I joined the exodus this weekend (sheepishly explaining to my cab driver that yes, I was among the many middle class city-slickers who were off to seek peace in the wilderness for the long weekend) and found myself with my P.I.C in a cottage-y setting, surrounded by farmland and woodland and silence. It was both soothing and terrifying, as it was a sharp contrast to the usual cityscape.
The story goes that when my grandfather died last year, he left a bit of money to my mum. Because she is interested in land conservation/restoration (simply put, she's a tree-hugging, nature-loving, granola-eating, etc. pseudo-hippie), she bought this old farm. It has me thinking of course about environmental ethics, preservation, and property owernship. What does it all mean? I'm really too tired to pontificate (thankfully).
They have interesting neighbours. Franklin the beef farmer, who thinks all city-folk are fools (and is not afraid to show it, with plenty of good-natured ribbing), and Mike the retired professor with a love of nature and hot-tubs. My weekend was full of friendly people, small animals, apple blossoms, septic-tank mishaps, sex on blow-up mattresses, mold and allergy attacks, swamps, spiders, and precarious river crossings. I can't wait to go back.
And now, the picture show
apple blossoms (and fun with quick masks
miscellaneous flora and fauna
I found some anthropomorphic trees on my travels (abstract visions of anatomy, one bearing a striking resemblance to a cunt)
Crossing the bridge of sighs
Basking in the sun