I’m not bad with languages. I can pick up enough to cover the basics, and get by. I don’t speak German, but I do have enough to buy a sausage or a pretzel. Actually, no: that’s a lie.
As the train descends the mountain towards the lake the sun burns pure blood red, catching in the mist. Trees flow down the steep slope to the lakeside.
I do not know what everyone else does with their time if they’re not planning meals, shopping for food, cooking meals, or eating them. I wish I understood what banalities these people filled their lives with.
I love food programmes, and I love travel programmes. I even love it when competitive cooking programmes jet off to some far flung places to taste some lovely food.
Vinyl formation. Hot glue gun apotheosis. Interminable joy. A frustration in the eyes of the mad man.
Nothing can prepare you for a beauty you have always felt. A field as flat as a wicket; an enclosure of monastic solitude; a building burned in to cultural memory.
The glass bottomed boat skimmed through the water, in and out of rock formations with ease. We sat upstairs, under the shade of the sun deck above, and watched the mountains drift by.