Sunday 6 November 2022

Sunny Sunday meditations

Once the morning fog had lifted, the day turned out to be perfect for a long walk, a walk long enough to gather thoughts and connect with the Infinite and Eternal. It had rained all day yesterday - drizzle at first, then heavier rain, but the puddles had all but dried as I set off. Here and there, some unfenced, unharvested orchards; I picked up some pears and a few apples for home juicing. 

Below: the X. Canonical Prospect - the fork in the road. Right to Adamów Rososki, left towards Grabina. I take the track towards Grabina, though I would be turning north to Kozłów. 

Below: my first visit to Kozłów, a featureless village lying to the north of Adamów Rososki. Kozłów felt like time has stood still for half a century or more; little investment or signs of life, unlike its neighbour to the south, full of renovated działki and newly built houses with solar panels. Nevertheless, the golden-topped silver birches look resplendent at this time of year in the strong sunlight.

Below: I turn left off the main (unasphalted) road running though Kozłów and take a sandy path through a wood that will take me to the DK50 via ulica Graniczna (lit. 'border street') - the border between Powiat Piaseczyński/Gmina Góra Kalwaria to the east and Powiat Grójecki/Gmina Chynów to the west. Before long, I can hear the traffic on the main road ahead of me.


Left: a little earlier I had espied this white horse between two rows of harvested apple trees with Grobice in the background. Horses have become quite a rarity in rural Poland today. Somehow, I feel they will be making a comeback in tomorrow's quieter, slower, drabber, greener world. 

Last autumn I spotted an elk through the rows of such an orchard, a sight that's not been repeated.


On, on to the DK50 for a sudden reconnection with an anomalous familiarity:


Looking west towards the afternoon sun, low in the autumn sky, that old connection with the past. A bit of digital darkroom decision-making here - go for black & white? No longer what I saw and felt in the moment, but the impression left by looking at old photos. Is this Kentucky? Are we in rural Ohio? No. This is Warsaw's de facto southern ring road, looking towards Grobice. To the right - Sułkowice.


Below: looking up towards the road bridge over the Warsaw-Radom railway line, to the right the slip roads to and from the BP petrol station. Purest Americana.


Below: turning in to the BP petrol station, which is currently in the middle of a remont - the refrigerators have been removed, there's only a few items of food and drink on sale and it looks like the new toilets will have turnstile access. I ask when the new-look store will be ready, the assistant shrugged her shoulders and said that work happens when it happens. The building to the left is the bistro part of the petrol station, a popular wedding venue in summer.


As I re-enter Chynów's orbit, the colours return; it's 2022 again. Below: another of the Canonical Prospects. Neighbours out walking.


Below: at the end of the newly-named ul. Owocowa, nearly home. A little further up the hill. A good walk today, with over 14,000 paces on the clock. Time to express gratitude.


UPDATE: 7 November 2022: I spotted a juvenile female elk in a corridor between two neglected orchards. Taken 20 minutes past sunset, hand-held, 1.3 seconds at f/6.3, 70-300mm zoomed all the way out to 300mm (450mm in 35mm equivalent). ISO 1600. It shows just how bloody good the Nikon lens's image stabilisation is.





This time 11 years ago:
Town planning and the Sublime Aesthetic

This time 12 years ago:
On the long road from Zero to One

This time 13 years ago:
Łódź Rising



2 comments:

Anonymous said...

I like the name, Owocowa, sounds faintly Japanese, I hope it means “nearly a palindrome” in Old Norse.

R’Cardo

Michael Dembinski said...

Greetinf Ricccardo!

Owocowa - pron. Ovo-TSO-vuh (short 'o' as in box). Owoc (O-vots) means 'fruit', owocowa (adj) means 'fruity'.

My favourite Japanese-sounding toponym from Warsaw is Ochota (O-HOT-uh), the district in which my father lived before the war.