A North Woods Sky

We are sitting next to the large purple buddleia.  It’s dusky smell making itself known when allowed by the stiffening breeze coming off Sturgeon Bay. Behind us I hear the drunken drone of bumble bees as they gorge themselves amidst a towering bed of foxgloves.  Further still is the clatter of crockery in the kitchen and the tinkle of patinaed and crumbling temple bells,  from both another continent and time.  Strange how the smallest of things from our travels stick with us while larger accumulations and people come and go.

In the green waters below the smallish limestone cliff, the children move through the water.   A summers sun has left them walnut hued.  Dark hair slicked and shining lends them the appearance of otters at play.  I squint across the water at the point where I think the sun will set and grab my Manhattan from the greenest of grass.

A visit to a northern latitude seemed essential.  In the death throes of August the heat had taken on a predatory menace.   Scorching the dew in the morning and suffocating the night sky.  Friends had withdrawn into bunker mode and the streets appeared deserted at mid day.  The South seemed a ghost town.  Once again our beautiful cuffs gave way to knit short sleeves

Up here, on a narrow peninsula that probes outward into a great lake there is a crispness to the landscape.  Birch trees shimmer in their silver way and a crackling fire pit is a worthy companion. The landscapes colours give a new inspiration of greys and purples, the deepest of blues, and cremes.  We have drinks each night and do nothing more demanding than wait for the sun to lower itself into the water.  By day I glass the same water with a pair of Swarovskis.  Looking for tall ships to appear from the horizon as if transposed from Botany Bay. Late afternoons are spent in a wooden boat looking for light houses and hidden coves.

 

Days of idleness and reading are interspersed with visits to local watering holes (mostly the fishing hole where we drink Leinies and wear out CCR on the jukebox).  A trip to Palmer Johnson finds us salivating over the shipyard and planning delivery of our Imperial Black Global Exploration yacht build.

As darkness settles and the wind picks up a lightweight cashmere is thrown on from our guys in Como.   We lay on our backs and catch the flares of the summers last meteors.  Watching as they move briefly and brilliantly against the slow tracking of  satellites.  There is little light pollution here and the sky is teaming with stars.   Stories of very different times and different travels are traded.  On this jut of land and against the dark twinkling of the sky we are a small group with a strange collection of accents and citizenships.  Nomads around a fire already feverishly dreaming the next place.

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