A sit in the Black Forest

I was invited to a small town on the edge of the Black Forest, for the 70th birthday of a friend's mother. Nice people, good food and drink, and a pleasant house in a lovely setting. The photo above shows the view west from their terrace: five rows of hills disappearing into the mist. (The view was even better until that pair of houses was built two years ago.)

Since I am either (1) a sensible person who enjoys his pleasures in moderation, or (2) a pissy wallflower spoilsport, take your pick, I stayed sober and went to bed early (at 2:15 AM), and was therefore up on Sunday morning several hours before anyone else. I sat on the terrace, watched the clouds forming and listened: to birdsong, insects, the wind. For long stretches of time, there were no mechanical or other man-made noises to be heard at all, not even voices. Wonderful. It's amazing how noisy cities are, and how calmly we accept this constant assault.

It is so still there, that you can hear the hissing of the gliders as they circle overhead.

I realized after I'd been sitting there for a while, that I was staring at their yard: contrary to my expectation, memory and belief, it is not a grassed lawn, but almost an alpine meadow. Most of the yard is covered by tiny plants with miniature flowers, the only grass is under the mossy birch trees (alpine meadow needs more direct sun?) where the bench stands.



I was on my hands and knees, photographing the plants, when the others came out. I can't imagine why they laughed.