Driving down the smooth and never ending highway, my stomach began churning and flipping with excitement, like a world class gymnast, performing her intense routine. As I turned off from the highway onto the connecting road, the scenery around me became familiar. I remembered driving through these same streets, seeing these exact same trees and houses on the sides of the road. My first ever holiday. Pulling into the leafy, steep driveway, I drove up to the long path which lead up to the house. Parking my car, I stepped outside and a breeze of fresh mountainous air brushed up against my face and body. I took in a deep breath of it and opened my eyes to the spectacular sight before me.
Streaks of golden shimmering sunlight filtered through the green canopy of trees, casting breathtaking shadows across the mossy forest floor. The lush green grass was home to thriving insects that swarmed on the ground like an overcrowded marketplace on a Sunday morning. The crickets chirped in a harmonious tune that echoed throughout the forest, in sync with the repetitive calls of the extravagant looking birds soaring high in the leafy giants. I looked around in awe as this spectacular sight never failed to amaze me.
Leathery leaves brushed against each other in the feeble breeze, almost as if they were whispering to me in a hushed tone. As I slowly made my up the steep and rocky path, I began to remember why I always enjoyed coming here. Summer after summer, the balmy smell lingered in the cool humid air, mixing with the scent of damp earth around me. Flowers were spread all across the luscious forest floor, leaving an enticing fragrance in their wake. Vines twisted up and around every tree, reaching magnificent heights and hiding parts of the fo...
... middle of paper ...
...e stress surrounding my journalism job in New York was not healthy, especially considering how many weeks I am into my pregnancy. The intensity of running around day after day, chasing news headline stories, has gotten overwhelming and extremely difficult to handle. I think that is why these trips come at such good times. Each year, my life is paused as I take a single week to recollect myself after a treacherous year, battling against life and what it throws at me. Each year, I come here to finally breathe a proper breath and see new sights other than the streets of New York and Manhattan. The incredible opportunity I have to escape my life, even if only for a brief moment, allows me to enjoy what is missed as I chase statements for my new writing pieces. It is truly and inquisitively remarkable, how this single place on earth can change my view on life, forever.
When the day came to leave I was woken at the crack of dawn. I was keen to get to Blackpool as swiftly as possible, not only for the football that was ahead of us but also for the famous Pleasure Beach. The coach picked us up at around 8 am and in we crammed into an already full coach. The journey down was full of laughter and friendly joking from the parents. That day, it was particularly hot and inside the coach a number of people were becoming uncomfortable. I was unaffected by the warmth inside the coach, with my earphones in I relaxed and paid more attention to the vast countryside we were passing through. The vivid scenery blew me away, with colossal hills to calm rivers that we met on the journey.
The arrival of winter was well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road he was much more aware of all his surroundings. He grew up in this small town and knew he would live there forever. He knew every landmark in this area. This place is where he grew up and experienced many adventures. The new journey of his life was exciting, but then he also had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach of something not right.
When adversity stares people in the face, do they run away from it, or do they have the willpower to fight it head on? James Joyce, the author of Dubliners, at the young age of twenty-three, was able to take note of the struggles and hardships of the Irish people at a time when their once prosperous Dublin city was in retrograde. He took all the emotions and angers that his people had during this period in time, and summed it up into fifteen short stories. Throughout these stories Joyce places his characters into situations that leave them in constant states of dishevelment and agony. Some characters run away from and are left defeated by these situations and responsibilities, while other characters are depicted as being strong and confront and handle their crises. “The Boarding House” and “The Dead” are two stories in particular, where the characters find themselves longing to escape not only from Dublin society, but also from the obligations that they have in Dublin.
The drive to cross the Kentucky border had taken hours and hours of strenuous patience to finally arrive in another state. The view was by far country like as hints of cow manure could be smelled far from a distance. We drive through small towns, half the size of our hometown of Glen Ellyn had been the biggest town we've seen if not smaller. The scenery had overwhelmed us, as lumps of Earth from a great distance turned to perfectly molded hills, but as we got closer and closer to our destination the hills no longer were hills anymore, instead the hills had transformed to massive mountains of various sizes. These mountains surrounded our every view as if we had sunken into a great big deep hole of green pastures. Our path of direction was seen, as the trails of our road that had followed for numerous hours ended up winding up the mountainous mountains in a corkscrew dizzy-like matter.
“The bigger the real-life problems, the greater the tendency […] to retreat into a reassuring fantasy-land” (Naylor). When the difficulties of life are unbearable, people often escape through various forms, such as an imaginary world where such problems do not exist. This is a form of escape and a way of ensuring that the difficulties at hand do not overpower their lives. This idea is explored through various characters in Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. The district in which these characters are imprisoned, Gilead, is controlled by a radical Puritan government. There exists a regulation for every aspect of the characters’ lives: from religion to sexuality, from language to occupation, from meals to marriages. With such absolute laws, one would imagine that suicide is the only escape; however, numerous characters within the novel learn to escape in a manner which does not cause them harm. In Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, government extremists cleverly employ various forms of control to manipulate the characters into feeling powerless and isolated; ultimately, this forces them to depend on temporary escapes to survive in Gilead.
Dani and I stand in the sun waiting for the “men” to catch up. The view was worth Quill’s whining and navigating through the snow. The breeze catches in the bright green and gold of new Aspen leaves whispering around the lake. The Pine trees scent the air and bask in the sun to steal its warmth from the forest below. The trees are a dark canopy along our path permitting only a few patches of the raised finely mulched trail to a beam or two of sun. Framed like a photo three pencil lead gray peaks rise above a lower sweeping curve of pines. They look close enough to walk over the ridge and touch them. Boulders precariously cling to the side of the mountains. The perfect deep blue early summer sky is the perfect backdrop.
As the first rays of the sun peak over the horizon, penetrating the dark, soft light illuminates the mist rising up from the ground, forming an eerie, almost surreal landscape. The ground sparkles, wet with dew, and while walking from the truck to the barn, my riding boots soak it in. The crickets still chirp, only slower now. They know that daytime fast approaches. Sounds, the soft rustling of hooves, a snort, and from far down the aisle a sharp whinny that begs for breakfast, inform me that the crickets are not the only ones preparing for the day.
Rays of light shone through the gaps in the crisp leaves, covering the floor in patches of sunlight. Long branches intertwined creating a golden canopy over the path with old trees bordering the fields acting like guards, creating serenity by muffling the sound of the busy city. With each step I took, the metal keys in my pocket bounced, synchronising to my every move. I was finally coming home. Captivated by the scenery and caught in my thoughts, I didn’t take notice of the clumsy stranger heading towards me.
The crisp, spring air envelops me in a blanket of earthy scents that is welcomed in my nostrils. The spongy ground gives way to my lightweight, dull orange and brown hiking boots as I embark on my venture. I push through the masses of tangled underbrush whose thorny branches that reach out to grab me as I pass through and it seems like it is dusk because there is very little light penetrating the gnarled barricade of the dark green thicket. When I reach the other side, my eyes readjust to the golden light that seems to be tinted lime green through the canopy of leaves overhead. This scene is much different than the thicket in every aspect.
The autumn leaves crunching beneath my feet. Birds chirping to an unfamiliar melody. The swamp green trees caving in on us, any connections to the outside world long gone. It's crazy to think that in just a span of two hours, we have seen and witnessed many, if not all of nature’s purest beauty and uttermost perfection. This may very well be an upright exaggeration, but it truly was an outstanding and just marvelous sight to see.
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
“Crunch,” whispered the crisp fall leaves blanketing Horizon Hill as I walked along the trail with the companionship of my dog, my mom, and my little sister. It was a clear blue-skied day. There were only a few cotton-like clouds in the sky and the sun was shining through the trees as if you were stuck in a juice box and the brightest light was coming through the straw. My tall brown boots folded and crushed the wandering leaves and sticks on the trail with every step. The mesmerizing fall leaves masked the trail with their bright, exuberant colors of fiery oranges, sunshine yellows, and deep reds and maroons.
The sunless sky covered the woods over the treetops which created a canopy over my head. The crimson and auburn foliage was a magnificent sight, as this was the season known as Fall. There was a gentle breeze, creating the single sound of rustling leaves. The leaves appeared as though they were dying to fall out of the tree and join their companions on the forest floor. Together with pine needles and other flora the leaves formed a thick springy carpet for me to walk upon.
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.
This area of the world is so foreign to my Oklahoma life; it infuses me with awe, and with an eerie feeling of being strongly enclosed by huge mountains, and the mass of tall trees. However, when my foot first steps onto the dusty trail it feels crazily magical. The clean, crisp air, the new smell of evergreen trees and freshly fallen rain is mixed with fragrances I can only guess at. It is like the world has just taken a steroid of enchantment! I take it all in, and embrace this new place before it leaves like a dream and reality robs the moment. As I turn and look at my family, I was caught by my reflection in their impressions. The hair raising mischief in the car was forgotten and now it was time to be caught up in this newness of life. It was as if the whole world around us had changed and everyone was ready to engulf themselves in it. The trickling of water somewhere in the distance and the faint noise of animals all brought the mountains to