Viagem de Violao, Brasil

I was waking down my favourite route to the beach today when a small brown dove swooped down onto the path in front of me. It looked rather like an English Turtle dove, same head and body shape and with the same soft grey plumage covering its head and neck. The rest of its plumage was a rich mahogany brown with curious markings on the wings making the wings literally look like the bark of a tree. Peculiar. Or - the wonder of nature? The dove tilted its head calmly to one side and we surveyed each other for a few minutes until the dove set off at a leisurely waddle across the path to duck under a large gate when it shortly disappeared from view.

I continued walking, soaking up the fresh but heavy smell of new pollen after a heavy rain fall. The sky was a perfect shade of blue, little candy floss wisps eddied unhurriedly across the great upturned bowl of endless blue. I’d brought my guitar with me, the black case swinging against my back as I walked. After a short meander, dodging various speeding cars, politely refusing several offers of chewing gum, peanuts and bright pink hair grip (?!) from several street vendors, I reached my destination, a small hill with a larger than life white marble statue of Christo overlooking the long sweeping golden sanded bay, over seen at the far end by the humbug black and white striped picture postcard lighthouse set astride a similarly sized hilltop.

It’s a pretty blustery today, so the hill is almost empty of people. At last, my guitar bought safely all the way across the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean (12 pounds 59 – courtesy of Ebay ;)) was out of its case, balanced safely across my knee as I fine-tuned the strings humming a little under my breath. A few experimental strums later and I was pretty much satisfied. I proceeded to play for just under two hours, reveling in the sensation of the salt saturated breeze fresh on my face, gently tugging at my hair, freeing a few strands to swirl round my head in a continuous updraft. I thought about my uncle Graham, and Aunt Kym as I played, as my uncle is having an operation today, and I sent a prayer up that everything would go smoothly and that he's be back to fighting fit as soon as possible.

I'd highly recommend anyone who plays or sings to try and do it on a sun soaked, windswept hilltop overlooking the ocean, I cannot think of anything more soul satisfying. Also useful for people who may be occasionally tone deaf as the wind sweeps you song away! When my girly lil fingers were about to fall off (I need to toughen up my fingertips – they're not used to played acoustic steel strings). I walked along the entire length of the bay towards the lighthouse, the sky and ocean seemingly welded together in a vast stretch of vacant blue. Sunset was approaching by the time I reached the lighthouse, and I joined the group of locals gathered on the crest of the hill to watch the suns final descent below the horizon line. O porto do sol was exceptionally spectacular today, just a few fluffy ´the Simpsons'-like clouds, their bellies catching the crimson pink glow of the setting sun from beneath, warming the entire cloud water mass. Shortly the entire sky was ablaze with fiery crimson offshoots as the great orange yellow ball of the setting sun slowly made its way beneath the horizon. As if by pre spoken agreement all the Bahianos around me broke into appreciative applause. There was a nice collective pause as if everyone was holding their breath as the sun finally sank out of sight dimming the sky as it went. It felt peaceful.