Today, I took a long walk along the border of the sea. A smoky white vale was hanging about the sky, making the sun look like the moon. A perfect circle burning white, slowly lowering into the distant horizon. There was a strong, cold breeze pushing against me, but I hardly felt it. I was taken away by the beauty of it all, and by the conversation I was having with my friend.
It’s amazing, how the same place can feel very different depending on the company you have. Some people make you feel as if the world is an open shell. A beautiful oyster, sparkling with the salt from the sea, just waiting for you to slurp it up and enjoy. I love these kinds of moments in life, and I finish the day with a heart full of gratitude.
Today made me understand that sometimes, we are not ready for life… but life is always there, ready for you. It’s only now, on my seventh time here, that I see this as the perfect place for me all along. It’s as if the fog has cleared from the last few years, and my path is being shown to me.
Part of our coastal walk was through the neighbourhood of Cap d’Antibes. For those who don’t know, there is a lot of money in this area. There are big houses, hotels and gardens… most all places heavily gated so that outsiders can look, but not enter. But it’s still nice to look. We even passed by the villa les chênes vert, where the French author Jules Verne wrote part of his works. It looked perfect, as I stared out beyond the gate.
It is clean, pure white, and influenced by Roman style with its sturdy columns and stone balustrade. In between two of the buildings, there is a small round pergola of a completely different elegance. It sat at the edge, looking out onto the serrated coastline of the Riviera. Its small dome was glowing gold in the hazy light of the setting sun, like fish scales. The slender beams were decoratively joined together by a scalloped railing that almost reached up to the roof. In the gap between, a series of circular stained-glass panels seemed to be floating delicately. I couldn’t help but say it: I could imagine myself sitting there, looking out, and writing my own work. Maybe just as many other artists have done over the years.
As we finally left the gate and continued on our walk, my friend said to me “you’ve come to where the writers are.” To her it seemed so obvious, but to me it was never clear until that moment. I did not know that the likes of Jules Verne, who wrote Around the World in 80 days and other books turned into films, might have actually written it here. So also Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Francoise Sagan… I started to realise that maybe I kept coming back here, because it was life’s subtle way of encouraging me to be the writer I’ve always wanted to be.
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