TRAVELLING.
What
do you imagine when you hear the word “travelling”? I see an
earth road or a narrow path winding among the grass. I understand
that nowadays it’s impossible to travel without using cars, trains
and asphalt roads. But for me the most interesting part of a journey
starts when I reach some remote places almost unspoiled by
civilization. This is the world which mankind is losing now and we’ll
lose it forever if we don’t stop our reckless expansion.
I
began to love the world of wild nature in my early childhood. The
wide open space of steppe with bitter-sweet scent of thick grass in
the air – it was the place where my parents started to build our
house. And, in spite of all my love for woods and mountains, steppe
is the place where I always feel most comfortable as if I belong to
it. But can it explain my real obsession with travelling?
Walking tours in summertime and cycling to the fields in spring –
these were my favourite activities. And they still are, actually –
only I can’t afford to walk with a heavy backpack as I used to.
When
I was in my thirties, my husband, our two children and I spent 7 or
10 days every summer camping near the sea. I loved everything about
those holidays. There was something fascinating in the smell of
burning wood and the sight of orange flames licking the black
cauldron with bubbling porridge in it. And what a pleasure it was
swimming in the sea water which was clean and transparent
and lying on the white sand, silky and smooth –it was so different
from our city beaches.
And in the evening we loved sitting near the camp-fire singing or
watching the shooting stars in the sky. And swimming at night when we
could observe this wonderful phenomenon – bioluminescence. The tiny
sea creatures flashed out in the dark water when we disturbed them
with our movements, and twisting glowing lines or solitary stars were
running from our arms and legs.
Usually,
standing near the edge of the sea in the dark and not knowing what
miracle was hiding in its depth, you would think that rare flashes of
bluish light were just reflection of moonlight. But once the sea
luminescence was so strong that even the opposite cliffs were dimly
lit. Long, gently-sloping waves were running along the sea surface
and every wave was topped with vaguely glowing bluish foam. Our tent
was made of white thin parachute fabric. So the foam and the full
moon were clearly seen through its walls. I remember our tent full of
light and our friend Anya, the owner of the tent, joking: “Switch
the moon and the sea off - I can’t fall asleep”.
Of
course we could stay near the village where we usually bought milk
and potatoes and took straw in the golden field to warm our tent
floor. But it would be slightly boring to have the same peaceful
impressions every year. So, during the first half of our holiday, we
had a real struggle walking with heavy backpacks along the narrow
strip of land between the sea shore and three salt lakes. This land
was entirely covered with sand. At some distance from the sea, where
even the powerful waves of winter storms could hardly ever reach,
there were dunes overgrown with grass. Its sharp blades were webbed
by spiders of different sizes and colours, but mostly they were
sand-coloured of course. I was afraid of spiders and when we had to
go to the dunes I always reminded my family to arm themselves with
sticks to tear the cobweb sticky threads.
Every
morning we woke up before dawn and began to pack our things,
shivering under the chilly wind with our eyes squinting at the dark
uninviting sea. Even now I can clearly see our little squad walking
in single file along the very edge of the water and the lazy waves
licking the sand and our bare feet. It was the place where the sand
seemed almost solid – we only slightly sank into it. From time to
time however we couldn’t find this compact path and our progress
forward turned into really hard work. It took much more time to cross
these soft patches or places covered with heaps of sharp mussels. And
another obstacle was day time heat, when we were hiding in the shadow
of our tent, though I never gave up cooking our lunch, sitting near
the fire in
the midst of
the hot blazing sand.
Sometimes,
when my husband woke us up at the crack of dawn, playing his flute as
the sea looked dark-blue and chilly or struggling with soft sand as
the backpack straps, especially painfully, hurt my shoulders, I
thought it would be much more comfortable just to stay near the village.
Nevertheless, every summer we repeated the same route.
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