A forest

Life goes on in Haslemere. Undisturbed it moves on like the small river that I cross daily. Its usual clearness is disturbed only when it rains. Oddly it doesn’t rain as much as I expected. England’s rain is different from the normal rain. It falls swiftly, you barely feel it and after it stops, life is left behind. This week we saw rain and I’ve seen its freshness. Mist was rising from the ground; it was like throwing water on a fire…

It was a funny week. We fought ladybugs, I tried to cook without tech (everybody knows that I’m a Mozart in the kitchen; you can imagine how it turned out…), we hunted cats etc.

 We start with a walk through the streets. Streets that lead to places. Places mean Phoenix’s house. Who’s Phoenix? Phoenix is a cat. He is afraid of me and my grandma. My grandma mostly. We found him in a garden (his own garden). Imagine a long hairball, a very fluffy hairball; add a long tail (covered with puffiness); add an Oh-You-Humans-Are-So-Stupid smirk, a grumpy gaze; a curled black nose in the middle of an elegant, robust head (with ears on top). You have Phoenix.  Phoenix is old and shy. Every time he sees us he runs. Picture it: the cat sleeps in the middle of the garden; we (a long, skinny boy; a long, medium sized girl; a chubby grandma) sneak up to him; he awakens; my grandma and I try in every possible language (kitty, kitty, kitty- with Moldavian accent or pis, pis, pis- with British accent) to make him come to us! (Don’t forget the gesticulating!); he stares at us for a moment and then slides hurriedly away leaving a swearing disappointed grandma behind.

Defeated by the cat we go on, observing beautiful gardens, sniffing through the air. An air filled with natural fragrance. Soon after we find two ladybugs. We want to take photos of them together. They don’t. So we fight against the will of the ladybugs. Never standing still, always running off and never giving us an opportunity to take a photo. We spend an hour trying. The ladybugs win.

On we go and reach old Haslemere. We pass all the boutiques and shops and reach the hills. We are in the wild. The Haslemere wild:  with its own perfumes, perfumes of fir; with its own houses; with its own soul. Haslemere is a forest. A forest of humans, of nature, of aromas, of stubborn cats and ladybugs…

The sun goes down and a pink colored light spreads through the sky. A chicken picks the earth in the garden. Then I see it, gliding magically through the air no sound only movement. The hot air balloon passes our house and goes on… 

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