Curiosities

Stop the press, I just saw a dragonfly carrying a daisy…

“Curiosity begets love. It weds us to the world. It’s part of our perverse, madcap love for this impossible planet we inhabit.”                              

Graham Swift, Waterland

The curious tale of the tiny slipper lost at midnight

I opened the backdoor one frosty morning and found this tiny, worn slipper on the middle of the top step.  Where it came from, I can only imagine. Perhaps a squirrel left it there, or a bird dropped it from overhead. Probable theories. But probability isn’t my typical starting point. A tiny person, a fairy, or an anthropomorphic doll lost her shoe as she was running for cover under the doorway, escaping a horrible foe–a terrifying insect or a ferocious rodent. These were far more entertaining scenarios.

It was early December and a persistent series of gale winds kept what was left of Autumn’s litter–mucky, wet leaves and gnarly twigs–swirling through the air like confetti. Therefore, considering probability again, it wasn’t a far-fetched idea to believe that it was yet another toy that had been liberated from its prison under a moldy maple leaf by the wind ruffling the ground. It wasn’t uncommon to find some artefact from previous residents after a stormy night. Interesting treasures like a faded action figure with its limbs clearly chewed by a dog, dice and marbles, balls of all sizes, and many toy cars–rusty and missing a wheel or two–were often showing up in my shovels. But the shoe was more puzzling. I’d raked up the garden the previous day and not noticed anything at all. I’d even washed and swept down the back steps. And, we’d had a break from the wind that night. It couldn’t have blown there and there were no squirrels around: they were all hibernating, surely.

I could rack my brain about how it got there, or just agree with the explanation my mind had first conjured. It belonged to a fairy, or a tiny person, or the anthropomorphic doll. I decided whatever she was, she’d made it to safety and was recovering somewhere in a secret part of the house, sitting on a cold foot to keep it warm.

A short spell with a pet peacock

The first time I saw a peacock was when one flew into our pond when I was eight. We thought he was amazing. The ducks were nonplussed. The turtle was nervous. The cat was curious. And the frogs were uncharacteristically silent. My mom rang the zoo to ask what to feed him and was told, “They like raisons.”

We asked around the neighbourhood but nobody knew where he’d come from. We were delighted at the prospect of keeping him. We had a sow, a turtle, a horse, five dogs, a cat, three ducks and countless frogs. The peacock added a nice splash of colour, though he never performed for us. All the same, we named him ‘Posh’.

Two days into his visit, a truck pulled up. A man who lived in a canyon below our street had heard the news. It was his peacock and his peahens were missing their ardent lover.

Not long after that, I was on a student art tour in London learning about the pre-raphaelite artists. I saw plenty of peacock feathers, paintings and ornaments, and my appreciation for the intricate pattern and vibrant colours deepened.

I found my first feather in the gardens at Belvoir Castle in Leicestershire, England. The second one, I bought in a shop. A few more were gifts. Eventually I had enough to make my own tail, but fanned them out in a grand vase instead. When I entered the nomadic phase of my life, I gave them to a schoolteacher for her classroom.

In recent years, I have found my path crossing more and more peacocks both physically in the grand gardens of European palaces and manor houses,  and decoratively in art and design pushed down from Pinterest and other visual porn entities, and even on my nightstand in Geoffrey Miller’s The Mating Mind: How Sexual Choice Shaped the Evolution of Human Nature. In this amazing book, the peacock features as a curiosity. Why did nature make them vibrant and colourfully alluring when the peahen is colourblind?

This past weekend, I was back out on the Borromean Islands in Lago Maggiore, Italy (and deeply grateful that they are only a stone’s throw away from my present home). The islands are incredibly beautiful, framed by the alps and the blue water of the lake. Competing with this scenery, and drawing the most photo eager visitors, are the famous white peacocks. Without any colour these are spectacular and eye-catching.

Allora….I can see why the colour blind peahen would be impressed.

Woolly wonders

I once came across a tree wearing a woolly jumper. It was one of those days when I was feeling stuck in an undesirable, uninspired moment. I put the blame on the weather. It was also stuck—its wind sleeping tightly, its sunshine hiding behind miles of dull grey cloud, its precipitation delivering hours of persistent drizzle.

I was in Galway, Ireland. It was late January. The holiday decorations were gone and there were no kind spring bulbs or blossoms offering the promise of new beginnings. The trees were naked, displaying their intricate geometry of sticks against a bland canvas. They looked as cold as I felt, and neither they nor me could take any comfort from the few evergreen pines, which had all grown so tall that their only offering, close to the path, was wet bark that smelled stale and not woodsy. I was traversing across the university on a quiet Saturday afternoon, taking a short-cut to town and wanting to bathe in that air of optimism that I think universities typically ooze. But on this day, even the campus seemed stuck. That is, until I saw the tree.

At first, it made me feel vindicated. The weather was so cold and miserable that even nature needed to layer-up and put on some colour to brighten the gloom. In the next moment, suspicion revved its engine. There wasn’t anybody around. I wondered if my reaction was being recorded on camera. Was this a psychology research project? Or perhaps some fun little reality prank show for the campus website?

Regardless, I did what most anyone would. I fished out my camera and circled the tree, taking a few pictures. The sweater was inspiring, boasting a grand variety of stitching patches, colour and design. I wished I could have a matching one, even though I doubted I could ever pull off something that bold. I noticed a lost flyer on the ground, a bit torn and dirty. I picked it up and learned the story. The tree was a model, the woolly jumper an advertisement for the campus knitting club, and an exhibition they had held the previous weekend. It was a very clever promo, I thought.

I felt a laugh escape and realised I was no longer stuck in a bleak moment. I had stumbled into a better moment, one of appreciation for the little unexpected, whimsical treats life can deliver, even if they come dusted with a thin mist of rain and served with a side of grey sky.

Trove of Crystals

A surprise millions of years in the making

There are hundreds of tiny inlets along Galway Bay offering sandy spits, grassy slopes, intriguing rock pools, and piles of limestone. One Sunday afternoon, some neighbours suggested we take a different route from our usual loop. It was a magic afternoon with amazing light and the discovery of one of my favourite souvenirs ever –  

A SURPRISE MILLIONS OF YEARS IN THE MAKING 

We stumbled across a remote path, that led out to the sea across a lot of large boulders. Among the terrible plastic bottles and old bits of rubber, we noticed a large bit of a limestone shelf had broken off, revealing a trove of crystals. I took a few pieces to keep for prosperity because I had a feeling, as remote as this path was, other’s would find it. And I was right. Whether word got out and treasure hunters came or other unsuspecting sojourners passed by and helped themselves, the trove dwindled before my eyes as I walked the path most nights. The tiny pieces I collected have travelled with me to three different countries now. I have never taken the crystals from the rocks. I often wonder where the other bits have ended up.

Holy Well

Forget the stories about leprechauns chasing pots of gold at the bottom of rainbows. Here is an example of some of the real treasure to be found in Ireland. Deep in the Burren in County Clare, while weaving through spindly paths on a walk,  we spotted a sign for a Holy Well. Following it brought us to this magical spot.

Some reports claim that there are over 3,000 wells in Ireland, though many of them have been rebranded by the Catholic Church and feature religious statues and candles. This one is being lovingly maintained with the older traditions.

The raggedy trees or fairy trees are filled with bright new and old faded ribbons and rags tied with hope for love, riches, health and general well being. Some believe that once the fabric is widdled away by wind and time, the wish will be fulfilled.

I naturally set an intention for more wonderful discoveries whilst on Sunday Sojourns.

Beyond the Ivy

“It’s worth a look,” a man said, pointing down a path seriously encroached by prickly blackberry bramble.

I was out with some friends for a Sunday walk, an eight kilometre loop through the Burren in Clare, Ireland when we saw a young couple, dressed in brightly coloured hillwalking attire. They startled us, at first, stumbling out of a thicket of trees hugging an old, crumbling stone wall that was covered in ivy.

I didn’t hesitate. I squeezed my way along the wall, trying desperately not to get too scratched up by the undisciplined bramble and leafless winter branches that were growing from both the thicket of trees and from within the mud infested cracks between the stone.

The wall was part of a traditional cottage, long vacated but not emptied. Since its day as a proper home, it had obviously been used as a shed at one point in time, and may have had some squatters or campers for awhile. Standing inside made me feel like an intruder. Perhaps it was because the salt and condiments didn’t look that old. But the rest was in decay and very damp and mouldy. While it might not have been inviting, it certainly inspired the story cogs to rev up. We had a lot of fun spinning different scenarios and I left the place, somewhat reluctantly, empty handed as it just didn’t seem at all right to take that charming old water pitcher.

Ode to Line Drying

I am forever trying to encourage all the world to line-dry their clothes.

It is not an eye-sore. It is an act of self-preservation to sustain our place on planet Earth. I think it’s a crime that some home-owners associations ban it.  How can such regulations be enforced when climate change is so heavy in the zeitgeist? And how can so many people still use dryers on hot days?

I could wax poetic about the benefits of line drying: it’s green, more economical, and it’s better for the longevity of the clothes. I accept it takes more time but once you get into a rhythm of it, it’s no big deal. And as far as the ‘eyesore’ argument goes: I think these pictures make for a good defense.