A hot hike in the walled fortress of the Sagres Point sock.
Strabo reports (Book 3.1.4) as follows:
The region adjacent to this cape they call in the Latin tongue Cuneum, which signifies a wedge. The promontory which projects into the sea, Artemidorus (who states that he has himself been at the place) compares to a ship; three little islands, each having a small harbour, contribute to give it this form; the former island resembling the beak of the ship, and the two latter the beams on each side of the ship’s bows … there is no temple of Hercules shown there, as Ephorus falsely states, nor yet any altar nor to any other divinity; but in many parts there are three or four stones placed together, which are turned by all travellers who arrive there, in accordance with a certain local custom, and are changed in position by such as turn them incorrectly. It is not lawful to offer sacrifice there, nor yet to approach the place during the night, for it is said that then the gods take up their abode at the place. Those who go thither to view it stay at a neighbouring village overnight, and proceed to the place on the morrow, carrying water with them, as there is none to be procured there.
Listen to the coven wail of the sea.
A pretty parched snail.
Some poetry by the pseudonymous Fernando Pessoa, a very interesting character:
Ah, those invasive ice-flowers… (vygies from South Africa, initially planted to stabilize the soil.)
A territorial beetle on every flower, sometimes a fly: only allowed if it’s colour-ordinated!
Effigies of Saints Vincent and ‘Francis.
I heard birds, but only saw rock pigeons fluttering in the cliff breezes. Their roosts must be just below the clay-lipped edge. A few fishermen were perched on the precarious overhangs; some fish leaping far below.
I have not seen the menhirs of the region yet.
The familiar Portuguese rooster ornament.
What tree is this?
Lots of orange trees.
And the familiar syringa tree from my childhood. What a squishy mess those berries made. But it has a nice fragrance. A type of lilac?
Inlay at old slave market.
Infante d’Henrique, navigator. (Sir Peter Russell remarks in his biography, “In Henryspeak, conversion and enslavement were interchangeable terms.”; Wikipedia)
I remember clearly the moment
our bilateral eureka moment
incurred fatal funny bone damage
The borrowed scars, so fair:
a remedy against the plague
Wisely we parley
Time married and had seconds
The minute storm is weathered
It slakes the thirst of dull desire
Do you remember Suzanne Vega’s Rosemary?
Soon NaPoWriMo2016 will also be a memory. Fun, as always. ‘Poetry tells the truth. That’s why people hate it’. Who said that? (Apparently from The Big Short) But! “We have art, that we may not die of truth.” (Nietzsche) Still, we die.
Be your own story, be your own plot
Learn tough lessons, how to be mild
Transplant to a boroughs lot
of a wild flower, child
Scatter on three continents, the seed
Spring up in a wildlife trail
Shoot up like a veld weed
Cropping a reverse fail
Brought to you, with love, from that awesome axolotl:
A goodly 10 km stroll. What a great city. I saw many of my favorite things.
Just couldn’t find vegan food on Granville Island- or rather, my companions were too hungry to care. I might have to burn the bridge and go vegetarian, if only to preserve my sweet disposition.
Spot the houseboat cat.
Oh, and there are lots of flowers here…