As we bumped and jerked over the rough road, I took photographs. Granted, not the best, however it gives you an idea of the lay of the land. Here, we are on flat land, ranch land, before the mountains of San Miguel. It's the end of rainy season. The countryside is beautifully green. This was once farm land ... corn growing land, now gone wild from neglect. Young people don't want the land. They want to go to America, and so, it is only the old folks who keep a few animals and live here. Much of the land is being bought up by gringos and upper class Mexicans and turned into luxury estates. Here we go.
|Yes, this country road is made from cobble stones!|
|This type of cactus is plentiful and is eaten.|
|You can see some thin bamboo growing. This too is plentiful in areas and can be hand made into blinds very reasonably.|
|Looking at the long view down the row of man planted trees, there are beautiful buildings.|
|A new hacienda being built.|
|Cattle wander along side the road.|
|These magnificent stone fences are a product of poor land and many hours of hard labour.|
|... and fields of wild flowers.|
Saw the Dr. today. My stitches are out and am assured the knee is doing well. The walker will be required for the next couple of weeks as my knee tends to buckle unexpectedly under me. Have some simple exercises to do ... so all is well that ends well.
Hope to get up to the studio in the next few days and get some creativity going! I miss it so.
Thanks for all your kind words, for dropping by and having a lookie-loo, and for all your cards, letters and phone calls. Take care. xxoo
“The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them… a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create — so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off… They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating.” - Pearl Buck