. It looks like a green crown atop a mighty rampart and except for the straightness of the ring walls would seem to be a natural feature of the landscape.
I am tired tonight and apprehensive about the morrow. How will we fare when testing our mettle against the pavement? We will grow from the experience or merely see it as another trip? Will we last or fold? So many questions that can only be answered by testing. At least we have packed and are ready to begin. The waiting becomes unbearable. What will tomorrow hold? I can hardly wait to see.
braveart:
Have you ever been back to see the tree you planted?