Picturesque
It was one of those drives into unknown territory where you knew you should be taking in the scenery, gauging its beauty and welcome.
But your mind was in stir, stuck in the rut of a tangle and barely breathing. ‘Hey, what do you know,’ said you to the road cutting a swathe through lush land, ‘more goddamn beautiful countryside.’
But, still, from time to time you did look out from the lockdown of the speeding car. You noted the thousand greens of the meadows and treetops, hillsides thick with vines gone dark with the shadow of clouds, ancient stone houses with wavy terracotta roofs and deep red shutters, with chickens and dogs, tractors and junk, and cars that will never be fixed in their courtyards.
You saw the rake thin lady leaning out of the upstairs window, flapping the dust from a rag, and hoped that if you drove by here tomorrow at exactly the same time, she’d be there again.
You saw huge yellow bales of straw dotting the fields, like so many rolled snacks for wandering giants (how do they move those things?). The glide of hawks preying for lunch against a baby blue sky, and all-coloured butterflies dancing a frenzy outside the windows.
You saw it all, but wouldn’t be moved; you’re spoiled rotten with beauty. And there’s a foul taste in your mouth. Mostly you thought about the sickening weight of institutions. Again. About status quo. You let yourself seethe a little more over the indifference of clock punchers, broken promises, over being misled then dismissed. Feeling the pull of a dark unknown carve a home in your gut, a place you never want to go back to; wondering if this is the day your obscene luck runs out for good.
So you look again at the way old stone walls curve their way down the slopes. And wonder how long they’ve been there.
Roll down the windows and poke poke poke up the volume as far as it will go, hook onto a song you know by heart, and sing along at the top of your lungs.
She uses ta-ha-han-gerines
And you keep loudmouth singing like a dutiful purge till you reach the sleepy little town. The town with its 15th century church, its hollyhocks and laurel bushes full in bloom, its silence, closed doors and gurgling communal wash basin fit for a postcard. It’s the fifth one this week. You’re starting to feel like a hobo, and have no idea how to tell whether this is, at last, the one.
· · • · ·