Tag: manisha hegde

Austria: Fondly Stray Over the Hills and Far Away

November 25, 2018

Chapter I

The wait in Salzburg – A frolicsome terrier – Salzburg to Strobl – Appeal of the Alps – The guest house – Strolling through Strobl

Early summer, we hiked across the lakes, rivers, and hills of Austria, fanatically picturing the picturesque environs, like rivals on a photography assignment. Our journey began in Salzburg, where we were to board a bus bound for Upper Austria. While we were kicking our heels at a bus stop, the rain god made a grand appearance, driving us to enter a bistro whose fancy lights had caught my fancy as we scurried across lanes.

A silvery terrier came hopping to us when we presented ourselves at the entrance. Throughout the period spent at the bistro, I could hardly desist from entertaining—by means of caresses—the little creature whose frolics had captivated me. Every time she sensed the presence of a visitor, her desire for attention would make her scamper towards the entrance, and soon, to realise the very same desire, she would run back to me with unaltered buoyancy. So reluctant was I to bid farewell to the dog who effused such generous warmth.

The appeal of the Alps was apparent from the time we boarded the bus, as we glimpsed a profusion of lambent lakes girdling the glorious mountains in the cobalt shades of evening. On a journey far away from my base, the humble acknowledgement of my beloved’s presence elated me more than the gorgeous sights.

In Strobl, lugging the heavy bag along the road to the guest house, I could not but acquiesce in his opinion that I should have carried a backpack instead of a tote bag. The fetching accoutrements of the guest house, which was equipped with all the thoughtful comforts one is likely to possess in his own abode, revived the delight taken by a child in stumbling upon the bits and bobs for a domestic pretend play. Porcelain jugs with floral motifs adorned the tables and the sill of a window that was clothed in white lace curtains.

That cold night, we soundlessly walked to a spot not far away, to admire from afar a faintly lit dwelling—a sight that evoked an image from my nocturnal amble in Portree. The next morning, we set out for a stroll through Strobl.

Vying to aesthetically picture a parish church, we crossed a boggy field through which ran a creek that shimmered in the sunlight and, as he indicated, reflected the slumbering mountains in the distance. Strolling further led us to a pathway that was lined by birch trees. With the Salzkammergut Mountains on one side and Lake Wolfgang on the other, we were presently in the nature reserve of Blinklingmoos. The abundance of verdant fields and the recurring sight of the locals pedalling bicycles underlined my father’s description of the place a decade ago. Indeed, it had been the reason that I chose to visit the landlocked mountainous country.

Chapter II

Strobl to St. Wolfgang – Mural flora – Bird silhouettes – St. Wolfgang to the Mozart Village – The secluded shore

That cool, sunlit afternoon, the residents of the village were out on the patios with families, celebrating the festival of Easter. On account of the holiday, the steamer that was to depart for St. Wolfgang, which is located on the northern shore of the lake, would not return to Strobl. Nonetheless, we went aboard knowing that the villages were well connected by buses.

Near the waterfront in St. Wolfgang, the endearing sight of a man holding a dog in the manner of a parent holding an infant, and that with such warmth and constant attention, made it exceedingly hard for me to avert my gaze. My obliging partner, Dian, stood beside me until I reluctantly declared that I had better proceed. Of what geographically lay ahead we were unaware and perhaps a trifle disregardful, for sometimes there is pleasure in merely wandering about an unfamiliar town, so long as the town has a footway or you have a terrific companion.

In a marvellous amalgam of two terrestrial elements—one manmade, the other natural—the exterior walls of some structures in Austria are graced by vines that eventually colonise them. This phenomenon of mural flora was so foreign and striking to me that my botanically challenged mind wondered if it could occur at all in a tropical country.

On the panes of glass-walled bus shelters were fixed stickers of bird silhouettes—a tactic used to deter birds from fatally crashing against the transparent panes. Picturing the stone veneer of a medieval church, my eyes fell on a poodle who was snug in a basket attached to a bicycle while its human companion was engaged in conversation with her friend. Yet again, Dian exhibited unwavering patience as he waited with me until the furry object of my affection fled the scene in the bicycle. We walked past the picturesque pastel-coloured buildings lining the speckless streets, and then continued the journey on a bus bound for the Mozart Village.

Our brief stroll in St. Gilgen took us to a flower-laden churchyard, and then to a secluded shore of a lake that, to the delight of my lover, afforded a view of the snow-capped mountains and the lulling and undulating hums of mellow waves, and to mine, afforded the sight of a tabby cat. While he attempted to accurately record the sights and the sounds, I pursued the capricious cat until the latter tired of me and quit the spot.

Beside the shore was the birth house of Anna Maria Mozart, mother of musician Maria Mozart and composer Wolfgang Mozart, and further ahead was a shop that sold cuckoo clocks for souvenirs. Both remained closed on account of Easter. The azure sky had deepened into sapphire, and at last, the pendant lamps were illuminated to bedeck the still streets in the gloaming. The scene having then optically altered to my liking, I engaged my humble camera until we reached the bus shelter where we were to board a bus back to Strobl.

Chapter III

Strobl to Obertraun – A gorgeous river – A coniferous forest – The guest house in Obertraun – A night by River Traun

From my travel memoirs, Dian had deduced, rather incorrectly, that to connect with a beauteous place such that my experience is enhanced, I should see the place in his absence. Notwithstanding the demurrals I offered at his misguided proposition, he persuaded me to see Strobl unaccompanied the next morning.

Presently dismissed, I ran through the nature reserve of Blinklingmoos, retracing some of the steps taken the previous day. A pair of geese was peacefully floating in a creek; geese, I later observed, were always found in pairs. Upon the unstirred lake, the mountains sketched their mirror image for the absent companion who found beauty in such precise reflections of nature—the one whose deduction was proven false after all.

The same morning, we left Strobl for Obertraun, a valley backdropped by towering steep massifs. When you are accompanied by a breathing alarm clock, you can rest assured that you will not miss a public transport. Thus, we always arrived at a station ahead of the vehicle. Then having reached the guest house in Obertraun many hours ahead of the check-in time, we chose to see the immediate vicinity, while our cheerful host prepared to arrange our room.

Within a stone’s throw of the house ran a gorgeous river with a bank bespangled with white pebbles. In its frost blue water swam a few swans. On the opposite riverbank was a forest with tall upright trees with plumy leaves shrouded in swathes of shades, notwithstanding the circumambient daylight. We ambled along the riverbank until the eyes of my breezy partner discerned some flowers in a raised clump of shrubs, whereupon he clambered onto them (akin to a bee, he is attracted to flowers). When he later emerged from the bristly bushes, to my pleasant surprise, he proffered to me pink, purple, and white flowers.

The two riverbanks were connected via a road bridge. Crossing it, we found ourselves near the accessway to the coniferous forest which was not tenebrous after all. Here, we stumbled on flowers with yellow pistils and five white petals whose stalks arose straight from the earth. When we found snow on the brink of transformation, we hastily formed deformed balls out of it, and began to toss the melting snow balls on to each other. Of course, I failed terribly in the game of aim.

An oblique pathway lined by the evergreens led us to the riverbank where little pools reflected the snow-capped mountains, thus serving as the subject for Dian’s subsequent photography. The ubiquitous Alps were the source of the cold river, and the river the source of Lake Hallstatt, a popular destination among tourists. We found more flowers that sprang straight from the ground, projecting skyward.

Our hosts in Obertraun were a couple from England who, with their dog, had moved to Austria to live the life they desired. Before it was renovated, the guest house had been a farmhouse. We spent the evening mostly indoors, basking in the mellow light in the balcony, laying around an ornamented dining room listening to the folk music of the Alps, chomping on a homemade chocolate cake, and admiring the animal-themed bibelots, one of which reminded me of my beloved cat, Dora. When night deepened, we silently strode to the riverbank, hoping to see a galaxy of stars. Sparsely occupied by stars, the sapphire sky emphasised the whiteness of the pebbles and the snow on the encompassing mountains.

Chapter IV

Contrails – Hallstatt Skywalk – Tourism in Hallstatt – Lake Hallstatt – Dachstein Mountains – A muted swan – Burgeoning creepers

Every so often in Obertraun, multiple condensation trails furrowed the blue sky. The next day, in the hope of spotting a herd of deer, we took a route that paralleled a fenced deer park, but no such luck. A tributary ran parallel to the same route. Stumbling upon any watercourse meant that my companion would abandon me to ceaselessly engage in filming the stream.

Our path in the Obertraun valley, for the most part, was devoid of people. In Hallstatt, however, the scene was very different. Apparently having gained more popularity in the digital sphere from the dusk images of a parish church by the lake than a prehistoric salt mine, Hallstatt was bustling with tourists on that balmy day. Ironically, the very church had no visitor.

We took a cable car for a tour of the white gold mine located 2,600 feet above sea level in the icy mountains. The Hallstatt Skywalk, a viewing platform, was sought by most tourists to whom the wonderment of the vista was superseded by the desire to get the right shot. From the platform, one could see Lake Hallstatt with its varying shades of blue, and the tiny town shaped like a slice of a pearly pie. Before returning to the ground via the cable car, we tried to make the most of our surroundings by forming snow balls to attack each other with all our might. One time, when I was preparing to pose for a picture such that I would dramatically turn towards the camera on the count of three, my evil partner launched a snow ball right at my grinning face.

Tourism in Hallstatt came at a price. The inconvenience of the residents at the tourist overflow was evident from the placards some had rightly posted on their doors imploring tourists not to invade their privacy or leave their belongings at the doors. It was madness to wait until sundown for a picture of the illuminated church. Yet, so many tourists, including my partner, bided their time. During this period, we sauntered up and down the winding thoroughfares, admiring the creeper-draped pastel structures, stroking (after stalking) the tabby cats that crossed my path, besides looking high and low for a suitable eatery in vain.

Across the market square, walking down a sunless alley alongside a yellow wall, we reached a pier leading to the lake. The faint pink glow of the evening sun reflected on the chalky crest of the Dachstein Mountains, which rose on the other side of the lake. Presently, in all his glory, a mute swan emerged before me; he broke his drift to flutter his majestic wings, leaving concentric ripples on the opalescent surface, before ebbing away, back into the lulling waves.

With the nightfall lit the church. Swans, their snowy plumage sparkling against a dusky surface, floated near the rim as we left the town of burgeoning creepers.

Chapter V

Leaving Obertraun – The railway station

The next morning, we went to see the river before we bade her farewell. After all, it is seldom that one finds a setting encompassing not one but many geographically attractive facets of the Alpine landscapes: a river running along a forest surrounded by mountains.

Keen to imbibe the allure of the valley one last time, Dian, with childlike gusto, pranced about the pebbled bank. Tufts of dense and opaque clouds had been softly traversing the crowns of the conifers. It appeared that for every tree felled in the vicinity, a woody sapling had been planted. In the adjoining forest, the ferny turf was sprinkled with white and purple blossoms whose slender stems, concealed in a viridescent vegetation, emerged from a damp earth. Having ensconced myself on a gigantic sappy log as a thin drizzle skimmed the bank, I could not but allow slumber to take over me.

At the unfrequented railway station in Obertraun, a pair of tourists with whom we had shared a taxi from the guest house learnt, rather sadly, that the train that just left the rails was the one for which they had been waiting. They were worried particularly because they were to catch another train from their first destination, Salzburg, which was over two hours away via train, and the next train bound for Salzburg was scheduled to arrive much later. What compounded their dismay was that when the intended train had braked for passengers to board, they were on the platform—it must have been the mistakable signals, coupled with the language barrier. (If I were journeying in this country on my own, I would have encountered a similar situation on a goodly number of occasions.) Perturbed by their collective frown was Dian, who, with an apologetic countenance, held himself remotely responsible for their predicament as he muttered that it could have been averted if only he had inquired where they were heading when he earlier found them wading through the information systems. Although I argued otherwise, the episode unearthed before me another one of his virtuous traits—empathy.

Chapter VI

Our journey’s end – Styrian architecture – The miniature room – Hike across Grundlsee – A belligerent pug – Undulating greenswards – The ethereal atmosphere – Epiphany

In their idyllic seclusion lay the appeal of most places we visited in Austria, where, at any given spot, almost always, we were the only ones to descend from the bus. Indeed, we took pride in our choice of places to sojourn in. One such place was situated precisely at the further end of Bad Aussee, in the village of Anger, our journey’s end in Austria. From up there, the only conspicuous activity was the continuous slide of a cable car that transported gypsum. On either side of the oblique road, which ran alongside our quaint interim abode, lay undulating grassy leas backdropped by vast mountains capped with fading snow.

We quit the quietude of our guest house to pick a few edibles at a supermarket, wherefrom we plodded further down until we saw a park near the Mercedes Bridge. Presently perched on a bench, we admired the swift passage of the entire luminescent cloud population, which never seemed distant in this geographical centre of the country. A glance at the sky and one forgot his mundane existence.

We chanced on a seemingly shorter course to our guest house—one that partially comprised flights of stony staircases and alleys. The residents were obliged by law to uphold the traditional Styrian architecture, and thus, construction or modification of a house could not result in a façade that deviated from the pattern. Once indoors, I could not resist the snug comfort that our Lilliputian space offered. Enveloped in the miniature room, I embraced the sheer stillness of a cold cerulean twilight as I tranquilly watched clouds shift, through a glass window.

By this time, mindfully governed by our vanities, Dian and I had taken to comparing our respective travel pictures towards the end of each day, each declaring the other’s pictures unworthy (while, deep down, each considered the other’s pictures to be enviously appealing). With no destination in mind when we set out the next morning, we allowed our whims to drive our course, and thus met our eyes the rolling countryside.

We followed a forest glade until we sighted a vista of greensward to reach which one had to trudge over yards of glassy snowmelt. My inexperience with such terrains had me wading my way through the snow-laden path while Dian, who had already reached the periphery, began the snow attacks. Further ahead, past an abandoned log house, we found ourselves in a sparse neighbourhood where, delighted to find a pair of dogs romping around together, I made the folly of attracting them by the tongue-clicking sound. As a result, one of them, a pug, came charging towards me, barking incessantly. Thankfully, no anomaly occurred, for its neighbour appeared to dissuade the little creature from fulfilling its urge. For the remainder of the journey, I reluctantly refrained from attracting the attention of the dogs I espied.

Our rove about the sleepy villages took us to Grundlsee Lake, and then, briefly into a forest where I glimpsed a deer before it disappeared into the woods. The sunbeams glistened upon the white petals of the poisonous Christmas roses and on the spider webs between the twigs of withered trees. Outside the woods, by the side of the road, lay discarded beer cans.

After we returned to the guest house, I ruminated on our earlier unwitting inclination to set out to a destination away from our beauteous locale when the latter exhibited the elements of ecstasy. Consequently, before sundown, we left the guest house again, hoping to find a path to the grassy leas that sprawled in the vicinage.

We frolicked on the greenswards, celebrating the glorious rays emerging from the crest of a distant mountain and piercing the surrounding trees, whose leaves were now a bed of russet foliage complementing the blue-violet liverleaves. In the dwindling light, we discerned a solitary iridescent cloud.

The high cumulus compassing the distant mountains had broken up to scatter the mellow glow of the evening over the rolling sward. A mound of conifers in the purlieu was saturated with sienna. Rambling further across the undulating fields, we reached an expanse of green meadows carpeted in a rich profusion of white crocuses, which, from afar, appeared as drops of snow hailing from the curtains of ice that draped the omnipresent mountains. Enraptured by the enveloping aureate light emanating from a sun obscured by the passing puffy clouds, I lay supine amongst the flower buds pearled on the soft grass. As I shifted my gaze between the ethereal upper atmosphere flushed with the pink of evenfall and the noble figure roaming about the verdant fields in awe of his sublime surroundings, I was imbued with love and contentment.

Now writing this memoir in a city far away from the calmness of the bewitching valley and the glorious mountains, I like to imagine the Obertraun River still running, and the swans still floating on her frosty blue surface. Perhaps, a descending sun still casts a roseate glow on the white curtains of the mountains seen from the swards in Bad Aussee. When, even in the fullness of time—regardless of where I am currently—these places evoke a sense of harmony and peace that was felt when I first beheld them, I can aver that a journey can be positively consequential, notwithstanding the voyage of time.

P.S. The title of this memoir is borrowed from a song in The Beggar’s Opera by John Gay.
The Romantic Allure of the Inner Hebrides

October 20, 2017

Chapter I

In anticipation of Barbara – Loch Lomond – Highland Clearances – Scottish folk songs – Sheep pastoralism – Windstorm

My journey to the Scottish Highlands coincided with the tidings of the arrival of Storm Barbara, and thus devoid of excitement, I embarked on the tour bus across George Square in Glasgow City. Immaterial became the itinerary, and I allowed slumber to conquer me. Despite such assumed dispassion, I must note that I was quick to exit the bus during every stopover.

On the shore of Loch Lomond, pompous ducks with speculum feathers of amethyst and emerald hues swam past me, with an air of superiority. A strange rainbow had then just emerged above the horizon, causing my gaze to alternate between the floating flock and the painted firmament far away.

The ride through the snow-capped mountains was made merrier by the soothing music played by Martin, the busman. He narrated the historical events surrounding the places he espied and expected his passengers, the tourists, to marvel at. However, in my ceaseless attempts to snatch forty winks, such noteworthy accounts went unperceived.

Akin to a berceuse, the Scottish folk songs—some of which connote the pith of consolation accompanying an era cursed with widespread diaspora and anguish resulting from the infamous Highland Clearances during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—transported me to a world where absolute empathy was omnipresent. Very few are capable of conveying solace through words, in good faith. Hoping to listen to such pacific songs upon my return, I asked Martin for their titles.

Sheep pastoralism in the Scottish Highlands came about in the eighteenth century at the expense of their inhabitants, who were brutally forced to evict from their lands to make way for the flocks. Sparsely populated by humans and densely populated by sheep today, the cold mountains still remember the horrid past.

Often during the journey, I wondered why the sheep one found grazing in the remote mountains had their fur dyed in a colour different from that of the flock grazing elsewhere. I later learnt that colours helped shepherds identify their flocks, lest the sheep divagate or fraternise with the neighbours.

Thrice during the ride, the roof window of the bus submitted to the fury of the windstorm and flipped open, leaving me wondering if Barbara was in our neck of the woods. When Martin enquired if any of us wanted to take a stroll in such harsh weather conditions, I threw caution to the wind and volunteered. (I declare that my foolhardiness has no end.) A few passengers followed suit.

In the raging tempest, I found myself on the verge of being lifted off the ground. Thrown off balance, literally, and aware that my palpable existence had no bearing on the gusts, I held onto a rock with all the strength I could then muster. Disheartened by my inability to continue walking, I sat on the rock resisting the vehement winds when a fellow passenger enquired if I was fine. The benevolent girl lent me her hand as I replied in the negative, and we both resumed the formidable stroll with our hands clasped, in an attempt to withstand the violent gusts.

We returned to our seats windswept. I began to wonder how Martin could venture out with a single layer of clothing while the rest of us were almost always upholstered in layers of overcoats, mufflers, earmuffs, gloves, et cetera.

Chapter II

A night in Portree – Coastal towns – A lone house – A transcendental experience

My nights on the Isle of Skye were spent in the quiet town of Portree. One morning, as we were leaving the town for the day’s journey, I glimpsed a sea from the bus window. That I had spent the previous night cloistered in the hostel instead of exploring the town—where lay a sea—made me resolve to spend the night outside, upon my return the same day.

Coastal towns possess a certain aura which reminds one of his place in the cosmos and of his gossamery existence against the expanse of the ocean. My roots are in a coastal town named Mulky. Albeit I grew up elsewhere, over time I have come to realise that I have a special connection with the small town, in its entirety—its thalassic air, red lateritic soil, seaside odour, casuarina trees, thunder bursts, and baby coconuts. Merely writing about it makes me want to be there this very instant.

That night in Portree, I went in search of the sea. The inclined roads were punctuated by my dear subjects of shooting: street lamps and trees. The cold was intense, and I was carrying one too many things in my numb hands. More than once, the bread, which was to be my supper, fell on the pavement—a realisation that came upon me only after I had walked a few yards ahead.

I remember being so mesmerised by the sight of a lone house in the dark that I stood opposite the picket fence for some time, gazing at the little house, thinking about the minutiae of a domestic, conjugal life. As much as I tried to resist the sight, I found myself walking back, clandestinely gazing a little more, at the only house far away in the rolling grasslands. Aware that my action was akin to that of an interloper, I unwillingly quit the spot later and continued to walk, occasionally stopping by the street lamps.

Some surreal photographs of the places I had seen on the National Geographic magazines in the early two-thousands are still etched in my mind’s eye. Fueled by music, I have retreated to these places in my mind numerous times and received tranquillity. In the pursuit of finding the sea, some fragments of my imagination appeared before me and sent me into transports of delight. The atmosphere was embellished with a blanket of heavenly entities. Never had I beheld such a stunning constellation of celestial objects in the real world. In a moment of ecstasy, essaying to embrace the exquisiteness of the empyrean sphere, I began to spin round with my gaze lifted to the entrancing sky, watching the illuminated entities envelop the outer space and imbue my core with a deep sense of contentment—I felt in unison with Mother Nature. Such transcendental experiences, albeit ephemeral, impress upon our psyche; and when the meaninglessness of life has overwhelmed us, evocation of these very experiences enkindles feelings of immense gratification and fills the lacuna formed by the decay of love.

The road ahead of me did not appear to lead to a shore. So, I retraced my path until I found a parallel roadway that sloped downward. It began to mizzle, but I kept walking because the prospect of finding my destination seemed likely. I heard the steady flow of water near a stream facing a bungalow. I saw withered trees in the light of street lamps. At last, I met the sea. She was cloaked in aloofness, while the harbour lights were still burning. The inconspicuous shore was unwelcoming. I pondered vaulting over the natural barricade of coastal thicket to be on the shore, but desisted from it, for fear of stepping on the nocturnal sea creatures in the night and disrupting their peace and quiet.

After a night of perambulating the twisted and tilted roads of the placid port town of Portree, I returned to the youth hostel.

Chapter III

Moorland colours – Eilean Donan Castle

The predominant colour of the hills in wintertime is an ochre yellow. Come summer and the moorlands of Skye are carpeted with the mauve of heather. The Inner Hebrides had lost their fetching purple hues by virtue of winter, long before my visit. I could only imagine how appealing the sight of hills sheathed in purple heath would be.

In his quest to claim power, man has marred many a magnificent place. Eilean Donan Castle, which is encircled by a loch, has endured renovations since the thirteenth century. I had about an hour’s time to explore the castle whose last renovation took place in the twentieth century. The ethos and the charms of a bygone era were entrenched in the wakeful windows and the fortified walls of the castle. As I meandered through a series of empty rooms and glimpsed the charming appurtenances of the foregone times, the minutiae of everyday life in the face of perpetual skirmishes hovered before me. From a hole-in-the-wall of a dark and narrow passage, I watched a few birds waft over the jittery gray waves, against a stormy sky. Passing by a little room where entry was prohibited, my eyes fell upon a white skull mask hung over a window in the room. I slunk in to discover that it was a storeroom for decrepit items from the modern era.

In a faux kitchen-diner, I was riveted by the intricate wax sculptures set in a domestic scene of the nineteen-thirties: hearty women cooking up a banquet, finicky servants arranging the dining table laden with sumptuous items of food, a butler scrutinising a salver while a calico cat stravaiged about the banquet hall. I do not quite recollect seeing other figures of men; perhaps, the gusto with which the women in the kitchen were performing their domestic chores was attributed to the homecoming of the gentlemen—strictly, my fancy. Nevertheless, the setting was one of merrymaking and opulence, and the diorama of domesticity with such ornate particulars of punctilious mien and cooking was outstanding.

Chapter IV

Lochside woolshed – Snowfield – Sisterhood

Since a certain castle listed on the itinerary was closed to visitors, Martin decided to take us to a lochside woolshed. At our unintended stopover, the woofing of two mountain dogs halted my pace. The next few minutes were spent fondly stroking them and watching their hoary and tawny eyes mellow with delight, while the fellow passengers trooped after the guide. When one of the flock guardians began to gambol amid gusts of wind, my reluctance to shift the gaze was further reinforced. Consequently, I was the last person to reach the woolshed where the shepherd, who was also a shearer, had been describing the method of wool shearing. In the manner of curious hosts, the robust sheep—knowing that they had visitors—gleefully paraded before us and towards the shepherd, one after another. Upon realising that neither their master nor the guests had something to offer, they dawdled back, in sequence.

The shepherd’s dismay was evident as he spoke of the state of affairs in which the fodder for the sheep was much costlier than the subsidy they were provided, thus jeopardising prospects of a secure livelihood.

The coy sun had finally made an appearance in the Highlands. Beholding, from the window of a bus, vast swathes of hills canopied with snow sent me into raptures; their exquisiteness dampening my eyes and awakening emotions of all-encompassing love for Mother Nature and my sister, the epitome of optimism. I imagined how delighted a dear friend of mine would have been, too, to see wondrous places such as the ones that touched my core and suffused me with sanguinity.

My co-passenger during the journey was a Brazilian named Fabiana, whose eyes would glint with great delight whenever she looked at beauteous sights. Often, I would find her engaged in soliloquy as she filmed her idyllic surroundings. Yujin, the girl from South Korea whose benevolence in the face of a windstorm had moved me, and with whom I had shared a room in the youth hostel, took me by surprise once again when she gave me a box of short bread before we parted and said that they were for my nieces, about whom I had spoken so fondly one day. The two women were on their own in the United Kingdom. When the journey ended and the farewells exchanged, I began to think about the vastness of the ecosphere and the sundry experiences it could offer to someone who is willing to explore and embrace it, in good faith.

Thankfully, Barbara never crossed our path.