There is nothing quite like the smell of fresh coffee in the early hours of the morning. Sitting in front of my little cabin watching wave after wave lap gently on the shore as the early morning mist hovers over the glassy surface of the lake, throwing the trees on the opposite shoreline into towering rugged silhouettes.

The birds, always the early risers sing merrily and flit from tree to tree watching me warily while hunting for breakfast. This is their land. I am a foreigner. I am unfamiliar with the culture and the language of the place.

My untrained eye can appreciate only a fraction of the beauty here, and yet even that is overwhelming. The smell of the salt water and wild flowers sharply contrasted by brewed coffee dances around my nostrils teasingly. The hazy mystical fog lies over everything and the damp cool breeze caresses my cheeks.

The sharp outlines of conifers and liquid slope of the hills frame the water where a lone boat bumps gently against the old wharf, reminding my that all too soon this magickal sojourn will end. That I will return to my own world, that of firm realities and man laid laws, of white noise and disruption, the ever present hectic rat race and the cold stab of a world with little time for beauty.

Author: Amairgen

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