Saved on Sifnos - a travel story out of the Aegean Sea that includes little harbours, sleeping villages, several tavernas, a ferry onward, a Greek cultures festival and a room with a view, travelogue, trip, travel, Greece, Cyclades, Sifnos, Kythnos, ferry, island-hopping



Part 6: A return

The sun's intensity in Savannah was perhaps something I was not quite prepared for. Everything here seemed foreign upon my arrival. The smells, the heat, the trees. The trees, draped in what I considered at the time ugly Spanish moss, differed greatly from those of the north, in that their leaves were all a uniform dark green, the green of pine, an ever-green due to the intensity of the sun and the fact that most of them never left the tree all year,

The palmetto trees were also a foreign but welcome sight, heralding warmer climes, much to my delight, and they have become for me a symbol of this place, this in between not quite tropical place where you can soak up the glorious sunshine for most of the year.

Walking through Wormsloe Plantation, the very first plantation established here in the early 1700's, I found it to be a most welcome retreat from the city of a thousand smells. The air there was cleaner, and the long tree lined walk calming and peaceful.

This side of Savannah was possibly the best side for me, a recharge in the nature that I so craved, made even more special by the deer that we saw crossing in front of us. I shall never forget from whence I came, but if I need a refresher course, I come here, to the grounds that seem to blot out the fact that we are even remotely near an urban area.

The marshes stretch out for miles and are impossible to build on, due to the tides and the general instability of the earth in the entire region, for it lies very near to sea level. That does not detract from it by any means, and I have found comfort in the sight of those marshes, stretching out forever, laughing at those who tried to build on her. Wormsloe with its tabby ruins, walls made from oyster shells gathered in the tide basins, (even certain sidewalks here are made from tabby as well as houses and roads) sits silently on the edge of the marsh, a testament to the grit that was necessary to build such a place.

7. My mother's call

this travelogue is part of the subside travelzine
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