Saturday, 4 February 2012
My sketchbooks, and trips down Memory Lane
Every time I go through them, I feel like it's a conversation with a friend. I remember why I liked the image, and what possibilities it represents to me. On this particular page, besides the fashion, is a photo of a cabin on the west coast of Canada that Gorgeous Husband and I spent a weekend at, courtesy of a neighbour of ours who owned it. It was sweet and quaint and rustic and in the middle of the woods. The outdoor loo had a stained glass window in the door, and outside there was a hammock strung between two trees. We could sun ourselves on the rocks nearby and see the ocean.
I remember we had to hike a distance to get to it after we disembarked from the ferry, walking over ferns and hearing the crunchy pine needles and bracken underfoot, and I was grumbling about "how far is it anyway?"
It was such a kind gesture for our neighbour to allow us to use it, especially as it had taken years of living across the street from her before she dropped her reserve and became friendly. It only took about 15 years.