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The Bermudian

Naturally Speaking

It’s only natural that as parents we want our children to enjoy our own magical childhood experiences. For me, one such experience was freely picking...

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IT’S NOT SURPRISING that when we arrived at the dock on Nonsuch Island last May, it was with a feeling of déjà vu because we had been there...

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  When the Bermuda Audubon Society announced a guided visit to Sears Cave in Smith’s Parish last March, Mike and I knew we had to...

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  W. H. Auden’s poem “Musee des Beaux Arts” makes the point that the Old Masters knew that ordinary people were mostly indifferent  to momentous...

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  Every Christmas morning Elbow Beach is on the move as hundreds of people flock down to the shore to enjoy an authentic Bermudian Christmas....

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  As buses and cars hurtle towards Barnes Corner on Middle Road, Southampton, I doubt drivers and passengers give a passing thought to Florentius Seymour,...

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    I’ve often wished that the Bermuda Railway was still operating in Bermuda. Taking the train ride from Dockyard to Hamilton and then from...

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“Let them eat cake,” Marie Antoinette did not say. But she could have said, “Let them eat potatoes.” Apparently, she sometimes liked to wear potato...

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Oh, by gosh, by golly, it’s time for mistletoe and holly. The only trouble is that in Bermuda, thanks to no bleak midwinter, we don’t...

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Some time ago, I was thinking about how beautiful Bermuda was looking in all its best summer colours when our friends James and Marian invited...

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Illustration by Christine Watlington Now that summer’s here I think of sunflowers I saw once in southern France, fields and fields of them, their heads nodding in the breeze. And then I think of Arles, Vincent van Gogh and all his vibrant, tactile yellows made possible because of newly invented pigments, such as chrome yellow. The other day I bought a bunch of sunflowers from Amaral’s farm stand, stuck them in a bright blue jug we bought years ago in the south of France, and taking in their rich yellow fringes and chestnut florets, had a long and satisfying Van Gogh moment. But looking at one of the heads, its petals slightly droopier than the others, a shock of memory shot through me—the involuntary Proustian kind that takes you instantly back to your earliest days. Back in childhood I was, but I just couldn’t remember what I was remembering.

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