Pink spoon on a blue background

*

Pink spoon on a blue background

The pink spoon was in a rack in one of the local ice cream places, which I went to with J. 

We agreed that it was the best ice-cream place so far that we had been to, because of the ice-cream itself, although the flavour range is more limited as is the choice of weird sweets, condiments and syrups.

I had a forest fruit ice-cream scoop and one with mint and chocolate in a cone. The forest fruits flavours are glorious- a little sweet but a little acidic too. Wow! The mint chocolate is utterly amazing, the taste sophisticated like an discreet corner of Kensington, and the colour is divine, a visual victory. 

However, the combination was not ideal, the mint chocolate rather overwhelming the forest fruits. I think the solution is either to choose more complementary flavours or to add at least a mini scoop of vanilla as this might act as neutral bridge between contrasting flavours.

J., in the meantime, had found a plastic bowl and in it built a chocolate ice-cream hill from a phenomenal number of scoops. He said he had to try all the different chocolate flavours. He bent over the bowl and, shovelling , ate uninterrupted for thirty minutes to finish.

Anyway, this spoon is one of a sort you can take from a  rack- it`s in a little cellophane envelope, which also contains a serviette, folded very neatly and almost useless. 

Next time I`ll get a spoon in another colour- there are yellows and blues, and maybe even a green. I very much liked the bubble-gum pink, it seemed so fifties, so utterly unselfconscious.

*

Butterfly

*

Butterfly

*

 

Sleeping dog

*

Sleeping dog, Canasvieiras

 *

Temos sorvete

*

Temos sorvete, Canasvieieras

"We have icecream..."

* 

Fallen flower

*

Fallen flower

*

 

The broken pipe

*

The broken pipe

Once I was travelling in a distant place where you hear rustling sounds in the trees at night, or occasionally a weird knocking or a cackle. 

 I arrived in a frontier town of whitewashed buildings. They held a market in a small square beside the bus station, where they sold foodstuffs on one side and used car parts, household items or toys on the other. 

There was a boy in the town and he had a pipe which he blew. When he blew, there came music that weaved in and out like a deer running between trees or sometimes like a kite soaring above and sometimes like a child giggling helplessly. When you heard the music at first you felt very still and then you might sway to the melody and you felt very kind and humble. 

The boy stood on a stool in the market near the sellers and played and people gathered.

They were first very still then they swayed with the melody and then some began a low humming. When the boy stopped and came down from the stool the people went and helped each other mainly with rather banal tasks like fixing dripping taps and sewing on missing buttons or sweeping kitchens.

I approached the boy. "That is quite incredible". He looked squarely at me, holding out the pipe. "Do you want it?" I said, "It is astonishing, I would love it." "Take it", said the boy." "But how much do I pay you?" I asked.  He said, "Don't pay me. Tomorrow take the train across the border and play in in the village on the other side."

 I said, "Is that all?"

 "That's all." he said, "Good luck.".

 I didn't know what he meant by that, but instead of finding out I replied, "And what about, you will you never play again?"  He said " I'll find another pipe." 

 --------------

Later, I went out on my hotel balcony to test the pipe and down below people in the night filled square were sweetened and began to embrace. 

-----

The following day, as the boy had instructed, I took the train from a collapsing station to the next country. I hadn't thought much about the next country.

After trundling at a walking pace for a few hours through woodland,  the train  stopped at a clearing where there was just a platform with a trestle table and a hut. A group of customs offers dressed in khaki with serious faces came on board the train.  There was an apprehensive atmosphere in the compartment.

An officer approached me. "Passport," he said. He carefully examined each page. Still with the passport, he said, "Come with me. Take your bag". I followed him to a table on the platform where another officer now waited. I put my bag on the table as they requested. "Open your bag," said one. I  opened it: at the top was the pipe, wrapped in a t-shirt. 

 He took the bundle and unwrapped it. He put the pipe to one side. He took the others things from the bag: clothes, toiletries, a novel, and some trinkets, and placed them in another pile.

 "You can enter the country but you can't  bring this", he told me quietly, almost indifferently." Why is that?" I asked. "Music is not permitted", he said, sternly this time. I said, "Can't I play in my hotel?" He replied," We have rules in our country. Music is not permitted."

 Then he took a walkie talkie form his belt and presently a senior officer appeared from the hut and came across: the two officers turned from the table to greet him. The first officer gave him my passport and they began an exchange.

 I sensed my moment and reached down and took the pipe and began to blow. The officers  span round.

 I had managed to get a few notes out but the music hadn't changed their stern expressions and they did not sway or embrace or sweeten or set off to perform mundane domestic tasks for their neighbours.

 The senior officer stepped forward, grabbing the pipe from my hands. He broke it across his knee. He put the pieces smartly on the table. 

"We have rules in this country," he said. 

He handed me back my passport and I continued, pointlessly, to the village.

*

Read to the River Writers` Group in February, 2021

*

Empty place, Canasvieiras

*

Empty place, Canasvieiras

Again, I like the squareness and spareness of everything. It`s all is so exact,  as if transcribed directly from a drawing board: hard edges,  no mediation.

You could never escape. I wonder if, at prescribed hours, men in orange circulate in that yard smoking cigarettes., forming huddles.

But is there even anyone inside? I feel lonely just looking at it. 

However, I feel the loneliness is good for me. It's  unsentimental and improving like so many uncomfortable things: I  grew up in Scotland, land of unsweetened porridge.

*