Lose yourself in these enchanting islands:

Just wanted to announce the publication of my new book Islands of Eden: St. Vincent and the Grenadines, which will be out November 14, 2014 (but you can pre-order it now: 
http://bit.ly/islandsedennorton or http://bit.ly/islandsedenAMZ or http://bit.ly/islandsedenBN or from your favorite bookseller). It features breathtaking shots of these eastern Caribbean islands, from white sand beaches, to drool-worthy Vincentian dishes, to images of island life. There will be an upcoming special preview for Facebook fans! See more HERE.

When Time Stops

A sunset, before the night’s arrival, glistens over the gentle waters. Time seems to stop for the wonders of nature. Shadows beckon, but in this brief moment the silence grants serenity. 

Want to vicariously travel the seven seas? Need a calendar for 2014? Ours just came out! 

"The Seven Seas Calendar will take you to the last reaches of natural beauty, solitude, and silence. Sail away to another time, to where there is only sea and sun and the night sky thick with stars. Anchor at islands with names like Orkney, Tonga, and Huahine. Nautical charts enhance each journey to hidden coves and magical archipelagos."

• 31st year as North America’s #1 sailing calendar

• Highest quality, suitable for framing

Order from W. W. Norton or amazon.com

The Glow of Dawn, Venice

The glow of dawn. The mystery of the darkness seeps into the stones, the canals, the lagoon. In windows, the first lights shine; looking forward to the promises of the day, but still—or already—longing for the night.

Fountains of Sparkling Light

On a hot July evening - the night of the Savior - Venetians drag their kitchen tables and chairs onto the shores of the lagoon and sit down to a meal that lasts into the night. 

Near midnight, the sky comes alive. Fireworks bathe the ancient city in fountains of sparkling light.

Venice Nights

A midnight walk on a summer night along twisting canals, over graceful bridges. Such silence. 

So good to be lost. To lose yourself to the darkness.

Recent photos of Venice which appear on this blog are from Ferenc Máté's upcoming work of photography, VENICE NIGHTS (coming out in 2014)

Dolomites

The Dolomite mountains are a dramatic break from Tuscany’s paradise. I love the ancient hamlets, flower laden pastures, and soaring pink-rocked mountains with snow-bridges and waterfalls. 

No other place makes me feel as vibrantly alive.

Tiny chapel

A tiny chapel in a green sea of Tuscan hills. Each time I pass, I stop and linger. Something about its simplicity lifts my heart and soothes my soul.

Tuscan Treat in June

June's warmth coupled with brief, pouring rain produce one famous Tuscan treat: mushrooms.

Tall, pale parasol-looking things called pupoli—so good rolled in flower and fried in oil - appear. Then of course porcini, great anyway you want it: grilled whole or chopped fine for sugo.

Last—and perhaps best—is Candace’s favorite: chanterelles. At dawn, she ventures out into the still-wet woods, and comes back flushed, her basket full of strangely shaped orange things that soon fill the house with their pungent perfume.

She stir fries them with garlic and serves them over Nunsi’s hand made fettucini. Nothing compares to the explosion of redolent earthy flavors in that first bite.

Colors of a Tuscan Spring

With the lush spring rains, nature in the Tuscan hills puts on her festive best.
The almond trees bloom first, then the ditches and roadsides burst thick with wild flowers.

Blinding green meadows of wheat, fields of rapeseed as yellow as buttercups.

In late afternoon, poppies with the sun behind them glow like flames. On warm days the air is thick and sweet; a deep breath of it is food for the soul.

Recent photos which appear on this blog are from Ferenc Máté's upcoming work of photography, The Seasons of Tuscany (coming out in 2014)

Spring in Bloom

We discovered an old stone cistern hidden behind the house. Cut into the hillside, it was covered by a dome of brambles that took two of us three long days to clear. Spring-fed and the size of a backyard pool, it had been built to gather water for pigs and cows and to irrigate the big orto—vegetable garden—beside the courtyard.

I had always admired Japanese gardens: their serenity, simplicity but especially their ponds, and thought our carrots, spuds and tomatoes wouldn't mind being watered from a cistern full of fish and water lilies, so I set to work. In February, I built two wooden planters for what the nurseryman swore would be dazzling pink and white water lilies but for the moment were slimy, wet roots. With incredulity, I watched the muddy planters sink to the bottom.

Next, I bought some fish. I imagined they’d be wonderful to gaze at, swimming gracefully among the flowers. I bought eight of them. Each the size of a child’s finger. They had looked golden and lively in the pet shop aquarium, and sparkled in the sun as we slipped them into the cistern. But then, instead of entertaining us with their grace, they vanished into the mud. Day after day, I scattered flakes of fish food but the only ones to show up were a frog and our cat, who watched for the fish with a gastronomical eye.

Then April arrived. Spindly green shoots sprang out of the mud, and the eight fish darting about had tripled in size—three of them with bellies like pregnant sows. By May, the shoots unfurled into lily pads with fat little buds that bloomed the next week. And the fish? Hundreds of them: tiny, gold and black, and pearl, swarming in schools among the lilies, racing to the surface when I came to feed them, then playing under the waterfall that tumbled from the spring.

Now, sitting on the wooden bench in the shade of the old oak and watching them—the lilies, the fish, the frog on the lily pad—you breathe deeply as you escape the day’s petty troubles.

On Sunday Afternoon

I set out on my favorite kind of trip this morning: a broad loop through the countryside on the back roads of Tuscany. It was to be a 40-mile journey—all open country—through two tiny villages, from the first hills beyond the Albegna River’s delta up to where it springs from the mountainside. After the village of Marsiliana, I turned off the narrow road onto a single lane that wasn't even on the map. I couldn't resist. The hand painted sign read Colle di Lupo. Hill of the Wolf.

Banks of wildflowers brushed against the car. With the top down, the sun and their fragrance whirled around me. I stopped here and there to photograph the scenery, bales of hay and a big white long-horned Chianina cow; to talk to a man with a sickle cutting erba medica for his rabbits; to a lady herding a big rooster across her yard; and for an orange cat lying in the middle of the road. The cat stared intently at a deep crack in the pavement; it wouldn't move. I shut off the motor and went to photograph some sheep.

I soon stumbled onto a hilltop of Etruscan ruins. From there, I had a bird’s eye view of southern Tuscany. It was almost the end of the day. 

Total distance covered: just over 3 miles.

Grilled prawns

On Tuesday and Friday mornings a family of fisherman come to our town from the coast. They set up a stand in a former cellar under Piazza Padella and we line up to buy freshly caught dentice, spigola and delicate calamari, mussels from Sardegna and vongole from Orbetello.

The best are the prawns, that we skewer, douse with fresh olive oil, chopped parsley and garlic, then roast over the coals of our kitchen fire. 

Heaven.  If life has a meaning, the taste of those prawns paired with a bottle of Ansonica from the Island of Giglio, might just be it. 

Wide Open Spaces

I have never seen a wide open space

as welcoming and reassuring as the heart of Tuscany. 

You can see the centuries of love that went into working this land: 

Respect for the gentle knolls, for a lone tree here, 

dense woods there, or a ditch that winds among them in the shadows. 

All that care makes you feel at home.

It is a place of great solitude but never loneliness; 

its beauty simply fills your soul.

Tuscan Landscapes

Springtime. The air is fresh, clear and warm. The clouds sail on the breeze and paint the land with fleeting shadows. Few things make me feel as exuberantly alive as putting down the top of our old sports car and heading out on the winding, silent, wildflower-lined backroads through the hills of Tuscany. The roads are empty. You can stop, sit on a pasture’s edge, and with some bread, cheese and a bottle of rich red wine, gaze at the wavy fields, the tiny cops of woods, rows of olives and, here and there, an ancient stone house nestled among them. Looks like a 15th century painting. One of God’s masterpieces.