Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight if it's not too dear

8/8/10

This entry is notebook-scrawled as I sit upon the dirty bricks on Platform 1 at Reading. We await our coach to take us home. Clara and I boondoggled beautiful today; tired, hungry, and late for our rendezvous as we are.

Hitched out of Newbury bright and early. Old boy with a nearly indecipherable Welsh accent picked us up. He was driving to purchase a cat in the south. Cat breeder. He makes lavender ones.

Personally I prefer the landraces. Strays that adapt themselves to the neighborhoods they tramp through. Like old Fred at the ORC. He’s an ancient one who survives off exactly the chow and ear scratches the centre provides.

Clara and I were dropped off on an A-road with no shoulder to speak of. Breakfast consisted of highway-side brambleberries and momentum. Are we becoming landraces?

After a treacherous walk, another ride, a train cruise, and two fatty cranberry-and-brie sandwiches, we found ourselves boarding the Red Funnel ferry to the Isle of Wight. Adaptable as we are, we were craving the ocean.

Finding it was relatively simple, but allowing it to swallow us was no easy task. Most of the waterfront is built up with marinas and houses. However, the vibe was undeniably island and cool, so we trucked with smiles up and down hills of beautiful neighborhoods inspired by our own motion.

Finally caught a ride to the beach. And it was plenty to wade in the warm water of thick, red sea vegetables. The beach was certainly a proper substrate for relaxation to grow on, amongst smooth rocks and bubbly apple cider. We dug out toes in and spoke of love, communication, and, of course, growing food.

On the train home, combines out the window were harvesting immense fields of wheat. Behind them, the sun set pink on the horizon; like the juice of brambleberries, like our own thirsty lips. The sunset is every night unique and perfectly adapted to every hectare it touches.