Urban travel tales

Lost in interpretation

3 X Awarded Blog on Cultural Travel since May 2012 focused on Cultural Heritage & Ecology. Here you find authentic posts in En/Gr thoroughly edited and researched with my photos. They host a traveller’s approach and the vision for a safer world, a home where everyone may find the space to experience active love, to honour respectful boundaries, to explore purposeful creativity.

2017 © Copyright.  All rights reserved; first posted: 14 February 2017 – revised: 28 November 2018

I kept walking along the riverside from Kingston-upon-Thames to Richmond, in Surrey from mid-September 2015 to the early spring of 2017. I have been patiently reconnecting the dots praying that they would lead me further ahead; I kept walking, immersed in the shadows and in poetic imagery, enveloped in silence…

Richmond, riverside, fog, UKdedicated to my mother,
she would have appreciated this river, this walk

Winter has swept off the striking green, leaving dark branches where there was foliage before. Up on the trees a second trail unfolds, soggy crossroads lead to deadlocks – some 
branches ravel into knots, others split abruptly – what a puzzle. 

I am staring in search of a treasure
that has been kept hidden.

Hidden or stolen?

Does it matter? The point is that it was kept away from me. I could not cherish it or share it; could not lend it or sell it. 

How long has it taken for the green to turn into copper red drying out like yellow swags from curtain rails?


It took longer than two months – it was done so slowly, reluctantly. The final metamorphosis happened over a week-end. 

A strong bust of wind swirled around brushing off the last that still trembled in full visibility at the edge of disappearance. The houses started emitting signals, and the street lamps, seen from afar, were shedding their yellowish tremor against a dim opalescence.

I had been idle, just walking and I saw the leaves brought down all at once.

What about these shadows that are moving behind windowpanes?

You would not have seen them before, it was the foliage.

Rush, they turn on the light before four o’clock now. Yes, rush, before they pull the blinds, when they return home from work, rush, rush.

By mid February the days are getting longer again. Behind the crocheted evergreens, a number of anaemic sunsets lie down their mats on the fields at the awakening of vigilant sounds, surrounded by invisible creatures.

Who would interpret these ttttitu and ffrrrr for me, please?

This is not my mother tongue. Look up at this treean open palm extended,
pleading for a reading, a caress, a kiss.
Love – this is the word in the first page of the dictionary.

This is a landscape of Love. 

tree, branches

Yes, and all dead share the same country, the same language.
No passports. No borders. No need for dictionaries.

In loving memory to
Christina Andreou – Samloglou  /
Χριστίνα Ανδρέου – Σαμλόγλου
October 1st, 1924 – January 18th, 2015

She loved to create with her hands : dentistry, gardens, houses. To the end of her days nothing has made her prouder than the work of her hands, porcelain crowns & bridges, dentures, prosthetic were her artworks; she would recall in detail and clarity many cases, along with the names, the families and life events of her numerous clients. 

Her attitude, both professionally and socially, was typical of an era when “to be a useful human being” was not only valued, but expected. I have come to believe that she has practiced dentistry with the passion of an artist and the ethics of an humanitarian. She has chosen dentistry from the age of 14 when she went to help in a neighbour’s dental office. 

I now realise how much she cared for her clothes, for her style, her coats, her shoes, her magnificent hair and her never-faded lipstick – notably, she was a beautiful woman. Pleasant surroundings, an inviting house to entertain and host friends & family was a natural extension of her personal taste. 

My mother was born in Peloponnese, Arcadia, a small mountainous village Agios Vasileios Kynourias. She has spent most of her days in the neighbourhood of Athens where her family had settled when she was seven years old.

My mother was a hard-working woman always serving in the best of her capacities what she consider would prosper her family and the community’s health, education and well-being.
I miss you mama…

2017 © Copyright. All rights reserved for texts and photos
revised March 2018

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