Probably along the quayside awaiting a repaint due to scaring all the fish!
This delightful fishing boat was in the harbour of Broadford Bay in the Isle of Skye.
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Vivid.”
Oh my, what a prompt. Set me off on a long journey of aromas.
I wandered back in time, ambling around the garden remembering the different flowers, then sauntering along the country lanes recalling all the different hedgerow blossoms and scented verges.
Which led to the evocative aromas of the Scottish Highlands. The smell of moist peat, bracken and ling merging with the heat of a warm sunny day. It is a smell that reaches so deeply inside, you really have to experience it to believe its effect.
Then onto that most heavenly musty moist mix of all sorts of smells blended together as a consequence of a shower of rain in the middle of summer. Whenever it happens, my world stops, wherever I am. I am gripped by the experience and indulge fully in the moment.
I have always been very sensitive to smell – a curse and a blessing!
I know when certain people are thinking about me as I become aware of the smell I associate with them. It comes across as strong as if I was with them in person.
For years after my grandma died I kept smelling rice pudding cooking, immediately I was transported back to the kitchen. Then my mind would join in and add the smell of the kitchen and the personal aroma of grandma.
My mother reappeared with the smell of cooked tomatoes, something we both loved and probably the only thing we ever shared. I have never quite mastered the exact taste when I make them, probably on account of being unable bring myself to add the excessive amount of butter she used to cook them in.
I simply adore the scent of the lilac which transports me back to grandma’s front garden with its giant lilac bush in the corner. As a child I was known for sticking my nose into every flower to investigate its scent.
But my all-time favourite has to be the May blossom, so captivatingly beautiful at this time of year. Her heady scent so invasive, I can smell her with the car windows closed. She evokes so many joyful memories of warmer days and even warmer rainy days. Each time I smell her, the world stops for a moment. And another cherished memory is born.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Smell You Later.”
Whilst a sandy beach is a delight in its own way, my preference is for a pebble beach. But not just any pebble beach. It has to be one with just the right size of pebbles.
Too big and the noise of the moving sea is too deep and inwardly stirring.
Too small, the noise created is too high pitched and grates on the nerves.
But with a nice mix of medium-sized pebbles and the sound is like a symphony.
Relaxing me. Calming me. Soothing me. I can feel the shoulders lowering and my breath slowing just thinking about it.
As I sit in wonder at the soothing sounds, I am always drawn to the colours and shapes of the pebbles, the endless variety of textures and the varied temperature of the different kinds of rock.
For me this is a paradise on earth.
Today’s contribution to Tuesdays of Texture (de monte y mar).
This image was captured on a long journey south from the Highlands of Scotland down to England. It was a long day as there were so many excellent moments for stopping and taking yet another photograph.
But this one I have cherished ever since. Whilst driving alongside Loch Lomond, the sun going down, I saw her, lying down in the water, the moon behind her, or, are they the edges of wings? She had a golden shawl adorned with a bow and still to this day I do not know if she is looking at me or looking away.
It was truly a magical moment.
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “On the Way.”
Most people who currently know me have no idea that I was wild when I was younger. I did everything at break-neck speed. For me slow meant old. I had to get wherever I was going yesterday. I was full of life and mischief, with boundless energy.
I used to run as fast as my legs would take me, cutting corners on country lanes to shorten the journey time to wherever I was going. I was usually a lot faster going home for fear of being grounded.
When I started using a bicycle I would pedal that as fast as I could too.
Later on when I got my first car, which was ancient as my dad wouldn’t let me buy anything modern, I can remember driving down a steep hill, my foot flat to the floor, overtaking everyone in sight. As I passed them I glanced over my shoulder before I moved back into the inside lane and caught a glimpse of the driver looking at me aghast. I must have looked a rare sight as you didn’t see cars that old travelling quickly.
I wasn’t allowed to have a motorbike but when I turned 18, I sold my car and bought one, much to my parent’s horror. Needless to say, I wrung its neck everywhere I went.
I only fell off once, well when I was moving! I seemed to fall off regularly when I was stationary. Something to do with not being able to perform in front of a crowd.
The one time I fell off moving was down our driveway. I always used to arrive like a maniac, probably to annoy my mother who was always determined to bring a halt to any form of fun. This particular day it backfired on me. My dad had been mixing concrete and there was a residue of sand outside the back door. I came along like a bat out of hell, locked up all wheels, the bike when down and me with it as we slid past the back door and into the garage. Makes me laugh just thinking about it. It must have looked like something from a cartoon strip.
I can picture it now, low flying wayward daughter, manic mother clad in pinny (apron), bounding out of the kitchen door ranting at me. It hurt like hell (I only had office quality trousers on) and the last thing I needed was a violent earbashing. After that I always wore thick jeans and bought a bigger, faster bike!
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma.”
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Baggage Check.”
I ran the idea through the channels. Nope. Not a jot.
I reran it.
We all have complicated histories. Hmmm? Yes and No.
Depends upon your perspective.
When was the last time your past experiences informed a major decision you’ve made?
Gee can’t remember.
If every moment is different and in that moment I am different too, then why would I apply what I did then to now? Unless it was something simple like (thinking, give me time …).
Whilst looking for ideas I came across this lovely quote.
“Everyone comes with baggage. Find someone who loves you enough to help you unpack.” Unknown.
No fun in having a suitcase if it’s empty is it?
No point in having one at all unless you’re intending filling it?
Now you may think I have totally lost the plot with an image of grass! But I was looking out of the window wondering whether I could bring myself to cut the grass – the first cut of the year.
It seemed sacrilege to ruin the beauty of the delicately fine new growth with its softness and fine young tips as it danced in the wind. It will never look this way again, well until next spring. Even the intensity of the lime green colour will have lost its edge (no pun intended) after the first cut.
But if it gets too long the mower will refuse to comply.
So I hit a compromise.
I left the most beautiful patches intact along with the clumps of wild flowers scattered all over the garden. I cannot bear to cut these down, they add such colour and beauty, the bees love them and smaller birds seem to find things to eat within them.
So there you have it – my Green Green Grass of Home lovingly appreciated once again, for my contribution to Tuesdays of Texture (de monte y mar), thanks Narami.