The Magic of Las Pozas

Transcription

The Magic of Las Pozas
Beauty of form and nature
Xilitla
12 th August 2012 Postcards from Xilitla
The magic of Las Pozas
Surreal dream, real jungle
Art and environment
Green is very restful to the human eye and soul. Here in Las Pozas the
greens are silver, mossy, purple, lime, deep, light and every shade in
between. The shapes of the leaves and the breath of the trees fills your
heart the moment you step into the garden.
The dream Edward James had of Eden grew organically over the years
he made Xilitla his home. His was a unique vision in a unique
environment, a blending of sculptural architecture and natural beauty
and form.
There is nowhere in the world quite like Las Pozas, every path leads you
to a new discovery, a new surprise. For a first visit, it is completely
overwhelming, image after image floods your senses. Elegant bamboo,
Postcards from Xilitla
towering palms, ancient trees are wrapped around James's creations.
His stairway to heaven has a concrete bridge to Las Salon de Palomas,
the house of doves, itself nestling among jungle foliage.
This is an environmentalist's heaven, the jungle is controlled just
enough so the paths are walk able, but there is no pollution, no mess, no
denuding of natural resources. The lush beauty that brought James
here and kept him here is all around, growing and glowing.
Sunlight filters down through the canopy to sparkle on the cascades
that feed the pools that give the garden its name. It is the dominant
sound, water rushing over rock, pushing its way over stones and
boulders, tumbling down precipitous valleys.
Right on the upper edge of the garden is the tree house, with a view
across the mountain ranges surrounding Xilitla that you will see
nowhere else. Perched high on the top of the gorge it's a climb worth
making just for the exhilaration of the colours and the smells that
accompany the view.
Countless butterflies, dragonflies, crickets, spiders, millipedes, and
other beasties live undisturbed in the jungle forest. The big blue
butterfly, beloved of Edward James is a common sight, as are the acid
yellow and orange ones.
As you walk around the smells guide you from place to place. The
humidity creates a rich, plummy smell, like ripe fruit. Orchids capture
you with a powerful perfume as you pass them shyly hiding in the
foliage, or bursting out with bright blue flowers slightly reminiscent of
English lilacs.
When the rains fall, the river rises and runs louder and faster, a magical
sound. When the forest goes dark with thunder and the first lightening
streaks through the trees you feel the powers of nature and wonder at
the dream of one man to build a concrete paradise in the jungle.
James was a poet, an author, an artist and then an unintentional
architect. When a vision entered his mind, he acted on it, taking his
sketches to his artist craftsman who made the moulds for the sculpture.
They are breathtaking, astounding and beautiful. My personal
favourites are the huge concrete orchids set in the middle of the high
foliage that almost conceals them. It looks as if they grew there, truly
the blend of nature and surrealist sculpture that James desired.
The gardens have much to offer the artist, the botanist, the nature
lover, the seeker of peace or just the curious. You could spend a few
hours or months getting to know the trees and the buildings, admiring
the sheer genius of the juxtaposed works or just relaxing in the cool
waters of Las Pozas.
Come.
Carolyn Nicholls 11th August 2012
www.lynninxilitla.wordpress.com
[email protected]
Writing in the jungle
On being writer in residence in Xilitla
Xilitla
25th July 2012
Writing in the jungle, Page !1
'I want to talk to the scholar,' said an American voice, cutting into my morning coffee. I set
my cup back on the table.
'Mmm,' I reply.
'This is my daughter, Megan, she's an arts major, and this is my other daughter Cecily,
she's a fashion model. I'm Jodie, the one you saw swimming in her underwear in the pool
this morning. We've just come over for a wedding.'
'Mmm,' I say.
They are proud of me here. Strange people come up, wanting to talk to the writer, or the
scholar. Both in El Castillo and Las Pozas, they sidle up, deferential, as if I can give them
something.
'James Edward built this place, didn't he?' remarks Josie knowledgeably. 'Wasn't he
American?'
'Um, no. He was British.' I have to stop myself saying, 'Actually', it's sitting on the tip of my
tongue. 'His name was Edward James.'
'You sure?'
'Quite.' I say, biting into my toast, hoping my un-quiet gut isn't audible. It's only my third
day, digestive adjustments are in progress.
Down in Las Pozas, Carlos tells me his brother writes poetry. He will give me a copy. It's all
in Spanish, but poetry is poetry, Si? I will understand.
'What are you writing? I want to read it.' says Carlos.
'It's a novel, set in India.'
He looks disappointed, 'Not Mexico?'
'Next one.' I promise.
'Romantic?' he asks, dark eyes staring at me.
'No, not really.' I say, wondering how I'm going to extricate my heroine from the river I've
just dumped her in. I've already cut the poor girls hair short because she had fever, and
dressed her in boys clothes so she can escape from the Indian mutiny. She is soaking wet,
filthy with river water and in a foul temper. Not romantic. On the other hand, there are
elephants in it, sometimes.
Xilitla is a small place and my haunts few, the market, the hotel and Las Pozas. I sit,
tapping away at my iPad in a variety of exotic location. Some quite private, such as that
sweet spot on the third veranda of El Castillo, some quite public, like the cafe at Las
Pozas. I quite enjoy writing in public. But People are curious and their expectations are a
bit intimidating sometimes.
'How is your writing?' asks another American guest at breakfast.
'Fine, just fine.' I mutter.
'You published yet?'
'Yes.' I say, hoping the student project at Sussex university that selected one of my short
stories counts as published.
'You on Amazon?'
I gurgle. 'Yup, You can google me on Amazon. Non fiction though.'
'We're off to see James Edward's bit of garden. Do you know him?'
'Edward James.' I say, 'He was a poet, and he wrote novels. It's quite a big garden, used to
be a coffee plantation before he acquired it. Lots of surreal concrete architecture.'
'We've got an hour.'
'Right.'
I have my spots. I write in the Salon de las palomas, the house of doves, but people keep
knocking on the door, curious to come in. I write in the cafe at Las Pozas and the guy who
makes wire jewellery chatters to me in a mixture of Spanish, English and French, asking
how my writing is going.
'Buen,' I say, 'Multo buen.' he grins, confident that I am not lying to him. Why would I?
I have fished my heroine out of the river, made her miss her train, get attacked by
marauding highlanders who mistake her for the enemy. Well they would, she's in Indian
uniform. Finally I put her on a train to Calcutta, along with the gallant Captain, who she
hates, or does she? I think she might be hungry. I'm hungry, but the heat has ground my
digestion to a halt and I drink gallons of coca- cola, lite. Or coffee. There is not a lot of
choice.
'How's your writing?' asks another guest. 'You finished yet?'
'She's on a train to Calcutta, she's lost her twin sister. I'm going to feed her curry.' I reply.
'Oh. When will it be published?'
'Not sure, maybe next year.'
'That long?'
'These things takes time.'
I'm going to make a sign, to hang round my neck. 'It's going just fine.' it will say. Maybe
then I'll be able to get on with it. Or I shall write at night, when they are all sleeping.
'It's going fine.' I tell myself. Postcards from Xilitla
The Storm
They don't make storms like this in Brighton
Xilitla
10th August 2012 Postcards from Xilitla
The storm
They don't make storms like this in Brighton. Not this crashing, roaring
rampaging monster assaulting the ear drums and shaking the earth.
It started innocently enough, fat drops of soft rain, hitting the ground
with a gentle hiss, the thunder a distant mumble. My waiter raised a
huge umbrella and shrugged elegant shoulders when I asked if it would
rain much.
It was already dark, but the moon hid her face, drew her curtains and
retired for the duration. Then something woke the gods.
When I was small, visiting my Granny in darkest Heartfordshire, a bit of
thunder was tolerated, - just God moving the furniture- . Lightning
however was a different matter and she went sailing round the house
covering all the mirrors with scarves and table cloths, turning their
faces to the wall, me in her wake. Even her hand mirror, a thing of
beauty with a mother of pearl back and silver inlay, had to lie face down
on the dressing table as if ashamed.
Knives were hastily shut into the kitchen draw and my Grandmother
retired, with dignity, under the kitchen table, taking a tin of her own
ginger biscuits with her. And me.
As the thunder began to grow, my waiter hustled me inside the
restaurant, gave me coffee and my bill. Outside the lightening was
flashing with such intensity that it flooded the restaurant with a harsh
light brighter than any day light. I scuttled away, down the secret stone
stairs that led from the restaurant to El Castillo, Edward James old
house.
Xilitla is in the mountains, steep sided valleys, immense escarpments
and jungle. The thunder is trapped here, rolling around like a fat man in
too tight clothes.
The gods began tearing sheets of metal, their pudgy hands gleefully
scattering the pieces at each other like so much confetti. The rain fell in
sheets and the hot ground hissed and sighed and then surrendered to
the downpour. The street steps became a waterfall, rain gushing and
The storm
cascading down from step to step, pouring off the roofs, whooshing
everything before it. Leaves, bottles, rubbish, all sweeping down the
hillside.
Sheet lightening lit the way for the forked lightening that cracked and
split the sky, small thunderbolts from the hand of the gods. Dogs howled
briefly and then the cacophony drowned out their fear. The rain was no
longer gentle, but a sharp tongued assault, a solid sheet of water
bludgeoning its way through the leaves, ripping the resistance from
them and scattering them on the ground. The smell of wet hot greenery
was intoxicating, like an overripe plumb pudding, slightly on the turn.
The ancient magnolia tree by the pool surrendered its leathery leaves
and dropped half made buds into the water. No one swam. Not in this
storm.
I sat, sheltered by the covered colonnade and watched. And then the gods stood up and began in earnest. Their roars shook the
ground, the pressure on my eardrums was immense and I pressed my
hands over my ears while they stamped out their rage and flashed fire
from the sky. No longer dark, the lightening fled across the sky
continuously. No disco could have done better. There was no one in the
street and a small contingent of cockroaches took shelter by my feet.
'You lot are supposed to be able to survive a nuclear winter so move on,'
I said and flapped at them with my swimming towel. They scuttled
under a nearby pot. One of the guests had a small dog with her. It shook
and she picked it up, cuddling it. It buried its head in her shoulder and
put its paws round her neck. 'I'll take her inside.' she said, and ran the
few steps across the courtyard to her room, the rain blurring her
features instantly.
I climbed to the veranda for a better view across the valley, but the gods
had drawn a thick mist across their games and even when the
lightening flashed all that was visible was the grey wall of wet, the
mountains a faint silver shape etched across the sky.
Hour after hour they rampaged on. But even the gods get weary and
towards dawn they quieted down, pulled the warm wet clouds over their
tired bodies and lay down. The rain let up gradually and I could sleep at
The storm
last. It felt like I had survived an onslaught, and I was glad to huddle
under my thin sheet and even welcomed the undaunted humidity.
No, they don't make storms like this in Brighton. Postcards from Xilitla
The storm
Cave of Swallows
Birds, new friends and sweat
Xilitla
24th July 2012 Postcards from Xilitla
Cave of swallows
Sotano de las Golondrinas
Into the depths
'Excuse me but you are the film maker?'
'Errr, well I...'
'Carlos told us you had won a competition. We make films and would like
to make one about this place. You could help.'
'I'm a writer.' I said reluctantly dragging my mind away from Calcutta
and the railways.
'My name is Ana. We saw you at the hotel. Would you like to have dinner
with us tonight?'
'Thank you,' I said, wondering if they would serve dinner on the East
India Railways and if it would be curry. Ana said she would see me back
at El Castillo and I carried on typing away with the waiter occasionally
slipping me more coffee and sweet lemonade. The little restaurant at
Las Pozas is a great writing spot. Anna returned.'We are going to the cave of swallows, would you like to
come with us? We may be too late back for dinner.'
I pondered. Ana looked respectable enough, smart, in her 50 's, with a
husband, sister, best friend, elderly mother and a bunch of kids in tow.
So I agreed.
'First we have lunch,' declared Ana.
'I don't usually eat lunch, it's too hot, but I'll have a cold drink.
'You should eat lunch.' said Ana
Cave of swallows
So we piled into two huge modern cars and drove to a nearby
restaurant. The kids, attendees of private schools, tried out their
English on me, attempted to correct mine, told me where they were
going for the summer, soccer camp in Manchester, then Ireland just to
see it, on to Italy and then maybe Denmark. Money.
They tried to press tequila on me, told me I didn't know what I was
missing. Almost force fed me lasagne, argued amongst themselves and
we're a noisy happy bunch. I began to relax.
When the bill came, they whipped out calculators and argued
acrimoniously for ages. Then Ana turned to me, '170 pesos.' she said. I
was rather taken aback, and kicked myself for assuming this was an
invitation. I would not spend 170 pesos on lunch, certainly not on a half
child sized portion of mediocre cold lasagne and the worst coffee I have
yet tasted. Maybe I should have had that tequila.
We piled back in the car and Stephan, Ana's husband, who had had a few
tequilas and at least two glasses of wine drove rather fast towards the
cave of swallows, said to be 45 mins away.
Of course it was at the top of a mountain, and the road swung in
constant hairpins, added to that it was not so much a road more a
continuous sequence of potholes which Stephan neatly avoided,
swinging the big car from side to side. After twenty minutes of this my
lunch was calling my attention, unable to decide whether to leave my
body upwards or downwards. 'Neither!' I screamed at it mentally and
pushed my hands hard into my gut and hoped the next bend would be
the last.
Finally we arrived. My new friends jumped out of the car and went to
the entrance. At that point Ana said to me. 'It is some steps down before
we see the swallows flying back into the cave.'
There were seven hundred of those steps, each one steep, slippery and
just plain awkward. It was far hotter than Xilitla and the humidly was
cruel, with a thick mist. My new friends speed ahead and I was soon
Cave of swallows
totally alone on this torturous decent, with no idea of where to go, many
paths leading hither and thither.
I entered into stage three golden glow on my personal sweatometer. At
this level, not only has the sun screen mingled with the insecticide and
the sweat, making a sort of sludge that slowly descends to puddle in
your elbows and toes, but you lose so much moisture you can feel your
kidneys crying and you crave salted peanuts and rehydration fluid.
I continued down at a steady gentle pace and eventually came to a
wooded viewing platform with a few spectators. They grinned and
pointed out the birds to me. Half a dozen swallows flew into a large hole
in the ground. Big whoop.
There are now seven hundred steps to climb up and the humidity has
increased. I start. I feel like an abandoned child and mutter to myself. I
let my anger fuel my ascent. My calves are screaming, my lungs are
having to squeeze the wet out of the air before any oxygen can get in
and my whole body glows. I hope there is not some secret way back and
my friends decide to return to Xilitla without me.
I rest frequently, waiting for my heart rate to slow a bit, thinking this is
most likely terribly good for me and I never ever want to do it again.
With the top in sight I come across an elderly man sitting on a rough
stone bench at the side of the steps. His hands are braced against his
legs and his face is grey, not red. He is alone. I sit beside him and fish in
my bag for my portable M&S fan.
'Permitta' I murmur and turn the fan on, holding it to his face and neck,
moving it slowly. He grunts 'Grazias' and I carry on. After a few minutes
he looks a bit better and I offer him my water. He drinks and says
'Grazias' again. 'De nada.' I say.
A young girl comes running down the steps to him and pulls his hands,
chattering away at the top of her voice. I fix her sternly with my
Englishness and tell her to let him rest a while, and to get her mother.
Cave of swallows
She doesn't understand the words but the tone gets through and she
shots off, returning a few minutes later with an older woman.
I continued my journey upwards, still cursing Ana and her family,
wondering if I would say anything to them. Wondering if their
behaviour, so strange to me, is a cultural difference or if other Mexicans
would find it odd too. The mist was thick by now. When the mist comes,
the birds go in early, there was nothing to see anyway.
At the very top the mist cleared and I sat on a large stone, looking
upwards.
And then... then I saw an eagle, soaring on the thermals above me,
lazily circling. The air was so clear I could see its feathers and its eyes. I
forgot my anger and my pain and for a brief moment soared with the
bird.
I found the car at the road side, along with ancient mother who was
getting bored and worried. An hour later the family sweated up. They
had seen nothing, it was too bad. Why had I been so slow?
I smiled. 'I saw an eagle.' I said.
Cave of swallows
Oh, how I long for tea
The secret longings of an English woman abroad
Xilitla
16th August 2012
Oh, how I long for tea, Page !1
With golden glow and tangy warmth
To wrap my hands around a cup
And let the tea just fill me up
But I'm not home and there's no tea
Just coffee dark and bitter
And coca-cola, limonade
And stuff that makes me shiver
It's raining hard
It's cold and wet
And humid, thunder calling
It's foreign, crazy, I regret
And how I long for tea
Now it's sunny, blistering heat
White sky, sizzling pavement
Guacamole, chilli, lime
I find to my amazement
No one longs for tea.
Just a cup, or three
And eggs and bacon
English food, - ah, me,
Oh, how I long for tea.
Oh, how I long for tea, Page !2
The Spider and the Sword
A dream
Xilitla
The Spider and the Sword. Page !1
A dream, a legend, a fable
A young man was walking through the jungle alone. He had his bed roll on his back and a
small flask of water at his hip. Night was falling and there was no shelter to be seen. He
thought he might have to sleep in the jungle. He walked on and there, on the path ahead
of him, was a simple bamboo hut.
Outside the hut sat a beautiful girl. Her long black hair flowed down her back and she was
wearing a blue kimono with strange white flower patterns on it. She smiled when she saw
the young man and bade him sit with her.
She gave him a drink. It was sweet, and spicy with a strange heavy perfume. It flowed
warmly through his limbs and he felt drowsy.
The girls removed his clothes and began to wash his body with cool water. She gave him
more of the drink.
That night, he lay with the girl in the bamboo hut on a mat. When he slept he dreamed a
spider came to him and whispered in his ear.
'Now you can claim the sword.'
When he awoke the next morning, he was alone. There was no girl, no bamboo hut and he
was lying on his own bed roll. But he was naked and his clothes were in a neat pile beside
him. He dressed quickly, rolled his bedroll up, slung it again on his back and walked on.
As he walked he thought about what had happened. He could still taste the strange drink
and feel the warmth of the girl's body against his own.
At last he came to a small village where he asked about the girl, describing her hair and
her strange kimono. The villagers looked at him and shook their heads. No one would
wear such a kimono in the jungle they said. Then he told them of his dream and of the
spider and the sword and they closed their doors and vanished inside their houses.
But one old man took his hand and led him to the edge of the village. There the two sat
down and the old man told him of a legend. A great Lord had a beautiful daughter and many wished to marry her. The Lord had
declared he would give his sword to whoever won his daughter's heart and hand. Many
tried, for the Lord's sword meant his entire wealth, but none succeeded.
'I do not care for the sword, only the girl.' said the young man.
The old man smiled and said, 'It is only a legend, there is no girl and no sword.'
'Then how do I know of her, and what about the spider?'
The old man grabbed the young mans' ankle, and rolled up his trouser leg, peering
minutely at the flesh. He was not satisfied and rolled up the other leg. There he found a
small mark.
'Ah, the spider has given you the mark and the dream. You must come at once to my
house.'
The young man was keen to find the girl, but he didn't believe the old man, or the legend.
He thought she must be here somewhere and the old man was trying to stop him from
finding her. So he followed the old man to his house and entered.
The old man asked him to sit and presently a young girl appeared with a cup. She had
long black hair, but she was plain and wore a simple peasant dress. The old man took the
cup from her and gave it to him.
'Drink.' he said, 'It will help the pain.'
'Pain?' said the young man.
'From the sword.' said the old man, and as he spoke these words he took a sharp knife
and cut open the young man's leg. He squeezed the wound and out jumped a spider. The
girl killed it with her shoe.
'It is fortunate you came. It is a bad spider that one.' said the old man.
The girl offered him more drink, and as he took it from her hands he thought perhaps she
was not so plain after all, and wondered how she would look in a blue kimono with strange
white flower patterns on it.
They came to Xilitla
It's usually very quiet here.
Xilitla
They came to Xilitla, Page !1
'Gaby! Lock the doors, close all the windows, turn out all your lights and stay quiet. They
are coming!'
'Who? who is coming?'
Gaby pantomimes holding a phone to her ear as she recounts her story. I listen, hand
across my mouth.
'Who was it?' I ask, although of course, I know who, or what, it was. This is Mexico. But
Gaby has the story tellers craft and does not reveal her crescendo just yet. Face anxious
in memory, she continues.
'Two more friends rang me and said the same. "Gaby! You must close the restaurant, turn
the lights out. They are coming.'
Gaby looks at me, her arms hugged across her chest.
'I had many guests in the hotel. I was worried about them.'
'Who?' I asked again.
She leaned forward, close to me, as if she didn't want to be overheard.
'The bad men.' she said.
Xilitla is a small mountain town and very isolated. It isn't on the way to anywhere in
particular and it's not wealthy. It takes effort to get here. Most tourists, both Mexican and
foreign, come to see the surreal gardens, they probably stay a day or two and then move
on, back down the mountain. A local man might earn 100 pesos a day, about £5. There is
not a lot of work to be had, teaching, construction, farming, a bit of gardening. It is a deeply
religious community. There are no casinos, no nightclubs, no spa hotels or golf courses.
Nothing to attract the very rich and so it isn't a target for kidnappers or drug dealers. But
just 30 kilometres away is the highway to Mexico city, bringing as it does the dubious
civilising benefits of coca-cola and camay soap to the inhabitants, it also offers access for
other reasons. People don't drive along that highway at night. When I was picked up from
Tampico, it was in daylight, and the five hour drive to Xilitla was in the light.
'What happened?' I ask Gaby.
'We were all so scared. I was scared. Scared, scared scared. The bad men they fight each
other and you don't want to get in between them.' Gaby drew two long lines in the air with
her hands.
'Crossfire,' I said, 'You don't want to get caught in the crossfire.'
'Si,' said Gaby.
'it was about nine o'clock at night, already dark. Of course we had guests at the hotel, I
was scared for them too. We told them 'Please don't go out, we are locking all the doors.
You can sit in the courtyard of the restaurant.'
'So did they?'
Gaby nodded. 'Si, they all knew something was wrong. We said very little, closed the
windows, locked the doors and turned all the hotel lights out. They sat in the courtyard, the
one at the back, away from the street, with the very high wall.' I nodded, the courtyard would be very safe, the wall about twenty foot high and solid
stone. I doubt a few night lights on tables would be visible from the street. Besides, it was
not a street anything could drive up, not even a bad man could get a car up those steps.
The front of the hotel was another matter, right on the street, even if it was a small side
street. Gaby nodded towards the secret tunnel, a flight of stone steps behind an iron door
that connects the hotel to the restaurant. Invisible from the outside, it's the way guests
come and go for dinner. Gaby continued, spinning her story out, holding the suspense.
'They sat there, very quite, with just a few night lights on the tables. And we waited. they
turned the street lights out too. Xilitla was in darkness.'
'And?' I encouraged. Gaby shrugged her shoulders.
'Nothing. It turns out there was a fight in a town just a few kilometres from us and one of
them was wounded. They bought him to the hospital in Xilitla.'
Gaby jerked her head sideways in a contemptuous gesture, if she weren't such a well
bought up lady, she would have spat.
'I would not have treated him.' she said, 'Bad men, nothing but trouble. With guns, guns
from America. People thought the other bad men would try and snatch him from the
hospital. That can happen, then they don't care who they shoot. Anyone who is in the way.
But they treated him and he went away.'
'I used to go for a walk with my husband at four o'clock in the morning if it was hot and we
couldn't sleep. But we don't do that now. Just in case.
When someone rings the bell at the gate now I wonder who it is. I hate that feeling.
Bad men, we don't want them in Xilitla.'
Footpaths
Poetry in the jungle
Xilitla
Poetry, yes poetry
Green, green the forest sleeps
Green, green the forest sleeps
Water flows like memory
Time lies gentle on the leaves
Echoes of eternity
The footpaths of my life have lead me here
to this green land where sound and spirit ring
Threads of time weave magic as I sleep
I wake to water and I hear it sing
No words, but sparkling colour full of sound
no sorrow, anger, love, nor hate, nor fear
but Life, deep voiced with memory sweet and clear
The footpaths of my life have lead me here. The footpaths of my life will take me on
to leave this green behind me as I walk,
but I will turn and look, and dream and say
My path will lead me back to you some day
Poetry, yes poetry
But if my life should take another road
And green lives only echoed in my heart
Let memory, sweet deceiver I hold dear
Bring footpaths, that once did lead me here.
Poetry, yes poetry
Stairway to Heaven
The House of Doves
Las Pozas
7 August 2012 Postcards from Xilitla
Stairway to Heaven, Page !1
Where doves might fly
Out the window
Sitting at the long table in the House of Doves, I have the perfect view of the stairway to
heaven, only ten foot from my window. One of Edward James's largest sculptures, it soars
up to the sky. Solid concrete that looks so light, as if it floats.
Built around two central columns, the stairway looks out across the valley to the hills far
beyond. Green, lush jungle set against a bright blue sky, with no buildings in sight except
his own bamboo scene, far below, also in concrete.
The columns end in elegant curved petals and a central flower, like his beloved orchids,
except that these concrete ones will survive whatever the weather has to hurl at them,
violent tropical storms, or freak snow fall, like the one in 1962, that left his garden paradise
looking as if it had been burned, but was the inspiration behind his eccentric architecture.
The columns have steps set in them, sticking out of the sides like so many fragile fingers,
spiralling round, making a staircase right to the top. Even the terrors of clambering up the
precipitous choir stalls in the Royal Albert Hall have nothing on this. Were I to fall there, I'd
have the chance of landing on a substantial tenor or two. Here, there is nothing soft, just
more concrete. A health and safety officer would pass out from shock on the spot, but
people climb up, some to stand on the very top, arms spread wide, to have their photo
taken, some to find their nerve failing them half way up, and sitting down until one of the
garden tour guides comes to help them down. From my window in the house of doves, I
am happy just to look.
Set into the side wall is a long curved opening, closed by two doors that meet in the
middle. It opens up to an immense cage, where the doves used to fly. When Edward lived
here, the doves lived in this room, perching where they would, landing on his shoulder,
strutting about the room, decorating the floor and any furniture with their bird offerings. In
the mornings, he opened the door to the outside cage so they could get some fresh air.
Across the valley, I can see kites soaring in circles, riding invisible thermals, looking for
prey. I am higher than they are, as if I were in a small airplane, looking down on them and
the ground below.
Leaning out of the window I can just see the pathway leading to the mosaic snakes and
the heads of people walking up it, cameras in hand. It's cool here. I can hear the river and
the consistent buzz of cicadas, the nervous voices of the climbers on the stairway to
heaven and the chatter of the less brave, exporting caution and encouragement in equal
measure.
A large blue butterfly, the size of a ladies handkerchief, flaps by and lands on one of the
stairs. I am entranced and reach for my camera. But it is not to be. After a brief sun bath,
the creature soars away, upwards. My eyes follow, up the stairway, to heaven.

The Magic of Las Pozas

Transcription

Similar documents

ART BEYOND BORDERS, PostCards From The World “My Dream of

20%off - MerrillShop

www.merrillshop.com/CBGundaker

ballet folklorico quetzalcoatl examples of sponsorship benefits

Poster LVA WACAC 2016

targeted mailings deliver results

Digital Camera Magazine (UK)

Hear Ye.... Hear Ye....... - Olivia`s Dollhouse Tearoom