Somewhere between nasal drip and an extruded nose there is a moment of whimsy, a recall of earlier days. (Somewhere on Route 66 Hedicus is still sneezing on Michael’s ashes). Just after lunch as we were walking through the city hall gardens in Tain l’Hermitage the proboscis fragment on a sculpture caught Margaret’s finger.
Somewhere between a burl and a bridge there is another story. The gnarled knots in the plane (plataus x acerifolia) tree may hint at some reconfiguring wood grain. The tree’s use for medicinal purposes has faded, its’ use for firewood has subsided, however the burl, when sliced and polished produces the most grain enflamed tables.
On the road they told us we were going to cross the oldest suspension bridge in Europe. Fear struck! But when the structure merged in the river valley I was at peace. My imagination, coupled with fear created a most unstable cable crossing. Walking across the span was more stable than the White Rock pier.
The Plane trees line the river banks as foundation and shade. The lines of trees were planted to shelter troops from the heat and deliver the same in winter. The thing that picks about all this is that our augmentation of nature did not even last a century.