Bees making honey… in the sunshine… in the bee loud glade (with thanks to W.B. Yeats/Innisfree).
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There are no rivers on the Yucatán. The soft limestone ground swallows them whole. On a long, hot, humid day there are no streams in which to paddle your feet and provide relief. So it is a wonder to enter one of the many cenotes that drain the peninsula. These caves or sinkholes sit beneath a scratchy earth and hold hanging roots, protruding rocks and deep pools of turquoise water. They are magical, and the swimming endlessly refreshing, despite the mosquitoes…
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Kate Rew on discovering the pleasures of swimming in the wild.
It’s past dawn in the English mountains. Past the time the birds woke up and sang in the thin air, past the time we rolled over in our tent and heard the hiss and static of mizzle against canvas. We are on the top of a Glaramara, next to a tarn and camped in a cloud. I yellow slug my boyfriend in my down sleeping bag and say ‘shall we go for a swim?…’
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24th May. Drove straight from the studio to the hills, started walking around seven. Warm, evening light. Skylarks singing in the high air. Not another soul on the whole mountain. Lentil and sorrel soup from a thermos, two and a half thousand feet up, watching over the distant farmlands. Descending into the sunset, moon rising behind us. Home by ten…
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Here, to download, is our recipe for the simplest version of Ceviche, very fresh and delicious, as prepared on their boat and eaten for breakfast by the fishermen in this film. Any firm fleshed, white fish will work well (the fresher the better) as would prawns, squid, swordfish, tuna… The fishermen use whatever they have to hand, straight from the sea…
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Jon Day.
I leave the house early to catch the rising sun and the rising trout. It’s cool but the sky is dazzling, promising coming heat. A faint haze drifts off the Cotswolds. The door clicks shut behind me and I swing my leg over my bicycle and roll gently forward. Crunching gravel first and then the friction-hum of tarmac. The first tentative peddle-strokes have given way to an incremental rhythm and I smile an idiot smile, hoping no one sees…
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Carmel Allen.
Eating outdoors doesn’t have to be an Evelyn Waugh strawberries and champagne kind of affair, “with cloudless skies, ditches creamy with meadowsweet and sentences heavy with nostalgia”, (although they never go amiss) but more a decision to eat outdoors regardless…
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Men and boys on horseback at Hacienda la Noria, walking, standstill straight to gallop, turning on a penny, loping canter. The horses completely at ease with the boys, the boys showing off their skills but entirely, intuitively, consummately at ease with their horses. In the background: the old ranch buildings, shabby, still inhabited; the church whose tolling bell had earlier that afternoon called the villagers – family groups walking slowly to worship, showing neither reticence nor particular enthusiasm; the hills beyond, fresh, green, hazed after the recent rains.
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Twenty-six long hours from home, eight and a half thousand feet up: aspen trees and the rolling west. Utah.
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