A sky of the color Carolina and the winds of the mood Cerulean, there is a smidgeon of foggy clouds near the corners of the sky. In my Palladiums, I walk towards the end of the countryside unparticular of the program. It’s just a stroll after all. The mind needs no boxes right now. It is off duty for a while, breaking away from all the philandering of the extrovert thoughts veiled from the world of mannerism and custom. Breaking away from all the compulsions to the luxury of leisure.
I walk through the small community market and its old brick roads with grime settled between the creases since 1959. Well, that is what the engraved cornerstone mentions. And, that it was built in the month of May by Don Mason Builders. Athwart the street is an old bookstore. Today there is a sale on old maps from the times of United Soviet and divided Germany. A couple of wine shops later, a new grocery store and a vacant plot later is an old filling station. The grime on the brick road gets darker after this point and some takeaway shops later are the famous three-way intersection with an old gigantic spruce tree in the middle. This junction connects the city to the tea gardens and village dispensary.
I took the path to the village dispensary ducking trespassing the private tea estate. Lively little rowhouses with gorgeous balconies and stunning flower pots lay pleated together. The road has turned cobblestone here and the air has a smell of food being cooked in the kitchens facing the street. From risotto to baked bread, the air has a riot between the cinnamon and the garlic. A road dissects the cobblestoned street and across the street are small lawns with houses of old residents. There are villas and cottages big and small standing distinct and unique. Some of them are unkempt among the well gardened and primed ones. Some have hedges around the boundary, most have nothing at all. One can hardly peep into them as they are far from the street.
Nevertheless, the letterboxes are nestled just beside the street. That pretty postbox belonging to the white Tuscan villa has started to engulf in ferns and creepers. The postman would have had an arduous time slipping in the Easter mail. An old red brick house, a few meters ahead with bay windows has a hedge which has a protuberance of Parthenium weeds and the identical postbox ferns. The barn which has its red color wilted by the rain and bleached by the sun has an old whitewashed fence around it. Tiny ferns grow around the fence leaning on them.
Here comes the village dispensary in a rented cottage. The owner perhaps lives in the city or some other country. Ahead of the dispensary, through dense forest and the hidden trails within, just around the bushiest of the corners, dwells the glossiest of ferns.
In the heart of all the tales of countryside romances, tucked quietly somewhere in the background or beside lovers making moist kisses are the lovely ferns. Let me just collect some and take them home!
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Love, Muscari Lane