A Village in Rheinland-Pfalz (Germany)
It was on a Sunday afternoon in Brittany when we decided to go to a beach we had passed on an earlier hike. It lies enclosed between steep, reddish-brown cliffs that plunge vertically into the sea. The golden-yellow sand – glittering white in the sun, dark brown on a grey day like this one – dips into the water, whose waves break over it with a rush and vanish into it.
A day wrapped in grey clouds lying like a blanket over the visible world – one that draws us in magically with its beauty, of which so much remains even then. Magical places like these have crossed our path many times. Yet we have never truly been able to get to know them; we were always there too briefly, and usually only once. This one was to be among the few we wanted to visit a second time, to take another look at all the surprises it might offer. And it would surprise us.
On the way down from the car park to the beach, a yellow canopy appears in the sky. That small patch of gravel and earth is the only way to get as close as possible by car, before you still have to walk a good stretch on foot. It shoots up like a mythical creature from the sea, straightens itself behind the rocks and rises into the sky, only to plunge back down in the next moment and disappear again. It is the belly of a paraglider filling with the wind blowing in from the sea to the shore, lifting the person attached to it into the air – though of that person we can see nothing.
It seems to be someone who has mastered the equipment as well as the forces of nature in this region. Again and again it appears, turns in the sky, falls, resurfaces and vanishes. Then nothing more happens. Some time later we arrive at the scene, and barely have our hiking boots touched the sand – sinking lightly into it – when we make out an older man packing up his glider. He sees us and waves in a friendly manner, which we return with an equally warm smile.
The beach is narrow, less than fifty meters wide, and as we approach the water I turn around and notice that he has gone. The next moment a gusty wind picks up and brings heavy rain lashing straight into our faces. We have no chance of escaping it – we are already in the thick of it, with no idea what is coming at us. The old man, however, had known. He had packed his things in time and disappeared.
He had sensed the rain before it arrived – long before us, who had been relying on a weather app and were caught off guard nonetheless, because even it had not been able to foresee this. The clouds had told us nothing, and the gentle breeze drifting in from the ocean even less. Ignorant as we were, we found ourselves in an unpleasant situation. What they say about mountain weather seems to hold for the sea as well: it is unpredictable and can change in the blink of an eye.
Among all those rocks, in the rugged beauty of untouched nature, lies a knowledge that was hidden from us. Here, where we now live, it is no different. We are not by the sea, but we are nestled between forest and meadows. What does it mean when the leaves of the trees are riddled with holes? What does it say about a soil that is dry and yet from which the most colorful blossoms rise? Knowledge of the place where one lives is the beginning of belonging. That man in Brittany had truly inhabited it. He knew the weather – and probably much else besides. We, however, were blind, caught so completely off guard by the sudden shift that it hit us full on. The storm was there, and we were at its mercy.
I want to have such knowledge – not because I wish to dodge the storm, though that too would be a worthwhile experience. I want to know the place where I live well enough to say that I know it, that I can call it my home or even my homeland. That is the path. That is where I want to arrive. And the first step towards it is to listen to the land. To observe and to listen. Where does the sun stand in the morning, at noon, in the evening? Where does the wind come from? What is it like in every season? Which animals and insects live in the forest and in the meadows? There is so much to discover and to learn. That is the new path.
It was on a Sunday afternoon in Brittany when we decided to go to a beach we had passed on an earlier hike. It lies enclosed between steep, reddish-brown cliffs that plunge vertically into the sea. The golden-yellow sand – glittering white in the sun, dark brown on a grey day like this one – dips into the water, whose waves break over it with a rush and vanish into it.
A day wrapped in grey clouds lying like a blanket over the visible world – one that draws us in magically with its beauty, of which so much remains even then. Magical places like these have crossed our path many times. Yet we have never truly been able to get to know them; we were always there too briefly, and usually only once. This one was to be among the few we wanted to visit a second time, to take another look at all the surprises it might offer. And it would surprise us.
On the way down from the car park to the beach, a yellow canopy appears in the sky. That small patch of gravel and earth is the only way to get as close as possible by car, before you still have to walk a good stretch on foot. It shoots up like a mythical creature from the sea, straightens itself behind the rocks and rises into the sky, only to plunge back down in the next moment and disappear again. It is the belly of a paraglider filling with the wind blowing in from the sea to the shore, lifting the person attached to it into the air – though of that person we can see nothing.
It seems to be someone who has mastered the equipment as well as the forces of nature in this region. Again and again it appears, turns in the sky, falls, resurfaces and vanishes. Then nothing more happens. Some time later we arrive at the scene, and barely have our hiking boots touched the sand – sinking lightly into it – when we make out an older man packing up his glider. He sees us and waves in a friendly manner, which we return with an equally warm smile.
The beach is narrow, less than fifty meters wide, and as we approach the water I turn around and notice that he has gone. The next moment a gusty wind picks up and brings heavy rain lashing straight into our faces. We have no chance of escaping it – we are already in the thick of it, with no idea what is coming at us. The old man, however, had known. He had packed his things in time and disappeared.
He had sensed the rain before it arrived – long before us, who had been relying on a weather app and were caught off guard nonetheless, because even it had not been able to foresee this. The clouds had told us nothing, and the gentle breeze drifting in from the ocean even less. Ignorant as we were, we found ourselves in an unpleasant situation. What they say about mountain weather seems to hold for the sea as well: it is unpredictable and can change in the blink of an eye.
Among all those rocks, in the rugged beauty of untouched nature, lies a knowledge that was hidden from us. Here, where we now live, it is no different. We are not by the sea, but we are nestled between forest and meadows. What does it mean when the leaves of the trees are riddled with holes? What does it say about a soil that is dry and yet from which the most colorful blossoms rise? Knowledge of the place where one lives is the beginning of belonging. That man in Brittany had truly inhabited it. He knew the weather – and probably much else besides. We, however, were blind, caught so completely off guard by the sudden shift that it hit us full on. The storm was there, and we were at its mercy.
I want to have such knowledge – not because I wish to dodge the storm, though that too would be a worthwhile experience. I want to know the place where I live well enough to say that I know it, that I can call it my home or even my homeland. That is the path. That is where I want to arrive. And the first step towards it is to listen to the land. To observe and to listen. Where does the sun stand in the morning, at noon, in the evening? Where does the wind come from? What is it like in every season? Which animals and insects live in the forest and in the meadows? There is so much to discover and to learn. That is the new path.