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Sunday, January 6
We have promissed ourselves that 2008 is going to be our sabbatical year. After seven years of turbulence, taking care of sick and dying people and a disappointing building process that took no less than three years, it's finally time to take a breath ourselves. This year we will only things we like to do. Not what we ought to do, should do, must do, or whatever.
Socializing with friends and enjoying all the pleasures of the new stables is high on our priority list. So is revisiting long forgotten places, like this tiny island in the most northern part of the Netherlands. There is absolute nothing: just sand and water. There are no distractions. But it's ideal for a short break, long strolls, emptying our heads. Even on a gloomy cloudy typically Dutch wintery day like today.
Monday, January 22
For the second year in a row it's a typical Dutch Winter. A winter we fear, as in our worst nightmare: warm, wet, windy and gray. As if dusk and dawn are one, with nothing in between. So far we've already had the average amount of rainfall for this month. More rain is coming our way.
But today is a rare and wonderful exception: it's bright and sunny for a change. A day for a stroll. And even though it's still January, in downtown Amsterdam the first leaves of the hawthorn are telling us that Spring is no longer far away.
Saturday, January 26
Yes, we are a bunch of sissies. It's never easy to split, but to lure our little lambs with food in order to have them taken away to the butcher felt pretty akward this afternoon. Still, it had to be done. Their father was too agressive so we couldn't keep him any longer (too dangerous for the unborn babies). His two sons are not eligible to make it with their relatives.
Thursday, January 31
While North America and
China are coping with severe Winter conditions, here in Holland January
has been the second warmest since 1706 (
).
As a result it has been wet and intemperate. Today another storm front
is raging over these lowlands, with huge rainshowers and wind gusts
of more than 110 kilometers per hour.
These crocusses don't seem to mind. They simply keep their bonnets closed
until the storm is over and the sun caresses their frail petals again.