Bubble & Squeaks

In a breath of fresh spring...high on pollen. This is this week's meditation from the vineyard wall, read by Pipp

Every cobweb is delicately embroidered between vines. They glisten and wobble in the sun. The vine leaves have become plump, zigzag-edged, lime-green sails. The primary colour verge is rich in dandelions, borage and poppies, there has been no expense spared, spring has pulled out all the stops and the view is a delight.

It’s one of those stunning mornings. A dazzling dawn. Sitting on my vineyard wall (which of course is not mine at all, and never was) I breathe in spring, breathing it in, until the gulp of air reaches my knees and toes. It’s as if I am inhaling the colours of every petal in a kaleidoscope of petal shapes.

In a guttural bassline a tractor splutters into action and appears out of nowhere. I must have arrived during coffee break. This steel, tyrannosaurid devouring machine barges its way round the corner towards me, moving ever closer, with an almighty roar. It digs intrepidly too near my old stone wall, and somehow, yes, the wall feels more mine now. In an instant I become concerned for its welfare. Its peaceful, elegant, ancient, ochre tones of local stone, so elegantly built like a perfect puzzle, piece on piece, are held at ransom by the ditch digger’s angular limbs. The monster’s neck strains over and over again earthwards, digging incessantly.

My bubble of silence has burst irreparably. This bubble, high on pollen jazz evaporates. Those beautiful seconds escape my grasp before I can finish even writing a sentence about them. They were mine though and they always will be.

I escape the raucous and look for a quiet seat under the carob tree for a ‘squirrelistic’ breakfast of nuts (the fastest breakfast to grab at 7am, and the least sticky in my camera bag). I brought my camera to photograph an eagle for my previous story, but the eagles had other plans. Of course. Why should there be an eagle gliding on thermals above my head when you want one? There was not one in the sky this morning.

For a silver lining, higher up the hill the view is even more rewarding, and to my surprise, instead of spotting an eagle, I come across goshawks and orchids. The orchids are flowering all over this northern slope, their magenta wings standing out like confetti from the grass. I photograph them from all angles. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of one petal wing between hundreds of grass threads. It’s a petal catwalk.

The elusive goshawks are nowhere to be seen, but they are near. I can hear them squawking at the top of the pines. Like a nosy neighbour I wonder what they are up to. Considering they hunt squirrels and love pine forest I would have expected to see them often for this area is perfect for them. They aren’t called the ‘Phantom of the Forest’ for nothing. To be honest, their calls are not cute or calming. I can’t decide if I hear mating calls or a celebration of a successful capture, of some poor, unsuspecting creature. I prefer to think it is the former but either way it doesn’t sound like Romeo and Juliet.

I smile at the thought that this is my second story in two weeks involving a bird of prey and I have no photos of either. I don’t have the right camera lens for photographing birds and the goshawks prefer to keep their selves to their selves. And why not?

The wind is unusually coming off the sea today. Carried on the airwaves I can hear pneumatic drills digging the foundations for yet another house. Hundreds of dwellings on the other side of the hill, where there used to be more terraced vineyards. People in suits are making lots of money.

The blue sky and the breeze distract me from the urban sprawl and after winter the sea breeze feels like silk on my skin. It whispers in my ear as my hair crosses my brow in slow motion and reminds me to surrender to what is now. I let go of what robs my smile.

I listen to the twisted chirps of linnets on the telegraph wires. The bee-eaters fly across the sky chortling. They are back for the summer. I think they landed a week ago. I hear a skylark dancing above the fields.

It’s much warmer today partly because I am walking later than usual, having helped edit text messages before my daughter got into her car to head for the prison with her therapy dogs, and after making sandwiches for a short sailing trip; my husband’s helping a friend sail a yacht back to its mooring in Barcelona.

On the way back I hear tiny squeaks of baby birds high up home in nests. In the woods birdsong is temporarily drowned out by a motorbike, probably a Harley, combined with a drill and a train all at once and the squeaks of baby birds temporarily disappear.

In the flash of outdoors on my morning walks I savour the best bits for the rest of the day. I clock them and I enjoy them like a bunch of flowers on the table. I lap up all the signs of spring, like we lap up that Friday feeling. It’s like a luxurious bubble bath that doesn’t get cold.

The memory is all mine and always will be and I soak it up. And on the way home I remember to hum. Do you hum? They say we should. I remember how good it is, for you….

Mmm… mmm … mmm

So happy I managed to get 3 stories out in six weeks! Every two weeks on Sunday! Though today by the skin of my teeth, we have had guests all day and a big lunch. time to wash up!! And so it’s 8pm and I am ready to post this story. I hope you like it.

See you in two weeks, (or sooner on Notes.)

Some pictures from this week

And Susie has also had a busy week and still posted a beautiful piece as always with some stunning pictures in..

I know you’re tired...

And Whitney Barkman too, this week with photography of spring from the forest…

Forest Breath

And Jaime is meditating outdoors too, with some beautiful close ups to calm us all…

The Hour I Didn't Move