Summer Sun

Strolling through a sleepy Spanish village, there were things that made it feel familiar, though never having been there before.

There was a smell of salty seafood in the air. Sticks of Pez sat beside the cash register of the bakery, waiting for the hopeful head of a child to bob it’s way to the counter. There were familiar words and there was golden light.

I’m reminded of how it feels to be in Spain.

Scandinavian sun is blisteringly bright, like ice. No dusk exists in the space between morning and night. Piercing her rays into a cloudless sky, “Wake up!”, I imagine her saying; her voice shrill and face fresh from sea air. Everything she touches turns white, like diamonds. Sparkling, sharp and rare.

It differs to Mediterranean sun. The sun in these lands drips deep, golden yellow. Concentrated, it moves like honey. It’s warm, rich and saturated. In the spiritual world, the sun is a god, but to these worshippers, she’s more akin to an old friend. Reliable, they can count on her day-in, day-out. Drinking it in like nectar to a Summer bee, nut-brown, sunshine is in their bones.

Ireland on a clear day feels like a crisp, green apple. Perfectly sweet, perfectly ripe. She’s not an all-consuming sun. No, she gives space for air, woven together, they exist in synergy. As we know, she seldom appears, but, distance makes the heart grow grateful. Her presence ever sparks glee. Nothing else matters when she shines her light on the Emerald Isle.

Ciao friends xx

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*Mythologically, the sun is typically personified as a male. Masculine in his fierceness, strength and endurance, showing up in the same daily structure, you’ll know where to find him, morning and night. Versus the moon, delicate and elusive, subtle in her power. She holds mystery, moving with the month.