SATURDAY FARMER'S MARKET

Some Saturdays I would take a break from my studies, and accompany my family to the Saturday Farmer's Market.

It is such a joy to walk between the stalls, weaving through people, conversations, smells of hot pizza ovens, and the wafting lyrics of a busker with a guitar. 

The fresh produce is every changing, with misshapen organic oranges in the summer, and giant fronds of silver kale in the winter.

Then there are the ol' faithfuls - the pie cart, the juice place, and the woman selling Lebanese pastries and pickled vine leaves. 

Each person is a beautiful sight to behold at the Farmer's Market. A lady with purple tinged hair and wearing all red carries a straw basket full of carrots. A group of young beatniks congregate to talk academics by the coffee cart. Near the cheese stall, there is meeting between a grey haired man in a smart bowler hat, and a woman with a scarf that is all the colours of the rainbow. She is rolling a trolley bag to and from her house, to fill with a week's worth of groceries.

I am not so pragmatic, and all my money seems to disappear, only to reappear in the form of a very full stomach and empty tote bags.  

All photos were taken at the Otago Farmer's Market, which happens each Saturday beside the Dunedin Railway Station.

SEA SPRAY

A SMALL WONDER OF SUMMER

Watching the sea spray along the esplanade, each plume hung in the air, for just a moment.

Every seventh wave creating a gushing roar and a clap against the wall that ends in an unexpected showering of salt droplets. 

I cannot help but laugh when I am soaked by the spray. 

---

“I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.”

— John Masefield

ROSES

“It was roses, roses all the way.”

— Robert Browning

My grandmother always grew roses, and in our own small garden there were several shrubs of small pink roses. I liked to pick the petals off each one, gathering them in my hand, fingers closed, until I had an abundance and I could throw them up in the air like pink confetti. 

The saying goes: take time to smell the roses, and although it is an overused cliché, there may still be wisdom in that advice. For, we may always find pleasure in a rose garden.

For instance, the Italians of the Renaissance, the French Impressionists, and the English gardener's of the Victorian era all took time to smell the roses; planting them in vast gardens that were separated from the traditional herb and vegetable plots, where flowers were grown for a medicinal purpose.

These jardins d'agrément, or gardens of pleasure, were created simply to be enjoyed - for walks, for picnics, for paintings and happy meetings, for ornament and sweet perfumes, and for the delight of all that looked on them. In those days, a rose garden was a retreat, where one could take tea, listen to music, and watch the play of light and shade over the flowers. 

A ROSE Spell

to bring oneself closer to nature

If one wishes to become closer with nature, and to enjoy a few moments of beauty, then this is a charming ritual to undertake. 

- Go into a garden, and walk in meditation, slowly gathering the petals of one large and two small purple roses, then endow these with the light of the moon by placing them on your windowsill at night. It is a lovely thing to do, to say a quick hello to the moon while you are doing so. 

- Then take one scoop of fresh snow, or of spring water, and place the rose petals into a glass jar along with your snow or water. Place this in the sun in the afternoon, while basking in the warmth alongside them.

- Finally, use your rose petal concoction to make a herbal tea or a bath, letting the hot water release all the sweet perfumes of the crushed petals.