Delicate and small we eventually found them. The grass had been mown late; far too late. The orchids had probably been topped. However, we searched anyway and Bob managed to find a couple of spikes that were so small they’d escaped the blades. 60 more words
A great tribute to Klausbernd and Cley! :-) Eine großartige Hommage in Bild und Worten an Klausbernd und Cley. Beide liebe ich vom ganzen Herzen. Ich bin gerührt. Hab herzlichen Dank, lieber Achim. "Junge, komm bald wieder!" :-) Here's to you! Cheers! - Dina [gallery type="rectangular" ids="11466,11474,11465,11464,11489,11458,11459,11460,11469,11472,11479,11490,11471,11480,11491,11461,11487,11484,11486,11485,11483,11462,11470,11463,11496,11495,11492,11476,11478,11475,11477,11493,11494"] Achim writes: Ich übersetze mal mit Google Translator: Mistakes shouldn’t be taken for granted :-) The journeys through the granary of England offer views of a richly laden virtual breakfast table. Cereals, honey, jam and the goo of fried eggs in the microwave. In the bus, fueled by the narrowest streets, I hope that the roads may be widened until they fall over the cliffs of Dover, the spitzhackigen coasts of Cornwall and the misty-gray beaches of Cumbria in the waves. Always better than to be afraid to pooch, rose bushes and tree tops, cut up by the knife threads double-decker companion, the lawn around his neck. The Busbrausen is an extension of the physical experience horizon. My ass can sing a song about it. And my elderly bone density also. Cooped up in the seat linkage, become deaf. My limbs and muscles sing the chorus of a prosecution. How chickens clucking in the hen batteries for space that does not deserve. Each trip ends with a piece of growing cold metal on the anvil of confinement. Just rejoining the land of the living. Cley next the Sea is the pearl that is found after you have broken a hundred thousand mussels. The breath of forgetfulness blows over it. Fox and hare say goodnight. But it is also an object of the owl of Minerva, where it should not find its way back to Athens. Nutty, a little god lost, shrill, a sowing of Bohème, a sewing box of eccentricity. And there it has slyly midst Bernd Klaus Vollmar. From the serene blue sky. Hospitable he is, of course. A paragon of loquacity, but overweight, walking on a patchwork of subjects, a corner Springer, a cliff diver. And he seems, he will forgive me (or it makes him proud nigh, and the ways in Cley are sometimes puzzling) to be stuck in a melange of 68s, Hippie Time and Woodstock, psychoanalysis and herbalist. A veritable self he is. His garden, clear English. His library breaks all chains. A K2 of the most beautiful, strangest and most erotic treasure trove of fiction, the color and symbol studies, philosophy, art history and much, much more. A treasure island. A sympathetic with a CV, to which I could only tie with five other own life. All in all, a person who fits Cley like the proverbial fist. Here’s to you, Klaus, Bernd.