One of the ways I recover from the jolt of returning home after an extended trip is to delve into books about the place or region I’ve just been to, or to read travelogues and anthologies (while swilling copious amounts of wine to assist in the denial that I am “back”). So, I’ve been reading a book of travel stories by AA Gill, a cheeky, smart, observant writer from Scotland (but he lives in Chelsea). I liked what he had to say about Argentina. His description of Patagonia made me nod in acknowldegement and wonder. Here, I share it with you:
“I opened the door, took a deep breath and felt a severe pain in my jaw as it fell to the floor. The sun was out, it was crisp and clear, and there was Patagonia, right there, and way over there. Patagonia is unfeasable beautiful and vast. The beauty never lets up, it’s like ocular tinnitus, a repetitive deafening of the eye, a visual peal of bells that rings form dawn to dusk. We all have a personal template for nature’s wonder, some scale to hold up against a new landscape. Mine is Scotland. Patagonia is Scotland squared, with sagebrush instead of heather. It as all those sense-tingling ingredients that push my personal buttons. It’s leggy and fit, a sinuous place with great curves, it’s competent and emphatic and it’s got a temper, it swears, and most of all it doesn’t give a damn. It’s not one of those landscapes that are arch and secretive, it isn’t gentle or flirtatious. It doesn’t wear make-up and it’s not promiscuous. It’s not for everyone.”
