England is a wonderful novel, one of those you can not stop reading but at the same time you would never end up.
The nuanced memories are even more beautiful: those honed with time, those with faded borders but perfect details. I remember every detail of my trip to the south-west of England: the color of the Dorset cliffs to the rare sunsets visible in April where the earth ends, in Cornwall, to the softness of that grass covering all the coast I have traveled from Lulworth Cove until entering St. Ives.
Our journey begins in London. We cross the Wiltshire, with a stop at Stonehenge, then we proceed to the counties of Dorset and Devon, stopping where time permits. Like at Durdle Door where people enjoy the beach on a sunny sunshine, or at Shaftesbury, Dorset, where people are walking slowly, giving a different importance to time, or even at Pythouse Kitchen Garden between isolated houses, farms and yellow flowers fields.
But the south west of the UK is not just perfection: leaving the Dorset we also drive through two huge natural parks, where the scenery changes completely: nature is queen. Dartmoor National Park is immersed in the fog: the roads seem endless and you have to drive slowly because its inhabitants prefer not to undergo any law.
At the Exmoor National Park, we walk for a long time in nothing, where the vegetation rises from the ground only to a tree shaped by the wind.
The story changes again as it goes to the west, entering Cornwall: we are in the car, we drive to the sunset quickly, from the window we see changing the earth, meeting and leaving places in minutes, after promising to return.
Cornwall is wild nature that governs itself. We walk on the coast, there is a trail that follows it all, falling slightly into the precipices and leaning to the sea in the sandy bays.
We stop several times trying to create memories. We stop in front of those places we will keep in the memories, where the earth ends, where happily coexist small and immense and can not define the boundaries of heaven.