By Pickle
I live in farm country and my nearest neighbour and best bud, Steve, is a fella who rents my seaside cottage. The small building, not much more than a shack really, is situated on a cliff overlooking about a thousand metres of a beautiful, private, white sand beach.
The beach has come to be known as “Pickle’s Cove” by the other locals who all know me by my nickname. A cowpath leads from my farmyard down through fields that go all the way to the cliff. It’s a good one kilometre walk down to the cottage, and I always enjoy the stroll. Meadow grasses and wildflowers grow at the edge of the fields on either side of the lane, and during the day there are all kinds of insects buzzing, flying from flower to flower. The combined smell of honey and vanilla from the clover, the scent of the salt air, and the feel of the sun beating down on me on the stroll is always wonderfully good for my soul.
