From London to Bowen, with Love

The utter serenity and peace of this early Monday morning on Bowen contrasts sharply with the frantic metropolis from which I departed yesterday morning - London. The air here is completely still, and scented variously by sea, furs and cedars. Its pristine essence compels acknowledgment with every lung full.

What Bowen is to nature, London is to culture. The crossroads of humanity seethes literally and thrums with the urgent energy of millions upon millions of travellers yearning through the streets and lanes, seeking sights and snapping images on I-Phones for upload to who knows how many millions of facebook profiles. Navigating the crowds is an exercise in patience and mobile contortion as the body must flex and sidle through opportune gaps suddenly presented. The noise of a hundred jackhammers fills the air as workers replace Victorian era water mains with their contemporary counterparts. Buses the size of Brontasaurus lumber menacingly along curb lanes blocking the sun, rows of gawking faces peering down as if from some foreign horde here to conquer all with hungry eyes.

This morning, an occasional woodpecker fills the air with the stacato tatoo that reverberates briefly before fading into a receding echo. Some crickets still hold forth, reluctant to admit the beginning of the new day.As the sun rises over the treetops to start warming the deck outside, song birds begin to join in to the days symphony. I breather deeply, thankful to be home.