First in July 2010.
As I wake up, I feel the impending return. I imagine the warmth of the festive clamor of children, working with her bundle of satisfactions and thoughts, the Tuscan Sun and I cradle it stabs at the same time, some important decisions to be taken. All this in half-sleep, still overwhelmed by the quilt with the heating on while I look out the window a group of trees that greets me moving the branches. But I still have a day of bikes, and then return with three aircraft, which is also an emotion.
Released from the, I expected a drop of a few miles, I arrive at sea and diverted left along the west side of a long fjord that will take me up to Olderfjord, fifty miles from here, then take a bus to Alta.
The sky is pale, you feel the power of an extreme climate, that can change at any moment. The steep mountains spill into the sea, there is just room for the road and a strip of grass a few hundred meters. Brooks threw into the sea water to thaw, looking still see patches of snow. And yet - how the hell has happened to you do not know - there's also a group of pine trees, pines north of the world. Maybe that mitigates the sea and the mountains of color, stiffen the sea and the mountains of this fjord - you do not get the Gulf Stream - in the winter months, a dramatic and fascinating dialectic.
A beach a few steps from the street. I look forward, do not resist. I get off the bike, I took off her shoes and slip your feet into the sea. Ice, I think ice shrinks and muscles ache, but I try to walk a few meters to intrepid thinking that bathing in the seas and rivers of Russia on New Year's Day.
I resume the journey, taking a detour of an hour by bike to reach a cove with basalt formations on the seashore. The legend says that the Trolls, mischievous spirits came from the sea who wanted to destroy the fjords of these parts, but were restrained by the forces of light, the light of dawn.
Today the light is grim: there are persistent clouds, there's a cold wind that carries splash of sea, but the view is superb. Islands, inlets, bays, all seasoned with low tide. In the background, another fjord. Painted with flowers and lawns, even on the roof, the inevitable snowmobile in the garage. Here
- happy surprise - a sea eagle, the largest bird of prey in northern Europe, which hovers over my head. I stop and watch: ten minutes of squiggles in the sky, until it points straight up a cliff, reaches his home.
It 's time to go, he said.
As I wake up, I feel the impending return. I imagine the warmth of the festive clamor of children, working with her bundle of satisfactions and thoughts, the Tuscan Sun and I cradle it stabs at the same time, some important decisions to be taken. All this in half-sleep, still overwhelmed by the quilt with the heating on while I look out the window a group of trees that greets me moving the branches. But I still have a day of bikes, and then return with three aircraft, which is also an emotion.
Released from the, I expected a drop of a few miles, I arrive at sea and diverted left along the west side of a long fjord that will take me up to Olderfjord, fifty miles from here, then take a bus to Alta.
The sky is pale, you feel the power of an extreme climate, that can change at any moment. The steep mountains spill into the sea, there is just room for the road and a strip of grass a few hundred meters. Brooks threw into the sea water to thaw, looking still see patches of snow. And yet - how the hell has happened to you do not know - there's also a group of pine trees, pines north of the world. Maybe that mitigates the sea and the mountains of color, stiffen the sea and the mountains of this fjord - you do not get the Gulf Stream - in the winter months, a dramatic and fascinating dialectic.
A beach a few steps from the street. I look forward, do not resist. I get off the bike, I took off her shoes and slip your feet into the sea. Ice, I think ice shrinks and muscles ache, but I try to walk a few meters to intrepid thinking that bathing in the seas and rivers of Russia on New Year's Day.
I resume the journey, taking a detour of an hour by bike to reach a cove with basalt formations on the seashore. The legend says that the Trolls, mischievous spirits came from the sea who wanted to destroy the fjords of these parts, but were restrained by the forces of light, the light of dawn.
Today the light is grim: there are persistent clouds, there's a cold wind that carries splash of sea, but the view is superb. Islands, inlets, bays, all seasoned with low tide. In the background, another fjord. Painted with flowers and lawns, even on the roof, the inevitable snowmobile in the garage. Here
- happy surprise - a sea eagle, the largest bird of prey in northern Europe, which hovers over my head. I stop and watch: ten minutes of squiggles in the sky, until it points straight up a cliff, reaches his home.
It 's time to go, he said.
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