The Architecture of the Pitiusas Islands’ Pine

It is close to 40C today.  After a swim, I lie under the swaying clouds of a pine: my legs partially in sun but the body and head most decidedly under shade.  There is a clear blue sky, not a cloud; and a wind.  It’s a strong wind, often an echoing whistle like in the high Sierras… a bit eerie as it penetrates the space, just to your right!  The sound does not come from the bows of the trees; it is simply the noise of moving air:  sometimes the eerie flute sound; sometimes a great gusting.  Is it possible that it is The Mistral, a wind that screams down the Rhone valley and hits out across the Mediterranean? Perhaps it is just a major onshore breeze given land/sea temperature differences; or it could also be heat surges from the deep valleys?  Such is the life of a newcomer, forever observant, giving thought, and learning.

 

If I stood up my head would collide with the lower bows; if I climbed I would be to the top bows in two bounds (not that I bound!).  These are not tall trees.  They do not stand upright and mighty, but stagger in a tilt; the long limbs drooping, as if their weight were too heavy for the trunk; or the limbs too weak.  

 

The wood may actually be weak.  I have noticed that the wood used, as beams in local buildings, are worm eaten; have some rot; and split easily.  Maybe they only use the old trees?  I rarely see any standing that are dead.  Perhaps these ancient pines are not really strong, simply incredibly sturdy?

I lie gazing with curiosity. There are new 10-inch branching stems covered by the bright new 2-inch needles… amazing growth.  Now! in this heat it grows.  There are also the new bright lime green, tightly packed cones, amongst last year’s brown tightly packed cones; which are amongst another year’s cones which are just beginning to open; and finally they are all outnumbered by the old small dark brown fully blossomed cones.  I seldom see cones on the ground.  Only pine seeds, dark brown cone petals, and needles seem to fall.  

The bark is a contrast between an outer, almost dead, flaking grey crust; and a dusty, dry cinnamon like inner bark.

The wind has brought my full attention to these pines.  I am caught by their gentle movement; such a mesmerizing swaying softness.  It is not the floating of gauze; not the languishing flow of satin; but perhaps a silent billowing of silk. The fronds of soft stems and silky needles are grouped in large tufts, like floating cumulus clouds at the end of limbs.  They are not still; they are so silky soft, they are silent.

I can’t say I hear the trees growing, but they seem so shiny new they must be growing every instant.  And something else is happening:  I hear a ‘snap-crackle’! And wonder if there is a squirrel or some such creature breaking open the cones to eat pine nuts.  Several times over the day I take the time to squint up into the bows of various trees, standing as quiet as possible for some minutes.  The inner tree is quite bare though still loaded with old cones.  Many times I am startled by this crackle; at times it even sounds like a ripping … a Velcro rip, but quicker!  In an instant the sound is gone and I wonder… Did I really hear something?  Imagine a combination of a rip and crack.  A bird’s beak ripping into a cone?  That would be more continuous.  There is nothing in sight.  Absolutely nothing moves only those lovely silky green needles on the profuse new growth.  

After several hours I begin to think it must be the bark… the flaking of the outer layer that is crackling.  

Does it take this intense heat to curl back the old outer bark?  Is the tree growing so rapidly in this heat that it is stretching out of its old skin?  I can only hear it, not see it. Later I wonder if it is the cone… one of the older brown tightly packed cones of a few years back has perhaps started to gradually open… and then in the heat expanding so rapidly that it rips into a fully blown cone.  Have decided to take some time today to scout amongst these multi-phased prolific cones.  If any of them have suddenly changed, there should be some evidence. (I find what looks like some new curls in the outer bark.  Two days later, it is cooler… there are no ‘rips’ to be heard.)

The heat and air motion dries everything in moments.  If I hang washed cottons or linens on the line to dry, they are dried to stiffness within the half hour, even bath towels.  I swim; lie in the sun a bit, but the wet, cool suit dries so quickly, I start to prickle with heat before I am ready for another swim; soon the breathing gets a little labored.  I swim again.  “Very Hot!” the young Ibico man who does the gardening says.  “Si! mucho caliente” I respond, managing a word or two… never phrases:(.  He has been on the job since 7am; will stay until about 7pm.  I notice there is a mid morning and mid afternoon siesta… how else!  I don’t even contemplate going out to shop, or to enjoy a wander.  I have to wait!  I am either in the pool, or under the pines.  Unlike the fierce heat of the late springtime in India, I can still move from one spot to another, think, and read.  No complaints.

The architecture of the pine becomes clearer.  It is best realized while gazing upon it in contemplation on a hot day; or perhaps when one finds it next to a building, fitting into a space with the magnificence of a sculpture 

… the trunks so seldom straight; the limbs alarming long. Are there angles or just curves?  Such design: centuries of weathered sturdiness in the short trunks; the trunks don’t grow much in height, but do the looping limbs ever stop growing? In the hot months there is the addition of the silky, moist aliveness of the new needles and warrior-like armored cones. The heat creates a zest for life in these pines, not a shriveling into death.  Perhaps the cloud of new growth gets so heavy the limbs droop?  The rest of the Mediterranean islands also have pines but it was these islands, that the Romans named the Pitiusas  (profusion of pine):  Ancient trees, each beautiful in its unique shape, evoking the simple dignity of life.

The island’s current architects design their hillside masterpieces to be graced by the dignity and beauty of the island’s pine. It is interesting to note that the Rationalist Architects of the 1930’s came to these small Pitiusas Islands impassioned by the beauty of the lines of the organically ever-growing whitewashed farm houses … a main block, followed by other blocks in varying sizes as need demanded (more animals; more storage; more family).  The one contrasting element was a beautifully rounded outcropping for an oven. 

It remains an ancient tradition of neat functional design, and simplicity of line.  Even the church architecture was influenced.  They offer a unitary architectural structure.   These rural churches like the rural houses, lacking in any monumental aspect, were adapted to immediate need:   

a purity of form with dazzling white walls.  The architecture is distinct on the Pitiusas Islands*, like the profusion of pine.  Is there a connection?

                                               

Did the architectural beauty of the pine inspire the early builder:  The inherent purity of form in the ever emerging, shape evolving… pine?

                                                             

*  The Pitiusas Islands are known today as the Balearic Islands.

**All my photos from Ibiza can also be viewed here:

Ibiza, Spain

Wandering on Ibiza – August 11/11

“The True Wanderer, whose travels are happiness, goes out not to shun but seek, like a painter has to move about to get perspective.”  Stark, Freyda.  The Zodiac Arch.  1968

The island is about 20 miles wide and 40 miles long, with three main towns each having populations between 20 – 50,000; the island having a population of about 133,000… each year receiving about 2,000,000 visitors.

It is time to wander.  I have been here over a week now: swimming in the pool; looking over the pine covered hills; and gazing at the Mediterranean.  Hovering like the local falcon high up, drifting on the updrafts.  I have found a local market with internet café and bar; the bank; the post office; and a lovely café/bar on the cliffs at es Cabells, due south from the very beautiful residence where I am staying.  Imagine whipped cream infused with garlic to spread on slices of baguette; a dish of local olives; and vino!

Ibiza is one of several small islands traditionally called the Pitiusas Islands (profusion of pine trees).  While dry, the island thrives with the indigenous pine; olive tree; figs tree; carob tree; grape vines. Not surprisingly the Carthaginians who inhabited the island after the Phoenicians (654 BC), named their city port after their fertility Goddess, Bes or Ibusium (Ybshum, depending on language).  Upon arising my first morning, it was all so familiar! The air dry but not completely… not desert… there is a moist salt creeping about in it, creating a very special ambiance of life! A vegetation simply blooming with good things.  Dry, but not struggling.  It was like being on the southern California beaches of my teen years:  La Jolla; Laguna/Emerald Bay; Santa Barbara.  Indeed! It is ‘Mediterranean’.  This time it is the Mediterranean with a profound and incredibly ancient, Western history.

So much LIFE; so much History:  I am charmed.  There is an urge to become steeped in it.   Punic/Phoenicians; Carthaginians; Romans; Byzantines; Visigoths; Arabs have all left their trails.  In the medieval era the Christians invaded, principally the Catalans whose language is still spoken by islanders today.  So I have all day! Every day! For seven weeks or so.

Though I try to rise early to beat the ‘beach traffic’, once again it is 9:30a and 10:30a as I open the gates, turning very sharply right (can often take 2 tries!) to descend the narrow road down the hillside.  As I pass the main towns, I move into the valleys, which are agrarian still.  The farmer’s homes dot the landscape, in the age-old pattern.  (The newcomers, a very international group, build their homes on the hills, and they too are seen as white ‘dots’.  There are few ‘developments’, except by the 3 main towns.)

I have read one can find walks in the woods, so I am heading to San Miguel on the north coast of the island:  A place where there are mainly woods; few homes.  Arriving I find a main street, a church, a few hotels and businesses; then it is down the steep, winding road to the small cove and its beach… already crowded.  I head toward the beach wondering what I might find… other than muscles and curves.  With delight! I notice a path leading off behind the beach bar on the left.

  

Away I go. Traipsing up, along the narrow path amongst the pine covered hills whose cliffs drop sharply into the bay.  I grin.  This is the right kind of wandering.  I meet only two others on the path.  They are returning.

Soon, another little bay comes into view below the cliff path:  a few small, rectangular concrete boathouses, with rails to the sea (the local fisher folk?); a ‘bit’ of a rocky beach; and a very small wooden hut with awning of sticks and a scattering of tables… a café.  

No one appears to be in sight, but as I pass the hut I hear, “Ola!”  I return the greeting and walk on, behind the café towards the woods.  There is no marked path, but a walk of some sort seems to lead behind the hut.  “Oh dear… .”  Old chairs; a couple of broken down boats, holes in their hulls: General rubbish.  Then as I look more closely, gauging the scene… “Oh God! It’s a gravel pit making do for an outhouse… wads of paper scattered about.”  Yes! a bit frantically, I look about for a path that might take me beyond this mess… not deeper into it.  I skirt it as best I can, sure that I can see a winding path setting off up a near cliff.  Yes! Up I go.  In a moment I am up and away, passing an old hut of broken and fallen stone.  Built for what purpose?  My first ruin! 

Up, up I climb.  There is a lovely path through these woods.  At one point a distant bastion comes into view; only a glace then it is lost from sight.  Perfect.  Upward, though I have lost sight of the bastion, the bastion clearly marks the top of the hill:  Obviously an ancient lookout station.  After some time, the path seems to run out and I take to a road of deeply rutted dirt.   A jeep passes me going down the road toward the cliff edge, and a house or two, which can be seen through the trees… of the international sort.  I figure I can’t go wrong if I just keep going up.

Up! Up! Why am I walking up?  “Mad dogs and Englishmen… .” That damn phrase comes to me again.  Last time it was India… going to market in the noonday sun.  Will I never learn?  But it is truly a treat to walk this narrow path, cum road.  Something just off the path catches the eye:  Off to the right, a sacred site?  A circular area with piled stone markers… cairns; a fire pit; and an opened stone tomb?  I have no idea what this marks?  Who?  No information is provided.  

Higher up the three storied bastion comes into sight, crowning the cliff point.  Defensive architecture was built through the ages; many times reinforced.  I notice block cut rock amongst the natural boulders used to build this round tower:  Roman, I am sure.  An open wooden door and inner stairway lead to the top.  

Nothing could be more perfect!  An hour’s walk through a scented pine woods to an historical monument on a cliff high above the Mediterranean.  Today I understand “mediterranean blue’.  It’s not quite turquoise, except if the waters are shallow and the bottom is white sand; but a true, warm! blue.   The heart sings with the sight of that blue.

There are no guardrails or barriers.  Cliffs drop away on all sides hundreds of feet into the sea.  Not a tourist in sight; not a tourist marker.  Simply something of the past one comes upon when walking in the woods.  

A half hour later, and I am down at that little cove, sitting at the beach shack drinking lemonade.  Food? Comida?  A pequeno pescado (pes ka do… small cooked white fish), with salad, and blanco vino.  Por vafor!   Mucho buenos.  Gracias!  The tables gradually filled as I waited:  five Englishmen (late 50’s; early 60’s?) have been sitting in the sun, drinking beer.  Three beers later, they are burning multi shades of red. 

A perfect day.  Home for a swim in the pool.  Day 12 in Ibiza.

All the photos from Ibiza can be viewed here Ibiza Slideshow, or at my Facebook page if you have a Facebook account.

The Gentle Alabama Spring

In the morning, I open the screen door to the outside deck and stand there. I love to do this. It’s the smell. There is an almost imperceptible perfume. So one stands and gently inhales it, so it is fully absorbed. These mornings, unlike summer or fall, the air is fresh. A higher octane? Really! The heart sings, though the voice remains quiet. Any noise is too much. It is so fresh that you are simply seduced by the breathing: breathing in; and in again. I so look forward to the morning and this treat of the southern spring. So gentle. The smell is pervading, but light. You catch it gently, like you would a butterfly. Where does the perfume rise? What plant? Is it the new leaves; the new buds; or the ever present pine needles? Maybe it`s the fast growing grass. No one has been able to tell me. I sit on the deck for some time, slowly drinking my coffee, drinking it all in. The woods directly in front of the deck are within throwing distance, so it could be the indigenous pear blossom. Actually this perfume is always present. This perfume is Alabama. I swear I can smell it as soon as I step out of the airport! But at other times of the year there is an enveloping heat and for a Canadian, that envelopment takes some preparation. It comes in a whump. Other seasons it is just not the same. On a gentle spring morning, my feet make a beeline to the door... even before starting the coffee. The door is opened; and I wait, letting the air meet me, testing the air. Some days are a bit cool, there is a rain storm on the way; some days the heat is gathering so that sense of envelopment is impending; but most days it is simply delicious. Spring is fresh, gentle, lightly perfumed, breath quenching air.

There is more that creates this sense of gentleness. We have had several drives around the countryside of western Alabama: Greensboro; Demopolis; Tuscaloosa; Selma; Montgomery. You will recognise some of these names from the fight for school integration in the 1960’s. Alabama’s history is not gentle; it is the land that is gentle. This is so evident in the spring when the deciduous trees are still primarily bare and grey (oaks)... or white (sweetgums)... or black (cypresses?).Through the branches is a rolling land. It is field after field as far as the eye can see, given the roll; and far as the car can travel in a half day. It is part of the ‘Black Belt’, a name given due to the top layer of black soil. This was the land of cotton. The land has been cleared for about 2 centuries; some of it is natural meadow. It all has a gentle roll. Woods crop up in dells and on crests. This sprinkling of woods also makes it gentle. The woods are a pleasant respite to the ever rolling land. It is the perfect painting of an inviting land. There are forests of pine, plantation pines of various years, and so occasionally the road is hemmed in by the tall straight dry pine: But the distinctive characteristic is the rolling land. Do you remember “Gone with the Wind” when Scarlet would wait for her father to come racing across the land on horseback, jumping fences on his way home. It is like that: large rolling fields; fences; and crops of deciduous woods. It invites you to ride. It is a civilized land, easy to live upon.

One more special feature of this marvelous, sense delighting spring is the colour. I have been here since the end of February; and it is only now in mid March that I have noticed it. There is colour. As we drove into Tuscaloosa Monday, it could almost have been fall. Truly amazing luminous colour washes the woods: lime green; yellow; coral; hot pink; a red purple; rust; orange. Are they buds, newly opened leaves, blossoms, or catkins... likely all four, depending on the tree, or vine. Still the branching dominates, so we are talking colour ‘tinges’. Times the road side was like a 17^th C French landscape; I am thinking of the Frick Museum in New York. I always thought these paintings seemed affected, given their romantic style. But now that I know this luminous Alabama spring, I know it was not at all affected. Spring luminosity is real. It doesn’t blaze like a north eastern fall scene; rather it is more like a glossy chalk pastel. It is luminous without intensity. How can this be? I keep looking to make sure I can catch it. Highly coloured woods are sporadic. You catch a patch out of the corner of your eye, then it is gone.

There is heat in the sun. The cats are lounging in deck chairs; the tops of the paddock grass are bright green; and the horses stay grazing until the last minute... no run to the gate as we drive up to the barn. Sing: the wood dove; the mockingbird; the cardinal. These are new sounds for me, so once more I can sit drinking it all in: listening to the bird song; breathing the perfumed air; skin touched by a light breeze; sun warm! as it filters through the branches. We’ve had our thunder and lightning storms, roaring winds and splashing rains, the Sucurnachee overflowing its banks. But then there is the sun again... within hours; a clear bright blue sky or one with floating cumulus cloud; with a quick drying breeze. The rain forgotten; only the gentle spring falling upon the land... a living quiet.

More gentleness. Andrea is a gentle coach, as she directs Zoey to catch balls. It is Zoey’s first season playing for the Sumter Academy softball team. She is the newest player and the smallest (just 4 ft.?); and used to the constant swinging, springing motion of gymnastics. This sport is very different: square to the ground, Andrea says; no lifting the leg like a chicken; use the whole body not just the arm... you turn the left shoulder and use it to point at the ‘spot’... swing the whole right side of the body so the arm is strong and long with the right shoulder leading, then the arm at full extension, ending up where the left shoulder has been; finally it follows its trajectory and drops away. (She demonstrates, talking slowly.) Just at the end of the swing, the heel comes off the ground, but not the toe... feet always on the ground. Ready. Each instruction comes one at a time.... no urgency. There is always lots of time to get it right. “oooo... good! What did you do different that time?”Hands above the head for those high balls... no reaching to the side...cock your head and watch through the glove... then you are in the right position for a quick throw after the catch. None of that reaching out to the side... that won’t work for an outfielder... and, you know... it scares the coach. Yes, natural to want your head out of the way. Just let it drop into the glove... like catching a water balloon... gently... let the arms give as the ball lands in the glove. When it is done well, the good catches; the good throws; the good hits... all seem slow, no matter the speed of the ball. Softball: springtime’s slow, gentle game.

As I finish writing this evening, I am listening to a train whistle. How gentle is that! Out of the silence the echo reverberates. It’s a long train, on its way to (or from) Texas, so after the whistle the long low vibrations build; a rising steady wheel clacking getting louder; then gradually... a good 5 minutes? a falling away... into silence. They come hourly. Another gentle rhythm.

PS.... I would like to be able to write something of the Southern culture, but I cannot. It is not a simple culture. What is on the surface is not telling of its’ nature. There is the small town i.e., Livingston, where everyone says “Hay!” in recognition of one another... always a bright greeting; there are the ante-bellum homes scattered throughout the countryside... so a longstanding history; there are re-enactments of civil war battles... so a deeply felt history. On Baldwin Hill, a 3 acre knoll scattered with live oaks and magnolia that is Seale’s ancestral home, there is the white pillared home, first built as a school house in the 18^th C. 

At the back of the property, tucked against Baldwin Hill’s surrounding woods is an old decrepit unpainted cabin; a long ago home to former staff who were the children of former slave people. One corner of the cabin is propped up with old law books... the practise of law is a family tradition. Upon being introduced to someone, the first gambit in conversation is naming ones’ ‘family’... ones’ connections. Tonight, in a church hall, there is a fund raising dinner of grilled ‘local game’... the hunting fatigue is a familiar sight. But this is all simply juxtaposed. I am not catching the current(s).So far, the story ‘the guts’ of the culture eludes me. I have been enjoying southern literature, much of it set in Savannah. I am charmed by its disguised heart. The writers have their kinky, quirky, even ‘tacky’ characters set amongst the mossy live oak cemeteries where markers list Southern history’s heroes; the Foundation restored Greek revival mansions; the dozens of flaking white paint clapboard antiques stores; the artfully, ‘marvelous’ sultry garden parties. ghost... or cagey darkness? is never far away. Capote spent his childhood summers in Monroeville, a town only a couple of hours south of here. His close friend, Harper Lee, wrote the Pulitzer prizewinning book “To Kill a Mockingbird” ... remember Boo Radley! Was the small-for-his-age, gawky, storytelling ‘Dill’, Truman Capote? (Her only book... and, she still lives in that small town... where she was born.)She did research for Capote’s, “In Cold Blood”... did she help write it? contrast to the land, gentleness is not the key word for the culture. No, not gentile either. I will just let it go for now.

Home in a week! (Now that’s a lie. I have no home.)